RV was marketed as a psychological horror novella, but unfortunately it didn’t deliver on that promise for me. While the premise initially sounded intriguing, the execution fell flat and left me feeling more unsettled for the wrong reasons than genuinely disturbed in a meaningful, horror-driven way. The story follows four teens on a camping trip in Joshua Tree who are stalked by an unnamed man who tags their car with a GPS. They are drugged, kidnapped, and delivered to a group known as “RV” (short for “rape victim”), where they are trafficked and auctioned off to men paying with cash or cryptocurrency. One teen is killed for his organs by a man referred to as “MD,” who later realizes—very abruptly—that another victim is his own son. Another girl dies after being injected with a paralytic instead of a sedative, while the remaining girl is kept alive solely to be exploited. While the concept of an organized, cult-like trafficking network could have made for a compelling and deeply unsettling narrative, it was never explored with enough depth to feel fully realized. The RV group itself is introduced as a major force in the story, but its structure, motivations, and inner workings remain vague, which made it difficult to feel immersed or emotionally invested. Several major plot twists—particularly the revelation involving MD and his son, as well as the involvement of a police sergeant grooming another detective to take his place—felt rushed and underdeveloped, weakening what could have been impactful moments. Ultimately, the novella relied heavily on graphic sexual violence without offering much psychological insight, commentary, or character development to support it. As a result, what was framed as psychological horror came across more like shock value than a thoughtful exploration of fear, power, or trauma. While there were ideas here that could have worked with more care and intention, RV didn’t come together for me, and I walked away feeling disappointed rather than disturbed in the way good horror often leaves you. ⚠️ Content Warnings Sexual assault / rape Human trafficking Graphic violence Drugging and kidnapping Organ harvesting Death

I went back and forth forever on how to consume this book—audio, physical, or ebook—and finally landed on the audiobook while at work. Best decision I’ve made in a while. I went in expecting a pretty standard haunted-house situation, nothing too wild… and instead got absolutely obliterated. From the very beginning, I was hooked—mostly because if I were Eve, this entire book simply would not have happened. I would not have let strangers into my house. I would not have let them stay the night. I would certainly not have let them cook breakfast in my kitchen. And that little girl insisting on playing hide-and-seek? Immediate eviction. Bags on the lawn. Goodbye. But that slow escalation is exactly what makes this book work so well. The tension builds in such an unsettling, believable way that you feel Eve’s unease creeping under your skin. And then—boom—the conspiracy theory elements kick in. The documents. The forum posts. The background noise of something much bigger and much worse. That addition was genius and added so much depth to the story. And the mind-fuckery?? The alternate-universe / reality-slippage / what-is-actually-happening aspect absolutely wrecked me in the best way. I felt the dread. I felt the paranoia. I felt the “something is deeply wrong but I can’t prove it” panic. Important note for fellow dog lovers: there is a dog (Shyloh), and she survives. There is mention of another dog that’s assumed to have been killed, but it’s never explicitly stated—more implied than shown. This book completely exceeded my expectations. Creepy, smart, immersive, and genuinely unsettling. I couldn’t stop listening, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. If you like horror that messes with your sense of reality and makes you yell at characters while still understanding exactly why they’re making those choices—this one’s for you.

I went into Black Flame with pretty high expectations. I loved Manhunt and, while Cuckoo didn’t fully land for me, the premise and summary for this one sounded exactly like my kind of book. Unfortunately, it ended up being a disappointment. The biggest issue for me was clarity. I struggled to understand what was happening for large stretches of the book, and by the end I still wasn’t sure what the overall point or message was meant to be. It’s very possible this is a “me” problem—I can admit I may not have fully gotten it—but the narrative felt more confusing than intentionally ambiguous. What disappointed me most is that the summary made the book seem far more compelling than the execution actually was. I kept waiting for things to click or for a larger payoff, and it just never fully came together for me. That said, Felker-Martin clearly has a strong, distinctive voice, and I can see how this book might really work for readers who connect more deeply with its themes and style. Sadly, Black Flame just didn’t hit the way I hoped it would. Content Warnings: Graphic violence Body horror Religious extremism Cult dynamics Self-harm (referenced) Psychological distress Death Sexual violence (referenced/off-page)

I went into Our Wives Under the Sea expecting something closer to creature-driven ocean horror, so I was initially caught off guard by what this novel actually delivers. Rather than focusing on the unknown beneath the water, Julia Armfield tells a slow, deeply atmospheric story that functions primarily as a meditation on grief, loss, and the quiet transformations that follow trauma.

The novel follows Miri and her wife Leah, a marine biologist who disappears for months during a deep-sea submarine expedition alongside her crewmates, Jelka and Matteo. While trapped underwater, the crew begins to unravel—most notably Jelka, who starts hearing a mysterious voice that ultimately leads her to exit the submarine to her death. Afterward, the vessel resurfaces, but whatever happened in the depths has permanently altered Leah.

As Leah struggles to readjust to life on land, the narrative alternates between her time underwater and Miri’s experience of living in her absence. The deep sea itself feels less like a physical setting and more like a symbolic space, reflecting emotional isolation and the slow realization that the person you love may not return unchanged—or at all. Brief hints of something watching in the depths, including a moment involving a large, watchful eye, add a subtle uncanny edge, though the novel never fully commits to explaining these elements in a literal way.

Ultimately, this is a quiet, devastating book about mourning someone who is still physically present but fundamentally different. The ending is heartbreaking, though not entirely unexpected, and reinforces the novel’s focus on acceptance rather than answers.

Readers looking for traditional horror or clear explanations may find this novel frustrating, but those drawn to lyrical prose and emotionally driven stories about love and loss will likely find it deeply affecting.