The setup sounds like a lark and the execution is anything but. Patricia Campbell's true-crime book club is the one bright spot in a life of carpools, casseroles, and a husband who treats her like staff. Then a charming stranger named James Harris moves into the neighborhood, children on the wrong side of town start going missing and dying, and Patricia begins to suspect the new man is feeding. Hendrix is interested in exactly the gap that makes this terrifying: she is a woman whose observations no one in authority will take seriously, going up against a predator who understands that perfectly.
What surprised me is how patient the book is about its dread. The first half builds suspicion through small, deniable wrongness — a too-friendly smile, a story that doesn't add up, a town's willingness to look away from poor Black neighborhoods where the killings cluster. Hendrix lets the social horror and the supernatural horror reinforce each other so that by the time the violence arrives, and it does arrive, you've been primed to feel how alone Patricia is. There is one mid-book set piece involving an infestation that I will not describe except to say it is one of the most viscerally upsetting scenes I have read in years, and it is the moment the novel stops being charming and starts being dangerous.
The craft is in the calibration. Hendrix could have played this for camp, and the title invites that expectation, but he keeps undercutting it with real stakes: a marriage curdling under gaslighting, friendships that fracture when belief is required, the specific exhaustion of being a woman whose competence is invisible until a crisis needs cleaning up. The vampire is genuinely frightening — no glittering romance here, just appetite and patience — and the climax pays off every thread of suspicion the slow build planted. Patricia and her friends earn their reckoning, and Hendrix makes you feel the cost of it.
It is not flawless, and the right reader should go in knowing the shape of it. The pacing dips in a long middle stretch where the women's belief wavers and the plot marks time, and a few of the husbands edge toward caricature in service of the theme. The gore, when it comes, is unsparing; squeamish readers should be warned that this is body horror, not just atmosphere. And the social commentary about who a comfortable town is willing to sacrifice is pointed enough that it occasionally tips into being underlined.
Why you should read
- Horror readers who want real scares with real characters
- Fans of strong female ensembles facing down a predator
- Anyone who likes social commentary woven into genre
- Readers who enjoy a slow burn that pays off violently
What to expect
- A patient first half of mounting, deniable dread
- Genuine body horror, including one extremely graphic scene
- A predator built on appetite, not romance
- A finale that rewards every thread of suspicion
But those are quibbles against a book that delivers on a rare double promise: it is legitimately scary and it has something to say. Hendrix takes characters the genre usually treats as background and makes them the heroes of a story about being disbelieved, then rewards your patience with a finale that is both gruesome and weirdly triumphant. It is the best argument going that horror and warmth are not opposites.
