Tag Archives: horror

A Sapphic Gothic Dripping in Blood: House of Hunger by Alexis Henderson

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the cover of House of Hunger

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House of Hunger by Alexis Henderson is a gothic novel that follows Marion Shaw, a girl from the South slums of Prane who moves above her station when she becomes the newest bloodmaid for a countess in the North. Marion has lived alone with her sick brother Raul for years, and every day is more of the same: work for a woman who does not see her as a full person, argue with Raul about the expenses, watch as he destroys himself further with drugs, and never do anything new. But when she looks at the newspaper one day with a girl named Agnes who she won’t call her friend, she finds a peculiar post in the matrimony section calling for a bloodmaid, a girl who will venture North and sign an indentureship to bleed for whichever noble House claims her. Tired of her life and seeking a way out, Marion answers the posting and is taken to Countess Lisavet, the ailing head of the House of Hunger, by a Taster who swears Marion’s blood is some of the best and most unique he has ever tasted. Being a bloodmaid is not easy, as Marion quickly finds out. She is ranked Fifth out of the five who work for the House of Hunger, and the First Bloodmaid, the favorite, despises her upon sight. Things at the House of Hunger become more grim and more dire as the secrets of the House begin to unravel while Marion moves up the ranks and falls in love with Lisavet.

I love the world that Henderson pulls the reader into. The stark separation between the South and the North, along with the dreamy descriptions of the lives bloodmaids get to live after their years of giving themselves over like cattle to the nobles, brought the gothic setting to life and paved the way for a critique of class that felt natural and kept me reading. Henderson really leaned into the genre in this particular aspect, even going so far as to make Countess Lisavet fit the typical “dark, brooding love interest” role typically reserved for men. Lisavet makes requests of Marion and the other bloodmaids that prove she sees them as the other nobles see their bloodmaids: property with a pulse. Even if Lisavet does love Marion as she claims she does, they come from different worlds, and they are living together in Lisavet’s, in the world where Lisavet is the Countess and Marion’s purpose is to serve her and be loyal no matter what. As the book goes on, you start to see that Marion hasn’t given herself over to a grand new life; she has simply traded one type of servitude for another, more dangerous kind.

Spoilers below.

Something else that I think Henderson does particularly well is Raul’s character and how he haunts the narrative from the moment he steps foot in it. This was my favorite part of the entire story. Marion kills Raul partially by accident in order to go be a bloodmaid after he burns her ticket for the night train, and she is haunted by this decision for the entire book. Every time she thinks about Raul and his murder, some new, gory detail pops up describing his bloody eyes or the dent in his skull or the way he reached out for her as he lay dying. Raul tells her not to go, and Marion does anyway, at the cost of his life. When Marion realizes that the House of Hunger is not the place she thought it was, it’s too late to go back and change what she has done; it’s too late to admit to Raul that he was right. She gets high at one point during a game, and what does she hallucinate? Raul’s beaten-in face. Raul is dead almost the entire time, but he feels so present in every decision Marion makes. She may leave him behind, but he is part of her and will not leave her mind so easily.

That said, this is one of those books that I think could have benefited from being much longer. There are so many things that Henderson almost touches on  that we never get a real look at because we aren’t allowed to linger. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the story—I loved it so much that I think it would have been that much better if the reader had been given more room to breathe. When Marion notices that the other bloodmaids have aged more than they should have in the time that she’s known them, it’s at the end of the book when she already knows that Lisavet can feed off the life essence of someone and has already seen her do that to the Wretch who used to be Cecelia. This in particular fell flat for me because she already knew. The reader wasn’t allowed access to that information until Marion herself knew it to be true, and there was no real foreshadowing to it. I wish that Henderson had placed more hints along the way so I could have found out with Marion instead of being relegated to the sidelines going “What?” while Marion started listing details that she suddenly noticed. The mystery within the novel kind of fell apart as I got closer to the end, and I wish it hadn’t. It felt like Marion wasn’t solving anything; she was simply stumbling to conclusions that turned out to be true.

Spoilers over!

All in all, I enjoyed House of Hunger. It was a gothic story that gave me some of what I’ve been craving from my stories lately, and Henderson did a fantastic job getting me to care about Marion and the other bloodmaids. While there are things I think could have been expanded on, I finished the book in only a couple days, and it kept me enthralled the whole time.

Trigger warnings include: detailed gore, drug use, illness, death, blood-drinking, blood-letting, fratricide, and descriptions of dead/dying bodies.

A Very Queer Gothic Ghost Story: The Narrow by Kate Alice Marshall

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the cover of The Narrow

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When I got a promotional email about this book, I asked the publisher if there was a queer main character, because I couldn’t tell from the description. It’s funny that I had to clarify, because this is a very queer book: the main character is bisexual, there’s an F/F romance, and there are several queer side characters. It’s a bit tricky to discuss without spoiling anything, but you can be assured of that.

This is a contemporary YA gothic with elements of dark academia. Eden goes to Atwood boarding school to escape from her unstable and sometimes dangerous home life. Her parents just spent so much money on their brother’s legal fees, though, that there’s nothing left for tuition. The school offers her a solution: she can stay tuition-free if she agrees to be Delphine’s companion.

Delphine was once Eden’s roommate. Then, one night, Eden and her best friend jumped the Narrow—a river running by the school that’s claimed many lives. The two of them landed safely on the other side, but Delphine, who had followed behind them, fell in. No one survives falling into the river, but by the time Eden returns to her room, Delphine has returned, soaking wet but otherwise apparently unharmed. Except, Delphine is different now. She lives in a building on Atwood grounds, completely isolated. She gets ill if a drop of unfiltered water touches her.

So, every year, her parents pay the tuition of a girl who will be her companion. They decontaminate themselves on the way in and keep Delphine company, staying there at night. Eden isn’t eager to take the offer—she’s never talked to Delphine about what happened that night—but she has no other options, so she takes the deal. Soon, she finds ominous notes left from the last companion, who was taken off campus suddenly.

Although their initial interactions are awkward, Eden is intrigued by Delphine. She’s not quite the girl she knew before. Her isolation has made her blunt, with a different perspective on things. Eden is surprised to find herself falling for her. And as she does, she is determined to figure out what’s really plaguing Eden, because it’s not medical—and it seems to be coming for her, too.

Eden and Delphine’s dynamic is interesting because Eden has a solid group of friends at school that she loves—but she also lies to them constantly. She doesn’t feel like she can tell them about her home life, or what happened the summer before. That’s why she hides her still-healing injuries and dodges personal questions. Delphine, though, asks Eden to promise not to lie to her: she doesn’t need Eden to like her, but she needs her to be honest about it. Eden finds herself being more vulnerable with this virtual stranger than she can be with her friends.

This friend group is another strength of the story, even though they don’t take centre stage. The three of them are all high achievers in their chosen fields: they’re artists, athletes, and academics. Eden feels like she can’t live up to the standards they set, that she’s an outsider in her own inner circle. Her issues with self-worth are tied up with her home life, and (possibly) depression. As things at Abigail House get more dangerous, she has to decide how much she values her own life.

The element I thought was most interesting in the book is also a spoiler, though. (Highlight to read:) If there’s anything better than a sapphic ghost story, it’s a sapphic ghost story where the ghost is also sapphic! There is an abusive sapphic character, which some readers always object to, but I think since there are 3-4 queer women main characters, it worked for me. (Also, I think it’s worth depicting abusive queer relationships, too. That’s why In the Dream House is so crucial.)

I also thought it was fun to read a ghost story where the ghost is very corporeal. I’m used to gothic ghost stories where the first part of the book, at least, it’s unclear whether the main character is just imagining things, but this ghost is hard to deny.

When I got near the end of the book, I realized there were several possible endings that I would not have appreciated. Luckily, it nailed the landing for me. If you’re a fan of reading YA horror or gothic novels, I highly recommend picking this one up ASAP!

Content warnings: depression, unspecified mental health issues, abuse, violence, discussion of homophobia

A Campy Queer Bigfoot Horror Comedy: Patricia Wants to Cuddle by Samantha Allen

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the cover of Patricia Wants to Cuddle

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I finally got around to reading a book that’s been on my TBR for years: Patricia Wants to Cuddle. This is a campy horror comedy about a season of what’s essentially The Bachelor that takes place on a remote Pacific Northwest island, where they begin to see a shadowy humanoid figure in the woods.

It took me a while to get into this book, but I stuck with it because of the fun premise. We get a lot of point of view characters, including the final four contestants of The Catch and their wrangler, plus letters from a lesbian couple years ago who are trying to escape their homophobic small town together. Aside from those letters, all of the women hate each other and are acting catty. One is the wrangler who loves this stupid show but judges all the contestants, one is a born again Christian trying to use her platform to spread the good word, one is genuinely trying to get the guy—while also being the villain of the season, one is an influencer trying to increase her follower count, and one—Renee—is trying to be first Black woman in the finale.

All of the point of view characters judge the others. One is constantly picking fights, especially with the goodie two shoes religious contestant. They all think their reason for being here is legitimate and the rest are shallow. This makes sense for the premise, but I found it tiring to read about a bunch of women all hating each other. Luckily, that’s only the first part of the story.

If there’s one main character, it’s Renee. Renee is queer and has no interest in the guy they’re supposed to be competing for. She was nominated by coworkers and is just going along with it, the same way she feels like she’s sleepwalking through the rest of her life. The longer she stays on the show, the more unbearable it becomes, but she’s sticking it our for the free trip she gets when they get to the final two—a trip she knows she’ll go on, because the producers have already let slip that they want her in the finale because they want the “first” of having a Black women in the final two, even though they know the Catch will not choose her in the end.

As strange things begin happening on the island—and a contestant disappears—Renee begins to imagine a new life for herself, one where she feels truly alive.

I’m glad I pushed through the beginning of this book, because the ending is campy queer horror with a fun twist: a lesbian bigfoot cult! That I was not expecting. If you like satirical horror, I definitely recommend this one: it’s weird and has lots of lesbians. What more could you want?

Content warnings for gore, religious homophobia, and racism.

A Lush Bisexual Vampire Gothic: Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk

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the cover of Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk

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Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk, originally published in 2020 and translated this year by Heather Cleary, is a dramatic and lushly gothic novel about two women who a string of circumstances going back over a century bring together in modern day Buenos Aires. Yuszczuk revels in sensual, physical details as she describes how a vampire from Europe emigrates to Buenos Aires when she realizes she can no longer remain undetected in Europe. Decades later, a modern woman struggling with the realities of her mother’s terminal illness and the ongoing effects of grief inherits a key and sets off a collision of destinies. Thirst is a fairly short read (or compact audiobook in my case), and I had a great time because Thirst is a vampire book that revels in being a vampire book. There’s blood and violence and obsession, and at one point a priest is defiled purely out of spite. It’s a sensuous romp, and perfect for heating up an already hot summer.

Thirst, as the title states, is concerned with thirst, both the physical and sexual.  The vampire narrator is constantly concerned with her physical thirst for blood and with avoiding vampire hunters that are trying to stop her from satisfying that thirst. It’s interesting to me that she both acknowledges that it’s natural for humans to want to stop her from feeding on them and also asserts that she did not ask to be made into a vampire and that it’s natural for her to want to sustain herself, acknowledging the eternal competition between the two. There’s also tension as she is first forced to flee vampire hunters in Europe and then contend with the developing world of forensic science linking her to her victims. Thirst asks, how do you satisfy your thirst in a world increasingly capable of stopping you? 

At the same time, the vampire narrator is also concerned with her more metaphorical thirst.  Living outside of society, and thus societal strictures, she revels in her sexuality, taking what she wants whenever she has the whim. While several of her early encounters are with men—who see her as a helpless lone woman they are taking advantage of even as she uses them—she does not shy away from her physical attraction towards women. Even before she meets the modern narrator, she enjoys an interlude with a washer woman who shows her where she can wash her clothes in private. As they undressed together, I enjoyed that the vampire’s physical appreciation of Justine was untainted with any internal hesitation or regrets—as someone who fed intimately on people’s final moments, the vampire felt free to enjoy any physical pleasure she wanted without bias.

The modern narrator she eventually meets up with, on the other hand, is wracked with grief, indecision, and the expectations of others. Her mother is in the final stages of a horrible, untreatable terminal illness that slowly leaves her more and more paralyzed. As her mother disappears bit by bit under medical paraphernalia and pain, she has to grapple with her day to day life and her young son on top of grief and emotionally-draining caregiving. And as she watches her mother’s choices disappear to be made for her by others, the intensity with which the vampire exists attracts her, even as she is startled and alarmed by the violence. Their immediate attraction to each other is electric and visceral—almost feral. Although most of the book was concerned with their individual journeys, I found the chemistry of their meeting compelling, and the ending satisfying. 

In conclusion, Thirst is a lush gothic vampire novel that takes lingers on the physical realities of being a vampire, the clash between the vitality of life as an individual and the grind of the realities of existence, and the sensuality that is there for the taking if one dares. Yuszczuk keys into a rich gothic and vampiric tradition without overly lingering on logistics or greater vampire lore. This is a book about the journey and the moment. If you love vampires, Latin American gothic, or just some hot summer defiling of norms, Thirst would be a perfect add to your to-read list. It’s a quick but hot read and a great time. 

Ghosts or Post-Partum Depression? Graveyard of Lost Children by Katrina Monroe

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After giving birth to her daughter, Olivia is struggling—not just with being a first-time mother, but mostly from being haunted. She hears voices whispering terrible things to her, a black-haired ghost is following her in her nightmares, and her body is deteriorating rapidly from her child’s never satiated hunger. And, despite her best efforts, she cannot help but notice that history is repeating itself for the worst.

Years before, her own mother tried to kill her. Obsessed with the idea that her child was a changeling—a substitute left by a supernatural being after kidnapping her own daughter—Olivia’s mother tried to make a deal with an evil spirit living at the bottom of a well, which almost cost her her life at only 4 months old. And while everyone always told Olivia that her mother had been a troubled woman with complicated health issues and a fragile state of mind, she is now questioning what really happened all those years ago, and what exactly is happening to her now.

Told from a dual point-of-view, jumping between the past and the present, Graveyard of Lost Children is the haunting story of motherhood and the cycle of fear and violence that gets passed down through generations of mothers trying to reach an unattainable standard of perfection.

If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that motherhood is one of the most terrifying experiences I could imagine for myself. From being pregnant to taking care of a baby to raising an actual child, I get shivers down my spine just thinking about it. Graveyard of Lost Children was, therefore, essentially my biggest fears coming to life on page, right before my eyes, and I loved every second of it. As soon as I finished this book, it dawned on me that I’d just had the privilege of experiencing absolute genius, and I remembered why I so deeply love and appreciate the horror genre.

I would have expected this novel to be so far removed from my own life experiences that it would have too little of an effect on me to be a memorable story. However, having a lesbian take on that bone chilling role of motherhood and being able to see her, from the beginning, struggle with truly loving being a first-time mother, made Olivia extremely relatable to me, and I found it impossible to remove myself from the narrative. I felt so deeply connected to her, and it made the entire reading experience so potent.

The gem that Monroe managed to create with this novel really lies with its ability to convey how terrifying it is to become a mother for the first time. The narrative took its time to explore the anxiety and the feeling that people are looking at you differently or treating you differently or judging you for every little choice that you make. It then shows how an extremely guilt-tripping fear starts to settle in, making you question yourself and forcing you to wonder if you are in fact a bad mother who is making all the wrong decisions.

Monroe makes multiple fascinating literary choices with this book, one of which is writing a story about motherhood through the eyes of a lesbian main character. It suddenly becomes not just about the experience of motherhood, but specifically the experience of being the person within your couple who gave birth to your child. Olivia is a lesbian who does have a wife, but she is the one who underwent the pregnancy and gave birth to their daughter. This creates an interesting dynamic, because although it is clear that her wife wants to support her and understand what she’s going through, there is inherently a rift that is created between both women. As much as she wants to be there for Olivia, it is very difficult for her to grasp just how difficult it is to be a mother right after pregnancy.

Another indication that Monroe is an incredibly talented author is that she forces her reader into the position of an antagonist, driving the point of her story home in a deeply personal manner. Olivia is undergoing all these seemingly inexplicable horrors that are affecting her physically, emotionally, and psychologically. But, because she is a mother, everyone believes that it is all simply “in her head”; everyone, including you as the reader. Your entire reading experience essentially consists of you trying to figure out what is real, what isn’t, if you can actually trust the narration, and whether or not Olivia is losing her grip on reality through a postpartum psychosis or if there is in fact something supernatural at play. Her biggest issue is that she doesn’t know who to trust, because no one really believes her: her wife, her doctor, her friends. And although you are following her through her journey, Monroe chose to write Olivia’s chapters through a third person point-of-view which, especially in contrast with her own mother’s present-day chapters being told through a first-person narration, creates a distance between Olivia and the reader. By the very format of the book, Monroe forces you to perpetuate the cycle of doubt and pity by which first-time mothers often feel heavily attacked. It is a master class in making specific literary choices that not only make your story more interesting but are inherently tied to the message you are trying to convey.

Of course, aside from the genius that is subtly peppered through Monroe’s craft, she also has an amazing ability to write affective scenes and passages. Olivia spends so much time suffering from bruising and soreness and all kinds of pain that people feel after having undergone pregnancy, and although I have never come close to experiencing even an iota of that pain, I genuinely felt exactly what Olivia was going through. I felt my body aching as I was flipping through the pages, but I could not get myself to stop reading. It was a terrifyingly visceral experience that I would recommend in a heartbeat.

I appreciate that Monroe doesn’t try to sell you this fantasy of motherhood that is all sunshine and rainbows, but at the same time doesn’t villainize or discredit it. It was perfectly nuanced, very well written, and overall, horrifyingly entertaining.

Representation: lesbian MC, lesbian parents

Content warnings: postpartum-depression and psychosis, suicide attempt, attempted murder, thoughts of self harm, thoughts of harm to a baby/child, forced institutionalization, psychiatric hospitalization, paranoia, anxiety, death, graphic description of childbirth, manipulation, emotional abuse, medical trauma

Gothic Horror Infused with Queer Rage: Grey Dog by Elliott Gish 

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Elliott Gish’s debut queer Gothic novel, Grey Dog (ECW Press, 2024), is one of my most anticipated releases of the year. Intense, foreboding, and atmospheric, Grey Dog is the latest in queer horror, and it’s a must-read!

Set in 1901, the novel is structured as the diary of Ada Byrd, a spinster and schoolteacher, who arrives in the isolated small town of Lowry Bridge under a cloud of misery after things went awry at her last post. Starting afresh with new students, Ada explores the surrounding woods and makes new friends who know nothing of her past. Slowly, Ada begins to hope for a future at Lowry Bridge and a place in the community. Maybe, in this new place, Ada can leave her past behind. 

Slowly, however, strange events begin to take place: a swarm of dying crickets, a self-mutilating rabbit, a malformed faun. Ada believes that something disturbing and inhuman lurks in the woods, pursuing her from afar and presenting her with these offerings—offerings that both repel and intrigue her. As the creature she calls ‘Grey Dog’ encroaches, Ada’s sense of reality blurs and her past returns to haunt her as she confronts the rage simmering inside her. 

I hesitate to say more without giving the plot away! One of the charms of this novel is its suspense and mystery, which quickly gives way to horror in the second half of the novel. Gish has the incredible ability to generate a sense of fear and danger in even the most seemingly innocuous moments. By structuring Grey Dog as Ada’s diary, the novel is confined to her perspective, which unravels more and more as the text goes on, although there are clues that Ada may not be as honest as the diary form suggests she will be. The reader feels as though they are living in Ada’s head and experiencing the confusing, haunting events of the novel along with her. 

As historical fiction, Gish pays close attention to the social and gendered contexts which confine and police Ada throughout the novel. Ultimately, Grey Dog is a book about rage—queer rage and women’s rage—and the pain of emotional and physical abuse. Ada can only repress her anger at the injustices of her life and the lives of those she loves at the hands of those who seek to control her. When the dam finally breaks, the result is both extraordinary and dreadful in equal measure. 

I loved Grey Dog. I could hardly bear to put it down. I’m reading it for the second time this week and it’s just as fantastic as it was the first time. This novel has become a new favourite for me and I look forward to reading Gish’s future work!

Please add Grey Dog to your TBR on Goodreads and follow Elliott Gish on Instagram.

Rachel Friars is a Doctoral Candidate in the Department of English at Queen’s University in Ontario, Canada. Her current research centers on neo-Victorianism and lesbian literature and history. Her work has been published with journals such as Studies in the Novel, The Journal of Neo-Victorian Studies, Queer Studies in Media and Popular Culture, and The Palgrave Handbook of neo-Victorianism.

You can find Rachel on X @RachelMFriars or on Goodreads @Rachel Friars.

A Land of Gods, Monsters, and Talking Cats: Monstress Vol. 1 by Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda

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Oftentimes bleak but consistently awe-inspiring, Liu’s world of steampunk, art deco fantasy is a marvel to behold. This is definitely one to check the trigger warnings for.

Set in a world where humans and Arcanics (a cross between humans and a mystical race called Ancients) are at war, Monstress is the story of one Arcanic, Maika Halfwolf, who is searching for answers about her life whilst others threaten to end it. It is a story of oppression, war, and survival, weaved together with astounding detail and riveting lore.

What struck me during my time with this is its unabashed brutality. It is astonishingly dark, with violence akin to something like Berserk and worldbuilding which verges on lovecraftian: giant, cosmically horrifying gods; slavery, torture, and experimentation; and more than a few mentions of cannibalism. Coupled with the breathtaking art, we’re thrust into a world that is so visceral it becomes addictive. I could easily draw comparisons to a Miyazaki game such as Bloodborne with its grand aesthetics and remorseless atmosphere, but Monstress is wholly unique in its blend of mythology, magic, and feminine power. It is a story that not only features a female main character, but creates a world of deliberate female rage, with all of the important characters being female in the war-torn matriarchal society.

The story itself is unapologetically cruel with very few moments of respite. There are countless moments of violence, death, and suffering, points where you may think “surely not…”, but yes, it happens anyway. The intensity of the characters radiates off the page, each one fully realized and very believably capable of the atrocities which they commit. This is inclusive of our main character, Maika, who performs her own share of bloody vengeance as she attempts to uncover her past whilst dealing with an unknown force that threatens her life. Liu’s cast is filled with flawed, relentless characters who are almost all women—a rare treat in the world of comics. 

Despite the horror of it all, however, there’s also a grand sense of wonder within the pages. Liu draws from a slew of Asian mythologies to create the world of Monstress, populating the world with a number of magical creatures (including talking cats!). The dichotomy between these fantastical elements and the otherwise horror-esque ones only lends to expand what fantasy can be, and is all I could hope for as a fan of both genres. I also greatly appreciate it as an outlier in the genre of dark fantasy; too often in said genre are women used as props, only written to serve as a victim and experience assault at the hands of male characters to prove the “darkness” of the world, or to further the male character’s story. 

Overall, if you’re looking for a brutal, enchanting, sapphic fantasy comic with enough horror and violence to leave you feeling uneasy, then you will love Monstress as much as I did. 

Content Warnings: Graphic depictions of death, violence, gore, body horror, starvation, dismemberment, mutilation of corpses, child abuse/murder, animal abuse/murder, war

Lizzie is a femme non-binary (they/she) reader who loves anything weird, fantastical, and queer. You can find them predominantly on their instagram @creaturereader where they share pretty books and diverse recs.

Haunted by the Past: She is a Haunting by Trang Thanh Tran

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Horror is a very broad genre, and, I am inclined to say, a particularly personal one, seeing as what scares one person may not scare another, or, on the other hand, it might scare them too much. I myself love a good haunted house, but psychological horror freaks me out in concept alone, to the point that I won’t touch a book when I see it labeled that way. Trang Thanh Tran’s She is a Haunting, I am pleased to report, is my favorite kind of horror, that particular style where it’s kind of about the ghosts, but it’s not really about the ghosts. Or rather, it is, but it’s about what the ghosts represent more than the don’t-look-behind-you scariness.

That’s not to say this book isn’t scary, of course. I personally do not tend to get scared while reading books, so I am not the best judge, but I thought the book did a good job creating a creepy atmosphere and some really unsettling images (all those bugs *shudder*). The scariest thing in this book, though, is not the ghosts themselves but the very real horrors of colonialism, as well as the impacts of it that linger through to today. While this book is aimed at teenagers, it does not shy away from those atrocities, but nor does it dwell on them, exactly.

Beyond those horrors, however, this is also the story of Jade, a closeted seventeen-year-old wrestling with a complicated family dynamic and her relationship to Vietnam as a Vietnamese American who is visiting the country for the first time. As a protagonist, I adored Jade. I thought she felt very authentically seventeen, which is to say that while she was occasionally frustrating, she was trying her best. 

I also thought all of the relationships in the book were well-drawn. Her romance with “bad girl” Florence was endearing, and their interactions made me giggle a few times. The more complex dynamics with the parents worked equally well for me, and in fact I found her mom to be a standout character for me by the end.

Regarding the ending, I will say there were one or two elements that felt on the edge of overly dramatic, but I thought the book did enough well that I didn’t really mind. Emotions were running high, after all, and real life can be overly dramatic too. Regardless, I felt the book ended on a high and, frankly, down-to-earth note that left me satisfied.

I look forward to more horror from Trang Thanh Tran, and reading more horror in general this year, because this book reminded me that it is a genre I enjoy when it is done in the particular way I most vibe with, as this one was. If you are looking for a creepy haunted house that’s grounded in both the past and the present and the ways they affect each other, I highly recommend She is a Haunting.

Decadence and Decay: Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk, translated by Heather Cleary

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Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk, translated by Heather Cleary (March 5, 2024) is a considered, sorrowful, masterfully atmospheric story about mourning and the costs of surviving outside of society’s protective frameworks. It is also the story of two women in conflict with their inherited and inherent longings around family, companionship and intimacy—one from the past and one from sometime like our present.

Echoes of old-school gothic—in the vein of Rachilde or Poe—permeate Yuszczuk’s prose. And much like those bygone writers, her story is one that poetically captures the complicated moralities of relationships entangled in sociopolitical and material histories.

This is not a vampire romance in the modern sense. The seductions are married to viscera-spilling violence, the decadence marred by decay*, and a sense of bated unsettlement lingers over both the streets and lives our first narrator moves through in her quest for survival. Though she has centuries of experience, she is not immune to the same vices she exploits in others, and is in turn refreshingly slow to condemn them.

The second narrator is much less glamorous. A recent divorcee who’s barely coping with her mother’s terminal illness and hospitalization, our second narrator is struggling but refuses to admit that her white-knuckling isn’t sustainable. That she cannot go on as she always has, that relationships cannot continue in a state of suspended animation. While the past is punctuated by conclusive events and deaths, the present lingers—plastic flowers and medical equipment keep memories alive past well-meaning. We feel the narrator’s frustration, her alienation and desperation and heartache.

I enjoyed the narrators’ lack of hypocrisy and abundance of interiority. I also appreciated how the novel retains all of their dark and stylistic delight, without the aching inconclusiveness or censor-friendly endings of its pulpy and gothic paperback predecessors—even if the title and cover art are practically begging for an appositive colon.

It’s a clever title, and a colloquial pun. But Yuszczuk’s novel complicates the construction of lust as a base instinct on par with hunger or titular thirst. Lust, desire, eroticism and art are all defiant distractions from the inevitable, and their fulfillment requires the sort of communication and connection that those most basic activities do not.

The second half deals more with grief and more clearly reveals veins of Sheridan Le Fanu’s influence. Some of the scenes reminded me of reading Carmilla for the first time. The tension, the confusion, the delicate language building into bloody, sensual intimacy that is hardly explicit but unquestionably erotic.

Thirst is the sort of book that benefits from second reading or a slow first one. It’s not heavy-handed, but it would be a rich digestif to Gilbert and Gubar’s 1979 opus—and is more than a little likely to appeal to fans of that book. While most of the women’s anxieties are tangible and described in grounded detail, their phantastic responses (as well as the ways wealth, privilege, generational fears and architecture are represented) squarely situate this work within the gothic tradition. I also take this as a historical win— we’re past the period when “hysteria” was a valid diagnosis and when women had to veil lived traumas under layers of metaphor.

As with most translated literature, particularly ones that are heavily descriptive, subtly humorous, or in conversation with historical works, there is a chance that a little something may have been lost in translation. And while I haven’t yet read the original, I can attest that Heather Cleary’s translation maintains a lush, tactile lyricism that swept me into the history, even when the perspective was contemporary enough to reference the recent Coronavirus pandemic. 

The vibes were, to put it succinctly, immaculate.

Content warnings: violence, euthanasia

*Some might argue that the close juxtaposition of decay only heightens decadence by contrast. I personally feel that it’s more about how people seek out beauty and small pleasures even in dreary circumstances, but you do you.

A House Haunted by Fascism: Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt

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the cover of Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt

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I feel so conflicted about Tell Me I’m Worthless, because it’s one the most thought-provoking and memorable horror books I’ve ever read. The sections I liked were captivating, and in the first chapter, this felt like a new favourite book. But there were also sections of this book I found unreadable.

I have to start by saying that this comes with strong content warnings (listed at the beginning of the book), including for rape, racism, transphobia, fascism, antisemitism, eugenics, and more. These topics aren’t just included: they are the central pillar of the story, and they’re described in detail. Be prepared for that going in.

This is a haunted house story, but it’s more about two people trying to live in a society so soaked in fascism that it’s easy to absorb it unconsciously. Both these main characters are bigoted. They’re deeply flawed. And they’re also compelling.

Alice, a white trans woman, and Ila, who is Jewish and mixed race, entered a haunted house three years ago with their friend Hannah, a cis white woman. Alice and Ila had a complicated relationship with a sexual and romantic element, while Hannah was always a bit removed from the other two. They each experienced their own trauma there that night, and Ila and Alice both believe that other sexually assaulted and scarred them. Hannah never left the house. Though Alice and Ila escaped, they can’t seem to free themselves entirely of its influence, and Ila convinces Alice they have to return to get closure.

While this house drives the plot—and even gets its own point of view—most of the book takes place outside of it, following Alice and Ila separately as they live in a sort of fog, unable to process what happened to them. Ila has made being transphobic practically a full time job, regularly giving talks at different institutions. The focus on these aimless, dissatisfied main characters is common in litfic, but less so in horror. Personally, I was drawn in by it, especially paired with the distinct, often meta writing style.

That writing style is precisely my hang-up with this book. Some of the writing was so effective, like the Hill House motif, but there were several points where it descended into pages and pages of hateful stream of consciousness that did not work for me at all. For example, there would be long tangents describing a dream or pages of a nonsensical auto-translated transphobic screed. At times, I completely zoned out. I understand what it was trying to do, but it really took me out of the story.

Still, it’s hard for me to put much stock in that when overall this was such a thought-provoking and powerful read. It’s a brutal book, but it’s purposeful and effective. If you’re looking for a horror book that will challenge you and leave you thinking about it long after you finish, you need to pick this up.