House of Idyll by Delilah S. Dawson

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House of Idyll is a novel in which a young singer gets the chance to stay at an artists’ retreat run by her favourite band, only to find something sinister lurking underneath. Angelina is a barista in Hollywood, wanting to make it as a singer-songwriter, until she’s suddenly plucked away and offered the chance to stay at the compound owned by rock band Black Idyll. There, she can live and work on her music for free, and she even gets to see Jesper Idyll, the band’s iconic frontman and her teenage crush. As Angelina stays longer, she notices weird things like spooked horses and mysterious figures, but it is hard to tell where the dream ends and the nightmare begins.

Having read Dawson’s Bloom and Guillotine previously and being interested in stories about ideas of rock stars, House of Idyll sounded like a book for me. I particularly enjoyed Guillotine and House of Idyll feels similar to that for a lot of the book, as someone who isn’t used to a luxury lifestyle explores a very different world. However, where Guillotine is an ‘eat the rich’ horror thriller, House of Idyll is more of a rock star drama with some threatening vibes. I was expecting far more horror from this book, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy what it was.

Following Angelina’s perspective, the narrative is very slow burn, building up her sense of unease and how it clashes with the fact it feels like all of her dreams are coming true. There’s a lot of build up, and my main issue with the book is that the ending is incredibly quick and doesn’t really conclude a lot of the plot points that came up, other than the reader assuming there’s a reason that fits in with the reveal at the ending. In my opinion, there could’ve been more dread and more meaning to the final twist if we knew a little bit more about why certain things, like character deaths, had needed to happen in the way they did. However, I did like the final twist, and it almost feels like there could be a sequel that might delve further into the darkness.

House of Idyll is a fun, quick-to-read book about secretive rock stars in a weird compound, so even though it was a lot of build up for a very quick conclusion, I enjoyed that build up and the atmosphere it created. It had the trashy rock star vibe that I often want from novels about musicians, and don’t always get, so it’s perfect if that is what you’re looking for, rather than a scary horror story.

All Consuming by Ruby Tandoh

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All Consuming is a book about the history of how we choose what to eat, as Ruby Tandoh investigates how over the past century many forces have changed what influences what we eat, especially in Britain and the US. The sections explore things like the changing face of recipes and cookbooks, the role of the critic before and into the social media age, and how trends like bubble tea and burgers took off in the UK.

If you have any interest in food culture in the UK (and the US), this book provides an interesting look into what influences our food choices, whether that is through celebrities, critics, recipes, supermarkets, or more. As someone who enjoys watching videos online of people trying different food, I liked this chance to reflect on what some of the food trends mean, and look into the history of certain areas. I particularly liked the part where Tandoh picks out some big name cookbooks in the UK and discusses what they say about cookbook and recipe culture. 

I found myself wanting to share her thoughts with other people (I particularly liked her point about how if you start queuing for some hyped food, you cannot actually queue ironically, you are just part of that hyped queue) and the book covers something I’ve not seen other books or videos discuss, making it feel original and fresh. The book is an exploration rather than arguing a particular point and I like the space it offers to think about why we choose food, as well as a lot of suggested follow up reading if you want to keep exploring.

You Weren’t Meant To Be Human by Andrew Joseph White

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You Weren’t Meant To Be Human is an adult horror novel from YA author Andrew Joseph White, in which an autistic trans man who lives in service to a hive of worms and flies becomes pregnant against his will. Crane found solace in the hive, who have him permission to transition and to not speak, after growing up feeling like everything was wrong about him. He met Levi, an ex-Marine and fellow member of the hive, who treats Crane how he thinks he ought to be treated. But when Levi gets Crane pregnant, the hive insists that Crane must give birth, even though Crane will do anything to not have to.

Having read some of White’s previous young adult novels, I was interested to see what his adult horror would be like, and You Weren’t Meant To Be Human is suitably dark and horrifying for someone like me who much prefers adult books to YA books. The book is basically trans pregnancy horror mixed with Alison Rumfitt’s Brainwyrms, so very visceral not only in worm stuff and body horror, but also abuse, trauma, and the absolute terror of having to be pregnant when that is one of your greatest fears. That does make it quite tricky to review if you are someone who falls into that latter category, as I really don’t know how other people would find it, but if you’re a trans person who could get pregnant, this is quite a book.

I like how a lot of the background in the book isn’t really explained, because the story isn’t about worldbuilding but about Crane’s experiences and thoughts. Even the side characters mostly don’t get a huge amount of backstory, particularly those in the hive, but again, we are viewing things through Crane’s perspective. The visceral descriptions are really what make this book, with the body horror less gory and more horrifying in context. The ending has a dark twist that makes sense, and a lighter twist that I’m not sure how I feel about, though it does offer a kind of hope that might be needed in such a brutal novel.

This is trans horror that uses the horror devastatingly to explore an element of trans experience (Torrey Peters’ story ‘The Masker’ is another example I can immediately think of), resulting in a book that I think is going to feel horribly real for some people and open others’ eyes to something they hadn’t really thought about. Whilst I’ve enjoyed White’s young adult novels, I think that You Weren’t Meant To Be Human is even more my sort of book, and though it won’t be for everyone (as with any extreme horror, you should definitely take heed of the content warnings before reading), it is a tense, cutting horror novel that puts a fresh spin on some horror concepts.

Moonflow by Bitter Karella

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Moonflow is a horror novel about a mushroom-growing trans woman who ends up being lured to a female cult in the woods by a mysterious entity. Sarah needs money and her best bet is to find the mushroom that her friend wants, the powerful King’s Breakfast. It only grows in the Pamogo forest, so Sarah heads off with the help of Andy, who works at the visitor centre and doesn’t approve of her plan to sell the mushroom. Once in the forest, they find themselves being lured deeper, but once there, they find a weird cult of gender essentialist women.

Before starting this book, I didn’t actually realise it was so much like something I’d usually read, as the blurb I read didn’t really emphasise the trans splatterpunk nature of it, but Moonflow is like if you crossed Alison Rumfitt’s books with the mushroom-y vibes of Mexican Gothic, with a heavy dash of Gretchen Felker-Martin as well. It’s the sort of horror that manages to become satirical and darkly funny, whilst also being cuttingly real about certain elements (the cult’s obsession with saying ‘phallic alec’, for example). It starts off slow, with a great glitched phone element and the fear of forgetting something, but quickly becomes much weirder with a cult focused on lesbian sex and psychedelic substances. The ending is satisfyingly disgusting, with a cosmic horror style lack of real resolution about what happened.

If you like trans horror, Moonflow is a fun botanical take on the genre that combines the horror of eldritch beings and mysterious fungi with the horror of a feminine-obsessed cult to explore different ideas of what happens once you learn something you can’t turn away from.

Fawn’s Blood by Hal Schrieve

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Fawn’s Blood is a young adult vampire novel about queer teenagers, vampire and human, who must fight to find ways to survive in a world that doesn’t want them to. Rachel is a queer teen with a vampire slayer mother, but when Rachel is turned into a vampire, she’s caught between worlds. Fawn is a trans girl looking for her best friend Silver, who appears to have faked his death to become a vampire, but hitchhiking across the country to find him leaves her in the same place as Rachel: Seattle, where a battle between vampires and vampire slayers isn’t as simple as that. As arguments about how vampires should or shouldn’t access blood divide both vampires and humans, Fawn and Rachel have to discover that knowing who to trust isn’t easy, whether that’s through queer or vampire community.

I’ve really enjoyed Schrieve’s previous books and how both novels make YA feel like a space for complexity in the relationships between teens, between teens and adults, and in queer community, and Fawn’s Blood continues this whilst also updating the YA vampire novel for our current moment, particularly around anti-trans sentiment and ideas of infection and corruption. The world of the novel feels biting (pun intended), working both as an allegory and as a literal monster story (as vampire stories should), and also exposing how much of vampire fiction focuses on individuals rather than the collective, and how this isn’t necessarily healthy for the vampire characters to see themselves as archaic loners in a world that doesn’t want them to exist. At the same time, there’s the humans who support vampires, and I love how Schrieve makes the vampire girl cis (as far as we see) and the supportive human girl trans, to really play with these ideas of allies and what allyship meas.

Fawn’s Blood reminds me of the thrill of reading Darren Shan’s vampire books as an eleven-year-old crossed with my love of what queer horror can say about the world. The characters feel complex and real and the world suitably messy (despite the very different subject matter and levels of dark stuff, the world of the vampires does make me think of Lost Souls in some ways). As a queer, trans adult who has loved vampire media since reading Darren Shan’s YA vampire series as a pre-teen, Fawn’s Blood is certainly the kind of book I needed back then, and which is even more necessary now given its real life resonances. 

Lucky Day by Chuck Tingle

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Lucky Day is a cosmic horror novel about a statistics expert who survives a global disaster only to try and work out why it happened and give meaning back to her life. Vera’s life was torn apart by the Low Probability Event that struck globally, causing death and destruction, so she hides away in her house, not wanting to care about anything. But when a mysterious agent turns up at her house asking for her help investigating a Vegas casino that seems to be linked to the event, Vera is drawn into the mission.

Having read both Camp Damascus and Bury Your Gays, I was interested to see what Tingle would do with this premise. Unfortunately, I found that the book didn’t work for me, and I found myself frustrated with it at various points. To start off with, the narrative is told by Vera in first person present tense and there were turns of phrase in the narration that felt jarring, like slang that didn’t quite flow in the narrative voice. 

The overall tone of the book, despite being pitched as cosmic horror, is as comic as Bury Your Gays‘ satirical tone, and that matches the tone of the ridiculously gruesome violence that happens at a couple of points in the book (think Final Destination vibes), but not the fact that these events are meant to be genuinely horrifying to the narrator. For me, this made the novel, like Bury Your Gays, feel just a bit too ridiculous to feel serious, and that undercut the balance of the comic existential side (deaths so unlikely you’re meat to laugh) with the actual horror of contemplating the meaninglessness of that. Maybe the tone could’ve worked if it came together at the end to say something interesting about the concept of the absurd, but the end is a bit flat, feeling too neat and not really giving any of the characters a proper conclusion.

On that note, the characters also didn’t work for me. Vera was a series of stereotypes which move from ‘incredibly organised statistics professor’ to ‘depressed nihilist’ and then, by the end, never really resolves how she might rebuild something more like the former again, or how any of her former life and personality might be changed by her huge existential crisis. Her bisexuality feels like it is a plot device (which admittedly is a major plot device at the start and then that has a throwback later on which felt really randomly included) and Vera might’ve felt more interesting as a character if we learnt anything more about her experiences, either in terms of her sexuality and her relationship we see at the start of the book, or even just any interests she had before (other than presumably an X-Files-esque TV show that gets a lot of references in the book, without any further detail or point). Saying too much about Agent Layne would give away spoilers about the book, but again he was more larger-than-life stereotypes, and there aren’t really many other characters that appear more than momentarily, so the book really has to lean on these two.

I think that there will be plenty of fans of this book who like the fact that it is more of a campy sci-fi story with a few gruesome horror moments  (especially as Tingle has a lot of fans who like that campy vibe to his writing), as long as you don’t want greater meaning from the existential side other than ‘maybe things do have meaning actually’. As with Bury Your Gays, it felt like there were moments in the narrative where you were really being hit over the head with an idea, even when it wasn’t fully considered, and in fact the entire book felt like it was trying to take the concept of people saying bisexuals don’t exist and make it into an existential joke, but it never really does that in a satisfying way.

And on a personal note, I’m really interested in fiction about Vegas and it felt like this book could’ve done so much more with the setting and atmosphere given that it was almost entirely set in Vegas. There could’ve been so much more about the fact it is a casino that is at the heart of events, or about gambling, or even Vegas and queerness. But if you’re looking for queer horror set in Las Vegas, I’d suggest reading Torrey Peters’ novella ‘The Masker’ from Stag Dance, which says a lot more about queerness itself.

I’ve ended up writing a lot about this book because it frustrated me how I wanted it to be more interesting and engaging than it was, and how much it felt like a bunch of stereotypes and trope jokes put together without saying anything about them. However, as I said, I think if you’re looking for something silly in the vein of Tingle’s other recent horror books, you might have more fun with it than I did.

House of Monstrous Women by Daphne Fama

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House of Monstrous Women is a gothic horror novel set in the Philippines in 1986, in which a young woman finds herself in a nightmare of a house, playing a game alongside her brother and childhood best friend. Josephine lives in Carigara alone in the family home, running out of money since her parents were killed and her brother moved to Manila. When her childhood friend Hiraya offers Josephine a chance to come to her family’s old mansion to play a simple game that could give Josephine whatever she desires, it seems like a chance to escape. However, the house seems to not want to help, and the more Josephine learns, the worse her chances seem to be.

The book starts off slowly, building up Josephine’s family history and how tied their tragedies are to the political situation, whilst showing her exploring Hiraya’s house. Once the game begins, the book becomes much more fast paced, with a gripping run to the end. It also features some great horror moments like crawling through impossibly tight tunnels for your life and discovering the truth about the food served in the house. There’s plenty of the gothic side too in terms of social commentary, not just in the political situation but also the position of women in society and how Josephine is looking set to be forced to marry an older man, and the children’s game turned into a deadly fight fits in well with this.

Whilst the book was mostly a quite slow burn gothic novel for the first half, I liked how it then became more tense and also more creepy as it went on, especially with all the insects. If you like gothic horror, this book delivers a tense story that explores the complicated bonds between family and friends and a fight against oppression.

Lessons in Magic and Disaster by Charlie Jane Anders

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Lessons in Magic and Disaster is a novel about a trans witch who teaches her mother magic, only to find that magic might not always be the answer. Jamie is a trans woman, graduate student, and a witch, and she wants to do something to get her mother, Serena, back out into the world, as Serena’s been hiding away since the death of her wife. Jamie teaches her mother the magic she’s been using for years, all about exchanging something for what you most want, but Serena finds this magic a powerful force, and suddenly all elements of Jamie’s life are affected: her relationship with her mother, her marriage to Ro, her reputation at the college she works at.

I was drawn to this novel as I wanted to read a book by Charlie Jane Anders, and even though I’m not a huge fantasy person unless the fantasy is combined with more literary or general fiction, the selling point of the book being about a trans woman witch was enough for me to give it a go. Conveniently for me, Lessons in Magic and Disaster is not just a story about magic, and it is the kind of fantasy that is set in the real world except a few people can do magic, which is what I was hoping for.

The book is told both in the present day from Jamie’s perspective, and also in the past telling the story of her mothers, Serena and Mae. The present day narrative explores the magic side, and also Jamie’s research into a (fictional) eighteenth century novel and what it says about the real life historical women involved in it, whilst the story of Jamie’s mothers is more around queer community, sacrifice, and what makes a relationship. Sometimes this structure, particularly the chunks from the fictional eighteenth century novel and a fairytale story within its narrative, makes the book feel a bit slow-going, as it takes a while to get to the next bit of a plotline. However, the layered approach allows there to be a lot of things in conversation with each other.

The characters are flawed and messy, though I think some of the moral dilemmas and questions could’ve been more deeply explored as there’s some interesting stuff around trust and sacrifice and coping with things that gets reduced to characters taking in a “therapy-speak” style. There’s an online abuse/cancel culture plotline that again doesn’t quite get enough space to have nuance, and Jamie’s academic work (both research and her teaching/position at the college) always felt a bit pushed to the side even though there were so many chunks of the fake novel. I did like a lot of the character relationships, including Jamie and Ro’s marriage that hits tension when Ro finds out about the magic, and what we see of Jamie’s relationship with her dead mother, Mae.

Overall, I like how ambitious this novel is in combining the magic side with a tale of eighteenth century writer women and a look at queer community, whilst at its heart, having a story about a trans women and her relationships with other people in her life. At times I found it a bit slow and frustrating, but I found the ending powerful in terms of the character relationships and I think this book will be great for fans of queer fantasy with a literary edge.

Katabasis by R.F. Kuang

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Katabasis is a novel about a journey into Hell, as two analytic magick students find themselves venturing into the unknown to bring back their PhD supervisor. Alice Law is an outsider—an American in Cambridge surrounded by white male academics—who wants to succeed, but when the death of her supervisor throws her goals into question, she researches how to get into Hell and find him. And suddenly, as she sets off, she finds her academic rival and once-friend Peter Murdoch is coming too. The two of them must debate texts about Hell, philosophy, logic, and everything else that makes up the magic they do if they have any hope of getting through Hell and having the life they want at the end of it.

Having read Kuang’s earlier Babel and Yellowface, I was assuming Katabasis was going to be similar to Babel, especially as it is very much marketed as dark academia. The “dark academia” label is basically meaningless by now, but I would say that despite both being about magic (and different kinds of fascinating magic at that) and Oxbridge, Babel and Katabasis are very different. Katabasis is what I want to call very affectionately “pretentious trash”, in that it is full of references to literary texts and philosophy and academia, but it is also a ridiculous story of two academic rivals who secretly like each other journeying through Hell. That’s not to say it doesn’t have plenty of serious things to say, about academic burnout and power structures and the misogyny and prejudices of academia, but it isn’t as deep as Babel and it isn’t trying to be.

The narrative is pretty simple, with a few twists and turns but mostly being a classic journey structure, with the characters meeting others along the way and things coming back to be relevant. The romance side of things is pretty low key, but it is also part of Alice’s wider need to realise there are things outside of just being the best in her field of magic. I enjoyed all of the references to literature about Hell and the way in which real texts and authors, both fictional and non-fictional, are a key part of the magic and mythology of Katabasis‘ world. The main issue I had with this book is that as someone who is British and knows Oxbridge fairly well, there’s a number of misused terms/references (mostly in a UK vs US way) that might be intentional (as Alice is American) or might be picked up later (as I read a proof copy), but for me that sort of mistake does pull me out of the story, especially as initially I didn’t realise Alice was American.

Even though Katabasis is a long novel, I found it gripping and fun to read. I love books about Hell and I enjoy reading about pretentious people having drama at elite universities, so I think I was always going to like Katabasis as long as it didn’t mess up on those elements, and for me, it fulfilled the kind of book I wanted it to be. Babel is probably a better novel (and I find myself telling people about its magic system and how it relates to colonialism quite often), but Katabasis just ticked off a lot of boxes for things I enjoy. Basically, if you want a Cambridge students of magic go to Hell book, this is a lot of fun.

We Are Always Tender With Our Dead by Eric LaRocca

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We Are Always Tender With Our Dead is a new horror novel from Eric LaRocca, centred around a cursed town, Burnt Sparrow, and what happens when three faceless creatures massacre a number of residents. Seventeen-year-old Rupert Cromwell is drawn into events by his father, and soon finds himself far too close to the dark cruelties that follow. It’s hard to say much more without giving too much away.

Having read most of LaRocca’s previous stories (liking some more than others as to be expected) and having a lukewarm reaction to his previous novel, I wasn’t sure what to expect from this one, especially as it is the start of a trilogy. However, I feel like this novel better showcases LaRocca’s skills in telling transgressive queer horror stories that explore human cruelty and trauma, whilst building up a sense of lore around Burnt Sparrow that I’m assuming will be continued in the later books in the series. The narrative is told from two characters’ perspectives, including a few horror stories told by those characters, plus some separate articles about Burnt Sparrow, and the narrative itself is episodic despite the overarching ‘plot’ of the three faceless murderers. By doing this, the book is able to delve deeper into some characters than you can in a shorter story, whilst still giving LaRocca space to weave shorter extreme horror stories and moments into the novel.

I’ll be fascinated to see what comes next in the series, as this one did feel like you were missing just that bit more about Burnt Sparrow, and the ending is quite sudden, with a lot of wider things left unanswered. The more extreme horror or splatterpunk moments in the book are quite brief, so whilst people should always take heed of trigger warnings at the start, I’d say that it isn’t as unrelenting as some other books I’ve read, and a lot of the horror comes from LaRocca’s trademark exploration of people’s choices and cruelty and the thresholds they are willing to cross. For me, this was one of my favourite LaRocca books, combining unnerving supernatural elements with the horrors of humans themselves, and using the novel length to weave in related stories.