Small Boat

 Vincent Delecroix

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Genre: Literary Fiction

Initial Impression

I love literary fiction. When I saw this book on NetGalley, I decided to grab it and see for myself how good it is, based on the many reviews. 

Summary

So, Small Boat starts off with this almost painfully simple scene: a tiny inflatable boat loaded with migrants, cutting across the English Channel at night. It’s immediately clear that this isn’t going to be some romantic adventure. The people on board—Kurds, Africans, women, and all different nationalities and different ages—are just trying to survive. You can almost feel the weight of desperation in every cramped, cold, wet inch of that boat. And honestly, it hits differently knowing that this isn’t fiction, but something that truly happened. It feels like it could happen again tomorrow.

Then the story shifts in a way that kind of surprised me. We meet a French coast guard officer, who’s under investigation for the deaths of twenty-seven migrants. Suddenly, the narrative becomes her voice—defensive, philosophical, self-justifying—and you’re stuck inside her head. It’s uncomfortable, but in a way that works. You start to notice that the tragedy isn’t just about the people on the boat; it’s also about the systems and bureaucracies that quietly allow this kind of thing to happen.

The plot of this story doesn’t rely on twists or dramatic revelations. Instead, it lingers on important questions like accountability, empathy, and how human lives are reduced to numbers in reports. The officer is constantly circling around guilt, but never quite landing on it. You can almost hear her convincing herself as much as anyone else.

By the time you finish, you’re left with this lingering, heavy feeling. The book doesn’t let you off easy. The horror isn’t just in the drownings, but in the casual way the world seems to shrug and move on. It’s a bit bleak, but it also makes you think in a way most books don’t. This was a boat, and we have already seen how a whole civilization was starved and bombed day and night, with all the superpowers shamelessly repeating, “XYZ has the right to defend itself.” This book highlights an example of the world we are living in. 

Characters

The migrants themselves are barely sketched out, which I’ll admit frustrated me at first. But then I realized that might be the point: they’re supposed to be anonymous, swallowed by the systems that erase their individuality. There are little flashes, but nothing is fully fleshed out. And weirdly, that made them linger in my head more than if we’d gotten full backstories.

The coast guard officer, on the other hand, is front and center, and she’s… complicated, cold, defensive, and sometimes philosophical to the point of pretension. I hated her at times, but I also found myself fascinated. She’s not a cartoon villain; she’s a product of a system that teaches you to numb yourself to human suffering just to function. Like, just do your job. Watching her dodge responsibility is uncomfortable in a way that sticks with you.

Writing Style

Delecroix writes in this stripped-down, almost minimalist way that’s kind of relentless. It’s mostly the officer’s first-person monologue, which pulls you inside her head but also makes it feel claustrophobic. The sentences are sometimes short, clipped, or repetitive, which at first annoyed me, but then it started to make sense. You can see her circling around guilt, hesitating, and rationalizing. The style itself becomes part of the story’s tension.

Setting

The English Channel looms over everything, not so much as a backdrop but almost like another character. Calm, cold, indifferent. It’s like the sea itself is judging no one, letting tragedy happen anyway. The French beach where the migrants leave from feels deliberately anonymous, as if such an event could happen anywhere, to anyone. That vagueness makes it hit harder, I think.

Atmosphere

The atmosphere is really heavy. There’s this constant tension between real human suffering and the sterile, procedural way institutions treat it. You will find yourself trapped, not by walls, but by the officer’s rationalizations, her self-justifying monologue. Even though the sea is wide and open, the story somehow manages to be more claustrophobic.

Final Thoughts

I’d give Small Boat four stars. It’s not exactly a feel-good read, and it might frustrate some people with its clipped style and evasive narrator. But honestly, that’s kind of the point. Delecroix wants you to sit with discomfort, and he doesn’t let you escape. There’s a sharpness to it that stays with you long after you close the book.

That said, sometimes the minimalism feels like it works against the story. The migrants remain faceless, which risks the very erasure the book is trying to critique. Still, the questions it raises about empathy, accountability, and human indifference linger in a way most novels don’t. Not an easy recommendation, but if you’re up for sitting with unease for a while, it’s worth it.

Many thanks to NetGalley and the publishers for the ARC of this book. 

Key Themes

• Human Desperation and Survival
• Bureaucracy and Institutional Detachment
• Guilt and Moral Responsibility
• The Erasure of Individual Identity
• Isolation and Vulnerability
• Mortality and the Unpredictability of Life
• Empathy and Its Limits

Horns

 Joe Hill

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Genre: Horror

Initial Impression

I had this book for such a long time. I accidentally watched the movie a few years ago without realizing it was an adaptation. Thankfully, other than the horns, I don’t remember much from the story. 

Summary

Ignatius Perrish wakes up after a night of heavy drinking to find horns growing out of his head. Not metaphorical ones—actual, curling horns that itch and throb and refuse to go away. What’s worse is how people start behaving around him. Friends, strangers, police officers, and baristas—everyone suddenly feels compelled to confess their darkest impulses in his presence. Desires they barely admit to themselves spill out casually, sometimes cruelly, often grotesquely. Ig, already the prime suspect in his girlfriend Merrin’s unsolved murder, realizes that whatever these horns are, they’ve turned him into something unnatural.

As Ig navigates this strange new reality, the story moves back and forth between the present—where the horns grant him a disturbing kind of power—and the past, where his relationship with Merrin slowly unfolds. Their love story isn’t idealized or syrupy. It’s awkward, tender, sometimes petty, and painfully human. Those flashbacks work to remind us that Merrin was not just a victim in a crime but a fully formed person, someone with agency and contradictions of her own.

Meanwhile, the horns do more than force confessions. They seem to sharpen Ig’s understanding of human weakness. People don’t shy away from telling him all that is going on in their minds; they fully open up to him. Violence, lust, and cruelty hover close to the surface, and Ig becomes both observer and catalyst. There’s an uneasy question running underneath it all: are the horns revealing the truth about humanity, or are they warping it?

As the mystery of Merrin’s death comes back into focus, the novel slides toward something darker and more overtly supernatural. What begins as a strange curse story starts to resemble a revenge tale, with biblical overtones and moral ambiguity. Ig’s transformation, both physical and psychological, forces the reader to ask whether justice, vengeance, and corruption can even be separated anymore.

Characters

Ig Perrish is a compelling lead, though not always a comfortable one to follow. His grief feels genuine, messy, and occasionally ugly. He isn’t written as a noble sufferer; he’s angry, impulsive, and sometimes cruel, which makes his arc feel earned rather than manufactured. The horns don’t magically fix him, but they also amplify parts of him that were already there. That tension between who he was and who he’s becoming is likely the novel’s strongest character work.

The supporting cast is a mixed bag, though intentionally so. Many characters exist to expose a single vice or hypocrisy once the horns loosen their tongues, which can feel a little on-the-nose. Still, figures like Merrin and Lee Tourneau stand out. Merrin, especially, is given enough depth in the flashbacks that her absence feels heavy, not just narratively useful. Lee’s role, without spoiling too much, adds an unsettling layer about belief, entitlement, and the stories people tell themselves to justify terrible acts.

Writing Style

Joe Hill’s writing is sharp but not showy. The novel is written in third-person narration, closely aligned with Ig’s perspective, which allows for both intimacy and distance when needed. One moment you’re reading about casual small-town routines, the next about something deeply unsettling, described almost offhandedly. The humor is dark and occasionally juvenile, but it mostly works because it feels intentional rather than careless. As the first time reading something by him, I was pleasantly surprised by his storytelling methods.

Setting and Atmosphere

The story is set in a small New England town that feels claustrophobic in the way only familiar places can. People know each other, or at least think they do, until they don’t! Forests, bars, churches, and childhood homes recur often, grounding the supernatural elements in recognizably ordinary spaces.

Atmosphere-wise, Horns leans hard into discomfort. There’s a general and continuous unease, like something is really wrong and absurd beneath the surface of polite society, which seems to be just a superficial show. The book doesn’t rush to scare you outright; instead, it lets dread accumulate through confessions, quiet cruelty, and moral slippage. It’s less about jump scares and more about the slow realization that people might be worse than the demons haunting them.

Final Thoughts

At four stars, Horns is a strong, flawed, and memorable novel. The first 25% of the book is easily its strongest stretch. The concept is fresh, the emotional hook lands quickly, and watching Ig test the limits of his curse is genuinely gripping. There’s a rawness early on that feels both angry and curious, like the book itself is still figuring out how far it wants to go.

That said, I think that the constant shifts between past and present do slow the momentum. While the flashbacks add emotional weight and a good background story, their frequency sometimes breaks the tension, taking my mind out of the current tension. It’s like when something becomes really exciting, the author decides to cool things down again.  Regardless of all of this, the novel is thought-provoking. It may not fully stick there for everyone, but it leaves behind uncomfortable questions that tend to linger longer than clean answers.

Key Themes

• Truth and Confession
• Guilt, Innocence, and Moral Ambiguity
• Love and Loss
• Power and Corruption
• Faith, Devils, and Moral Hypocrisy

The Astonishing Color of After

 Emily X.R. Pan

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐
Genre: Magical Realism + Young Adult

Initial Impression

This was one of my Book of the Month book releases. For no particular reason, this novel sat on my shelf for a long time. I was eager to see if the story lived up to the hype and the praise the book and the author received. 

Summary

The Astonishing Color of After opens so strongly that, for a moment, I genuinely thought I’d found a new all-time favorite. Leigh’s grief, her mother’s death, and the surreal appearance of a red bird that she believes is her mother, all of it hits with an intensity that feels almost electric. The opening chapters mix emotion and magical realism in a way that feels fresh, like the book is promising something huge. I was fully ready for a 5-star ride.

As Leigh travels to Taiwan to learn more about her mother’s past, the story appears to be heading toward an emotional and cultural breakthrough. And at first, parts of it work; there’s something fascinating about watching her try to connect the dots between her mother’s memories and the life she never got to see. But soon the narrative gets stuck in a kind of loop. Scenes start to feel like variations of the same moment—Leigh wandering, remembering, questioning, wandering again. It’s not that nothing happens; it’s that what does happen often feels like a repeat of what happened fifty pages earlier.

The relationships in Leigh’s life—her father, her best friend, and the boy who might be something more—add some texture, but even these threads start circling around the same emotional points. I kept waiting for a shift, a real push forward, but the story hesitates so often that the momentum just slips away. What was riveting at first slowly becomes predictable, like being stuck in a dream that keeps resetting before it reaches the part you actually want to see.

Still, there are moments that stand out. Some memories from Leigh’s mother’s life are sharp and genuinely touching, and the cultural atmosphere of Taiwan sometimes brings the story back to life for a few pages. Those little bursts remind you of how powerful the book could have been if the pacing didn’t keep sagging. It never regains the spark of the beginning, but the emotional core peeks through every now and then.

Characters

Leigh herself is probably the strongest part of the book. She’s messy, confused, and trying desperately to make sense of a tragedy, and her emotional swings feel believable. Even when the plot stalls, her internal struggle still has moments that feel painfully real—especially the guilt she carries about her mother’s death and the way she keeps revisiting old memories from different angles.

The rest of the cast is less defined. Some characters appear with hints of complexity but then fade out before they become fully formed. Leigh’s father, for example, seems like he could have a meaningful arc, but he spends a lot of time drifting at the edges. Friends and extended family members show glimpses of personality, but the book rarely gives them enough space to feel like actual people. It’s as if they’re meant to support Leigh’s journey without really having journeys of their own.

Writing Style

The novel is written in a lyrical first-person style that leans heavily on imagery. You have colors, sensations, and fleeting thoughts. At its best, it’s gorgeous and atmospheric. But the same poetic tone that makes the beginning feel magical also slows things down later on. The writing wanders, sometimes beautifully, sometimes aimlessly, and that may contribute to the feeling that the plot keeps circling instead of progressing.

Setting and Atmosphere

Taiwan is probably one of the book’s biggest strengths. Emily X.R. Pan writes about the country with obvious affection, from temples buzzing with incense to small alley shops to humid streets lit by neon signs. The sense of place feels real and specific enough that you can almost picture Leigh getting lost in those neighborhoods at night. Still, a few scenes linger longer than they need to, and the setting starts to feel more decorative than essential in certain stretches.

The atmosphere begins with this heavy, almost dreamlike quality that mixes grief with magic. For a while, it’s spellbinding. Then the repetition kicks in, and the mood shifts from haunting to slightly numbing. You can feel what the author wanted the atmosphere to do—hold you in that vulnerable space between reality and memory, but the longer the story repeats its beats, the more the initial spell thins out.

Final Thoughts

I honestly wish I could give this book a higher rating, because those opening chapters are some of the best I’ve read in a long time. They’re emotional without being manipulative, and they set up a story that feels like it’s going to hit hard. But somewhere along the way, the book starts spinning in circles. Every time I thought it was about to land another emotional punch, it backed away into another round of wandering or reflection.

By the end, I wasn’t angry or disappointed so much as tired. The beauty is still there, maybe scattered or even fragile, but the pacing doesn’t support it, and the story’s emotional payoff never quite arrives. It’s a 3-star read for me: a book with a phenomenal beginning, a heartfelt core, and a middle and end that just couldn’t keep the spark alive.

Key Themes

• Grief and Loss
• Memory and the Unreliable Nature of It
• Family Secrets and Generational Trauma
• Identity and Self-Discovery
• Culture and Heritage
• Mental Health
• Magical Realism|
• Communication

A Guest in the House

E. M. Carroll

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Genre: Horror

Initial Impression
It has been a long time since I picked up a graphic novel. One of my goals for 2026 is to read more graphic novels. This one was such a good surprise. I’m so glad that I read it.

Summary
Abby, a quiet young woman living a modest life, recently married David, a widowed dentist who has moved to a small lakeside town with his daughter, Crystal. As she settles into the routines of being a wife and stepmother, Abby tries to believe they will all be happy, embracing domestic life with cooking, coffee, and shared evenings in front of the TV. However, beneath that calm surface is something more sinister: Sheila, David's ex-wife, is still a spectral presence in the home. Until Abby starts to notice strange behaviors, odd gaps in the story, and unsettling clues that suggest nothing about Sheila's fate is as simple as she's been told, her death is treated as tragic but unremarkable. 

Bit by bit, the peace of the lakeside house erodes. Sheila's memory begins to appear to Abby in subtle and sometimes frightening ways. The question of whether Sheila's death was truly natural arises as the domestic façade begins to fall apart. The story pushes forward a creeping dread, drawing readers into Abby’s growing obsession and uncertainty. 

Art Style
The art in A Guest in the House shifts seamlessly between grounded realism and unsettling surrealism, which often catches you off guard. During everyday moments—grocery store runs, cleaning the kitchen, household chores—the panels are mostly grayscale. But once Abby’s inner world, her anxieties or nightmares, sparks to life, the pages erupt in lurid color: shock‑red blood splashes, veiny blues, dreamlike distortions, and hallucinatory shapes. It feels like the world itself is wobbling under Abby’s unease. That contrast—the calm white‑and‑grey domesticity against sudden bursts of horror‑tinged color—gives the story a kind of emotional texture that lingers long after you close the book. 

People aren’t drawn as hyper‑idealized heroes or villains, either. Bodies are average, expressions subtle, hair a little messy, and clothes ordinary. That ordinariness makes the horror more intrusive, more believable. Abby becomes someone you could pass on the street, which makes the uncanny feel all the sharper.

Setting
The bulk of the story takes place in a modest lakeside house, located in a quiet town where Abby and her new family try to start over. The setting is peaceful: calm water, trees around the house, the slow rhythm of suburban life, grocery runs, and quiet dinners. It seems calm—the kind of place where you’d imagine past traumas quietly fade away. But as you progress in the story, that serene feeling breaks. Even the ordinary surroundings, like the house and the lake, start to feel oppressive. The house, instead of being a haven, turns into a cage. Haunted, not just by memory but by everything unsaid. That contrast between idyllic environment and creeping dread constructs a setting that feels familiar—and deeply, uncomfortably wrong.

Atmosphere
Right from the first few pages, I thought the story and the art style both gave such an excellent atmosphere.  There’s a slow-burning tension. At first, it’s quiet—domestic, almost mundane. But as the story unfolds, unease starts showing up through every crack. The haunting in the house isn’t loud or bombastic; it starts subtle, but it sneaks. Shadows linger longer than they should. Reflections in windows seem off. The color bursts—sudden and shocking—feel like jolts to the system. The weirdness isn’t just supernatural; it’s psychological. There are moments when you question whether you're witnessing actual ghosts or the collapse of a weak mind. This ambiguity, the ongoing uncertainty about what is true, creates an atmosphere that lingers long after the last page.

There’s also a melancholy to it, and strangely, I loved it!  There is the sense that this isn’t just about a ghost but about grief, identity, and the fear of never being enough. The kind of sadness that lingers in small moments like a quiet glance, an empty chair at the table, or a child’s drawing that feels like a memory trying to break through. The atmosphere traps you there: it’s beautiful, domestic, and claustrophobic—a perfect setting for horror that doesn’t scream but whispers.

Final Thoughts
I’ve given A Guest in the House a full five stars because it haunted me long after I closed it. It’s the kind of story that creeps quietly before reaching in and twisting what you thought you understood. Abby’s narrative feels real, grounded, and flawed. She’s not a fearless heroine or a larger‑than‑life protagonist. She’s uncertain, average, and weighed down by those little everyday pressures, and that makes her all the more vulnerable. Watching her slowly unravel—or perhaps be unveiled—is painful and compelling in equal measure. The story has reminded me a lot of the movie “What Lies Beneath” starring Harrison Ford and Michelle Pfeiffer. There are many similarities.

Still, I’m aware it may not be perfect. The ending, while powerful, leaves a bunch of threads loose. Some mysteries remain murky, and you might be left wondering whether everything you saw was real or a projection of Abby’s psyche. That ambiguity will thrill some readers—leaving the horror to simmer, but frustrate others expecting closure. For me, though, that unresolved tension is part of the appeal. 

Overall, this graphic novel sneaks up on you. It blends domestic drudgery with uncanny horror, everyday anxieties with ghostly dread, and delivers a story that hits deep. Reading it was like watching one of those indie cinematic horror films that can be considered a gem. I’d recommend A Guest in the House to anyone who likes their horror personal, unsettling, and lingering.

Key Themes

• Grief and Loss
• Domestic Anxiety
• Psychological Uncertainty / Obsession
• Haunting / Presence of the Past
• Identity and Self-Doubt
• Ambiguity of Truth

Club Dead

Charlaine Harris

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐ ½ Genre: Fantasy 

Initial Impression I was excited to dive again into this series as a big fan of the TV show True Blood. I enjoyed reading both the first and the second books, and I hope all the subsequent books will be as good or better. 

Summary Sookie Stackhouse’s life is never calm for long, and Club Dead throws her straight into another round of supernatural chaos when Bill suddenly vanishes on “business.” The excuse feels flimsy from the start, but the situation escalates quickly when Sookie learns he may have been kidnapped—or possibly run off with his old vampire flame. Either way, her pride and her heart take a hit, and she’s pulled into a search she never really asked for.

Eric naturally steps in with the sort of helpfulness that usually comes with an agenda, sending Sookie and the ever-charming werewolf Alcide to Jackson, Mississippi. Their mission: track down Bill, navigate the vampire club known as Club Dead, and try not to get killed in the process. It sounds dramatic, and it is, but the book leans into the messiness rather than glamorizing it.

Things in Jackson become more complicated than expected. Sookie keeps stumbling into danger—sometimes because she’s brave, sometimes because she trusts the wrong people, and sometimes because trouble just seems magnetized to her! Her dynamic with Alcide may suggest a possible new romantic path (the TV show has turned that into the focus; I'm not sure if it will be the same in the subsequent books), though it’s tangled with grief, curiosity, and many unresolved feelings.

The rescue of Bill comes with emotional fallout rather than a neat closure. Instead of a triumphant reunion, Sookie ends up at a crossroads, and the series takes a more bittersweet turn that feels strangely honest for her character. I found the ending to be a bit funny with how Sookie treated both Eric and Bill.

Characters Sookie continues to be the heart of the story, and Harris keeps her grounded even when the plot tilts into wild supernatural territory. Her confusion, frustration, and occasional flashes of temper feel very real—almost messily real—which may appeal to readers who prefer flawed heroines over perfect ones. Bill, on the other hand, appears more distant here, and the emotional wall he puts up may leave some readers feeling disconnected from him.

The supporting cast adds a lot of color. Eric is still teasing and inscrutable, Alcide brings a gentler energy that complicates Sookie’s loyalties, and the werewolf and vampire communities feel more defined than in earlier books. Some characters only appear briefly, but they still manage to leave little impressions—either charming, unsettling, or just weird in that Sookie Stackhouse way. Her brother, Jason, is almost missing except for one scene.

Writing Style

Charlaine Harris writes in a breezy first-person style that’s easy to settle into, almost like listening to a friend with great timing tell you about her absurd week. The storytelling leans on sharp observations, quick emotional reactions, and a bit of self-deprecating humor. It’s fast-paced and accessible, though every now and then the simplicity may feel a touch too streamlined for readers who want deeper introspection.

Setting & Atmosphere

The story jumps from Sookie’s small-town Louisiana roots to the darker, more hostile supernatural underbelly of Jackson. Harris paints the locations with enough detail that you can imagine the sticky air, the dim bars, and the slightly run-down motels. The backroads, the clubs, and even Alcide’s family home create a sense of moving through a lived-in world rather than a generic paranormal backdrop.

There’s a constant sense of tension humming under the surface. Even during the quieter scenes, you will feel like the characters are sitting on the edge of something sharp. This makes you sit on the edge of your seat, too. The author successfully balances danger with moments of humor and awkward romance, which helps in creating an atmosphere that’s a little chaotic, sometimes moody, and occasionally warm. It is like spending a weekend with friends who always end up in trouble but somehow stay likable no matter what.

Final Thoughts I landed on 3.5 stars because, while the book has plenty going for it, it also wobbles in places. Some emotional beats rush past a little too fast, and Bill’s storyline might leave you wishing the characters sat with their feelings a bit longer. Still, the tension, as well as the humor and shifting relationships, kept me turning pages. It’s the kind of installment that may not hit every note perfectly but still feels worthwhile.

Even with its bumps, I genuinely enjoyed the ride and want to keep going—partly to see how Sookie handles the drama, and partly because I’m curious how the series will diverge from the TV show in later books. There’s a sense that the characters are heading somewhere new, and even if the journey is messy, I’m definitely sticking around for it.

Key Themes

• Loyalty and Betrayal
• Identity and Belonging
  
• Love, Desire, and Complicated Relationships
• Danger and Survival
• Power Dynamics and Control

Disappearance at Devil's Rock

 Paul Tremblay

Rating: ⭐⭐ ½
Genre: Horror

Initial Impression
This is probably the third or fourth Paul Tremblay book that I have read. I was excited for it, because what could be more interesting than reading a horror story in October? Boy, I was not prepared for this letdown!

Summary
It starts with a summer night and a group of kids messing around in the woods. Thirteen-year-old Tommy Sanderson doesn’t come back. The search kicks off fast—police, helicopters, the usual—but it doesn’t take long before things stop feeling normal. His friends can’t seem to agree on what happened. Their stories don’t just conflict, but they hint at something darker. Something they’re scared to say out loud.

Tommy’s mother, Elizabeth, is barely holding it together. She’s desperate, clinging to whatever scraps she can find. Then weird things start happening: shadows where they shouldn’t be, noises in the house, and torn notebook pages showing up out of nowhere. Pages that look like Tommy’s, filled with strange drawings and ramblings about something called “Devil’s Rock.” It’s not clear if he was imagining things or if something really pulled him in.

The story jumps between Elizabeth’s unraveling in the present and the boys’ hazy memories of that night. Slowly, you start to piece together what might’ve happened, but the picture never fully clears. There’s talk of a man in the woods, secret dares, and a local legend that feels like it’s bleeding into real life. Tremblay doesn’t give you answers so much as questions that echo. Is this a ghost story? A breakdown? Just a tragedy warped by fear?

By the end, you get flashes of truth—panic, guilt, maybe a final moment that wasn’t meant to go that far. But it’s all fragmented. The emotional hit is there, but it’s softened by the slow, foggy way the story unfolds. You’re left unsettled, not because of what you know, but because of what you don’t.

Characters
The characters are deliberately ordinary. They are people who feel like they could live next door. Most of Tommy's emotional burden is placed on his mother, Elizabeth. Her grief hits hard in some scenes, but in others, it feels strangely muted. That might be due to the constant shifts in time and perspective, which keep us at arm’s length.

Tommy’s friends, Josh and Luis, are drawn with a kind of adolescent fuzziness. They’re scared, confused, and clearly hiding something, but their personalities start to blur together after a while. You’re left with impressions—guilt, fear, maybe shame—but not much depth.

Character development is subtle to the point of being almost static. Tremblay depended here a lot on ambiguity and realism, which results in nobody truly changing or maturing. In their own unique ways, they simply fall apart. Given the themes of loss and uncertainty, that may be the point, but it also makes the story feel emotionally flat at times. You want more reaction, more insight, but the narrative keeps its distance.

Writing Style
Tremblay writes in a fragmented, third-person limited style, mostly through Elizabeth’s eyes but occasionally shifting to others. I don’t know how to say it here, but the story has many abrupt transitions and half-thoughts that feel like they were all done on purpose to increase the suspense and the thrill. However, I feel this method has backfired, at least for me. It is intended to depict trauma, and occasionally it captures that hazy, uneasy sensation in a good way, but at times it also seems disjointed and disorganized.

The pacing is slow, and the timeline jumps around so much that it’s easy to lose your footing. There’s atmosphere, sure, but it often comes at the expense of clarity. You might find yourself rereading passages just to figure out where—or when—you are.

Setting and Atmosphere
The setting—a quiet New England town bordered by dense, whispering woods—is spot-on. Borderland State Park feels like a character on its own. It’s shady, damp, and at times even eerily ominous. You can practically smell the moss and hear the cicadas. It's the sort of place where stories linger and things disappear.

Atmosphere is where the book both succeeds and falters. It’s heavy, oppressive, and full of dread, but it rarely shifts. The mood stays locked in a kind of emotional stasis. That might be intentional, mirroring Elizabeth’s grief, but it can wear you down. The tension doesn’t build so much as hover, and after a while, that sameness starts to dull the impact.

Final Thoughts
Disappearance at Devil’s Rock has all the ingredients for something haunting: a missing child, eerie woods, unreliable memories, and hints of the supernatural. But the execution doesn’t quite land. The constant timeline shifts sap the suspense, and the emotional beats get lost in the fog.

There are moments of brilliance, no doubt. Tremblay captures the ache of loss and the unease of not knowing what’s real. But those moments are scattered, and the story never quite pulls them together into something cohesive. It’s a book that wants to haunt you, but instead of whispering, it sort of mutters and trails off.

If you’re into slow-burn mysteries where ambiguity is the point, this might work for you. For me, though, it felt like a great idea weighed down by its own structure. I’d call it a 2.5-star read—interesting, but not quite satisfying.

Key Themes

• Grief and Parental Desperation
• Ambiguity of Reality vs. Imagination
• Adolescence and Peer Influence
• Fear of the Unknown
• Guilt and Responsibility
• Isolation and Loneliness

The Dead Zone

 Stephen King

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Genre: Horror + Thriller

Initial Impression
I had this Stephen King book on my to-be-read (TBR) list for a long time. I haven’t watched the movie adaptation yet, but I have some idea about the story since I watched the first three seasons of the TV show adaptation many years ago. I really enjoyed it, but I’m not sure why I didn’t finish it. So, diving into this book felt like entering a somewhat familiar territory.

Summary
“The Dead Zone” starts with Johnny Smith, a perfectly normal schoolteacher who could’ve lived a perfectly normal life—until a freak accident throws him into a 5-year-long coma. He wakes up to a world that has politely moved on without him. His girlfriend, Sarah, has married someone else, his parents are shells of the people he remembers, and he’s suddenly the guy who knows things he shouldn’t. Literally. A handshake or a touch, and boom—visions of people’s futures, secrets, tragedies waiting around corners.

Trying to figure out how to exist again would already be heavy enough, but Johnny’s new ability keeps dragging him places he never signed up to go. A kidnapped child. A hidden killer. Old friends who suddenly see him as either a miracle or a cautionary tale. Every time he steps in to help, he loses a little more of the quiet life he wants back. It’s heartbreaking to watch him yearn for normal while everyone else treats him like some kind of cursed superhero.

While Johnny is stumbling through his second chance at life, we also get Greg Stillson, a smooth, loud, politically ambitious, and the sort of guy whose grin makes you check your back pocket. His rise feels uncomfortably real, the kind of political arc that makes you mutter, “Yeah… I’ve seen this movie in real life, and it didn’t end great.”

By the time Johnny realizes what Stillson might become, the story shifts from eerie personal tragedy to a deeply moral “what would you do?” moment. The finale isn’t all fireworks and chaos. It’s sad, unsettling, and almost quiet in the way real irreversible decisions sometimes are, which honestly makes it stick harder.

Characters Johnny is written as painfully human. He’s not a chosen-one-type psychic; he's tired, confused, grieving for a life that slipped away while he slept. His powers don’t give him swagger, but they give him migraines, isolation, and a guilt complex big enough to block sunlight. That vulnerability may sound depressing, but it’s exactly why he works. He feels like someone you could’ve known, or maybe someone you could’ve been if life rolled the dice differently.

Stillson, on the other hand, is almost alarmingly familiar: the charming, cruel, self-made “man of the people” with a smile that seems like it might bite. King doesn’t make him a cartoon villain; he makes him the kind of dangerous that sneaks up wearing a handshake and campaign button. He represents all the corrupt politicians we see on TV every single day. 

The supporting cast—Sarah, Johnny’s parents, the small-town cops—ground the story emotionally, with his mother being the standout among them. They may not all get deep arcs, but they feel lived-in enough that Johnny’s loneliness hits harder.

Writing Style
King uses third-person narration with a very steady, sometimes patient pace. The psychic visions don’t jump out with special effects; they slide into the story like unwanted memories. The writing is straightforward and emotional rather than flashy, and every once in a while, he’ll drop one of those one-sentence gut punches he loves. If you like your supernatural stories realistic enough to be uncomfortable, this one fits.

Setting and Atmosphere
Most of the book takes place in ordinary American suburbs and towns—ice rinks, diners, school classrooms, campaign halls. Nothing grand, nothing gothic, and that’s the point. The everyday settings make Johnny’s psychic episodes feel like intrusions into a world that really doesn’t want them. That contrast helps anchor the story and keeps it from drifting into pure fantasy territory.

The atmosphere leans anxious, sad, and steadily tense. Not jump-scare horror—more like lying awake at 3 AM replaying choices you can’t change. There’s an eerie inevitability to everything, as if fate keeps clearing its throat in the background. Even when nothing supernatural is happening, you feel the weight of what might.

Final Thoughts I’d put this at a solid four stars. It’s thoughtful, grim in a way that sneaks up on you, and emotionally messy in the best way. Johnny’s journey is compelling precisely because nothing feels clean or easy. That said, there are stretches where the pacing slows, and you may catch yourself glancing at the page count. Still, the themes and emotional impact land hard.

“The Dead Zone” may not be King’s flashiest or scariest novel, but it might be one of his most haunting. It leaves you thinking about fate, about duty, and about whether knowing the future would be a gift or a punishment. It’s a story that lingers, not because of monsters in the dark, but because it quietly reminds you how terrifying power and sacrifice can be when they show up in real life.

Key Themes

• Fate vs. Free Will
• Moral Responsibility
• Isolation and Alienation
• Loss of Identity and Time
• Power and Corruption
• Trauma and Recovery
• Political Fear and Authority
• The Burden of Knowledge
• Sacrifice