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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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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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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I am the Indian who can’t die. I’m the worst dream America ever had.
PLOT SUMMARY:
A diary, written in 1912 by a Lutheran pastor is discovered within a wall. What it unveils is a slow massacre, a chain of events that go back to 217 Blackfeet dead in the snow. Told in transcribed interviews by a Blackfeet named Good Stab, who shares the narrative of his peculiar life over a series of confessional visits. This is an American Indian revenge story written by one of the new masters of horror, Stephen Graham Jones.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Stephen Graham Jones is known for his sharp storytelling and his ability to blend horror with cultural commentary, and Buffalo Hunter Hunter is no exception. In this novel, Jones introduces a fresh, new take on vampires, turning the genre on its head with a unique narrative structure and an exploration of identity, family, and survival. Written in an epistolary format—through the use of diary entries—the book offers an intimate, and at times unsettling, journey into the world of vampirism that’s anything but ordinary. This novel is a slow burn compared to Jones’ previous novels, but once we’re introduced to Good Stab, the story flows in a way that we can’t help but wish to know more of.
The epistolary format is one of the book’s most engaging features. Jones uses this structure to create a sense of immediacy and emotional depth, drawing readers into the protagonist’s thoughts and feelings. The story is told through the journal entries of the main character, whose struggle with their own identity and their relationship with the world around them unfolds gradually, revealing layers of complexity with every new entry. It’s a brilliant technique that allows the reader to feel as if they’re uncovering secrets alongside the protagonist, rather than being told a story from a distance.
But what truly sets Buffalo Hunter Hunter apart is its fresh take on vampires. Gone are the brooding, glamorous immortals we’re used to in modern vampire tales. Instead, Jones introduces vampires who are connected to a larger cultural narrative, one that’s rooted in historical trauma, displacement, and the resilience of indigenous communities. The vampires in this novel aren’t just bloodsuckers; they’re symbolic of the larger struggles that people face, and Jones deftly uses the supernatural to explore themes of survival and transformation.
At the heart of the novel is the tension between the Lutheran priest’s curiousity and the vampire Good Stab. Good Stab’s inner conflict is explored with great sensitivity, allowing the reader to feel the weight of their transformation not just physically, but emotionally. It’s a story about grappling with identity and legacy, and the challenges of reconciling personal history with the person you’re becoming.
Jones also delivers plenty of action, suspense, and moments of dark humor throughout the novel, ensuring that it’s not just a thought-provoking piece, but an entertaining one as well. The narrative, while contemplative, doesn’t shy away from the sharp edges of horror, offering thrills alongside its deep philosophical questions.
In conclusion, Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a compelling, innovative take on the vampire genre, presented in a format that’s both engaging and thought-provoking. Stephen Graham Jones masterfully blends supernatural horror with cultural commentary, and the epistolary format adds an extra layer of intimacy to this unique, thrilling story. If you’re looking for a fresh perspective on vampires with a deep, emotional core, this novel is a must-read.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Saga Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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When you think of horror authors, a lot of names that probably come to mind are men—Stephen King, H.P. Lovecraft, and Edgar Allan Poe, for example. But did you know that women have been just as integral to the horror genre, crafting some of the most influential and spine-chilling stories? While their contributions were often overlooked, women in horror have not only shaped the genre but have also used it as a platform to explore deep, complex themes that resonate with us on a deeply personal level. And that’s something we shouldn’t overlook.
Breaking the Mold
For a long time, horror fiction was predominantly written by men, which, let’s be honest, often led to stories that focused on the same types of characters, plots, and themes. But then came women writers who weren’t afraid to push boundaries and challenge what horror could be. From Shirley Jackson’s unsettling psychological horror to Mary Shelley’s groundbreaking Frankenstein, women have always had a hand in redefining the genre. They brought something fresh, something that explored not only monsters and the supernatural, but also the very real monsters inside our heads, the complexities of human emotions, and societal fears.
Take The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. It’s not just a ghost story; it’s a tale about loneliness, mental illness, and how isolation can destroy a person. It taps into very real human fears and makes us question what’s real and what isn’t. It’s this depth of emotion and the ability to blend the supernatural with personal struggles that women have brought to the genre. And that’s one reason why their contributions are so significant—they make horror more relatable, more reflective of the human condition.
Women Exploring Real Fears
One thing women authors in horror often excel at is turning the genre inward. While many male horror writers focused on external threats like monsters, women writers have frequently explored more internal, personal fears. Think of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale or Helen Oyeyemi’s White Is for Witching. These authors weave horror into narratives that reflect on real-world issues like power, control, identity, and societal structures. And that’s part of what makes women’s voices so important in horror—there’s an element of horror in everyday life that women, especially, are acutely attuned to.
In The Bloody Chamber, Angela Carter reimagines classic fairy tales, adding layers of feminist critique and sexual politics. Her retellings are dark, unsettling, and frequently tackle themes like power dynamics, gender, and the violence women endure, themes that often go unexplored in traditional horror. In this way, women in horror help broaden the conversation, allowing the genre to evolve into something that can address issues of inequality, fear, and vulnerability that are unique to women.
The Future of Women in Horror
The future of horror is bright, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that women will be driving the genre forward. More and more women authors are taking center stage, and the stories they are telling are diverse, powerful, and innovative. From psychological thrillers to body horror and speculative fiction, women are continuously expanding what horror can be. Authors like Tananarive Due, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, and Carmen Maria Machado are blending horror with elements of cultural identity, race, and trauma, creating stories that are both terrifying and thought-provoking.
Horror isn’t just about scaring people—it’s about reflection, confrontation, and exploring the unknown. Women in horror give us a unique lens through which we can experience these emotions. They’re breaking down walls, amplifying marginalized voices, and creating more inclusive, diverse narratives. And that’s something the genre desperately needs.
Final Thoughts
So, why are women in horror so important? Because they bring new perspectives, new themes, and new layers of meaning to a genre that has the power to examine our deepest fears. They challenge us to look at the world through a different lens, to confront uncomfortable truths, and to question what really scares us. As the genre continues to grow and evolve, one thing’s for sure—women will continue to be at the heart of it, making horror richer, deeper, and far more compelling.
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“Sometimes, justice isn’t quiet or clean; it’s feral and bloody and unapologetic.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
Lonely, broke and depressed with a serious case of OCD, Gia finds herself at a crossroads when financial troubles lead her to Nathan, a mysterious and affluent man she encounters on a sugar dating website. Desperate for a solution, Gia is intrigued by Nathan’s unconventional offer: in exchange for living as his devoted pet, all of her debts will be erased. But the longer Gia is in captivity, the more animalistic she becomes.
For fans of Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder and Lisa Taddeo’s Animal, Shy Girl is a harrowing tale of girlhood, survival, autonomy, and revenge.
Grade: A+
REVIEW:
I read this book in two days, it was so compelling and also very unhinged and disturbing that it was like assisting a car crash you couldn’t look away from. Gia is laid off from her job and is increasingly becoming more and more worried about how she’s going to keep her apartment with her dwindling savings and no work prospects in site. This leads her to take a more unconventional approach and downloads a dating app that is specifically designed for those men who are seeking to be a sugar daddy to a young woman, and Gia feels like this may solve all of her economic hardships.
But when she meets Nathan, she feels like everything will change for her, bringing her a life of economic freedom. But there’s only one caveat, Nathan has a kink that’s not typical, he wishes Gia to portray his pet dog for several hours a day. Gia thinks that she can manage this, but she will soon find out that being Nathan’s pet is far more difficult than she had anticipated.
Ballard’s writing is sharp and insightful, creating a nuanced narrative that is both relatable and inspiring. The protagonist’s internal struggles feel genuine and familiar, and her journey toward finding her voice is empowering. If you loved Nightbitch but felt like it didn’t quite go there, then let me tell you, Ballard goes there and beyond in this twisted tale of self-discovery and empowerment.
I recommend this book if you love unhinged plots with a dose of female rage.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Galaxy Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The Inkblotters 