Amalia Gkavea
The Day After His Crucifixion
There are bad books. There are offensive books. And then there are books so drenched in ignorance, arrogance, and faux spiritualism that they leave you wondering how they were published in the first place.
The Day After His Crucifixion is marketed as a deeply moving spiritual novel, one that gives voice to the women around Christ in the immediate aftermath of His death. What it delivers instead is a theologically void, historically inaccurate, and emotionally tone-deaf mess—wrapped in clumsy dialogue and dressed up as empowerment.
Let’s begin with the most outrageous omission: the complete absence of the Virgin Mary.
In a story set in the wake of the Crucifixion—a moment that shattered her maternal heart and crowned her with the silent dignity of suffering—the fact that she is not even a presence, a shadow, a thought, is not just an oversight. It is spiritual illiteracy.
How can anyone claim to speak of Christ’s final hours and exclude the woman who brought Him into the world? Who stood at the foot of the Cross? Who carried the unbearable weight of grief, faith, and maternal love?
This omission is not artistic—it is disgraceful.
And it doesn’t end there.
The author rewrites Gospel timelines, most egregiously by having Lazarus resurrected before Jairus’s daughter. A careless error—one that no writer dabbling in sacred ground should dare to make.
The women in the novel are not empowered—they are preachy, shallow avatars for the author’s personal ideology. Their frequent snide commentary about the Holy Apostles is disrespectful, not bold. This isn’t reclamation. It’s revisionist posturing with no theological backbone.
The characters speak like they’re moderating a women’s retreat in 2024, not grieving the death of Christ in 1st-century Judea. There’s no reverence, no atmosphere, no spiritual rhythm.
And finally, just when the book couldn’t get more disappointing, I received an unsolicited email from the author herself, asking me to leave “a few good words” or “at least 5 stars” because she “poured her heart into it” and “paid a lot” to make it free on NetGalley.
Let me be absolutely clear:
I do not review with pity. I do not reward theological cosplay. And I certainly do not offer stars in exchange for guilt.
This book is not a tribute to Christ. It’s a vanity project masquerading as devotion.
It offends the faith it pretends to honour.
It silences the most powerful woman in the story.
And it insults the intelligence of every reader who takes Scripture seriously.
I do not recommend it. Not for Christians. Not for historical fiction lovers. Not for anyone who values truth.
Let it be forgotten.
There are bad books. There are offensive books. And then there are books so drenched in ignorance, arrogance, and faux spiritualism that they leave you wondering how they were published in the first place.
The Day After His Crucifixion is marketed as a deeply moving spiritual novel, one that gives voice to the women around Christ in the immediate aftermath of His death. What it delivers instead is a theologically void, historically inaccurate, and emotionally tone-deaf mess—wrapped in clumsy dialogue and dressed up as empowerment.
Let’s begin with the most outrageous omission: the complete absence of the Virgin Mary.
In a story set in the wake of the Crucifixion—a moment that shattered her maternal heart and crowned her with the silent dignity of suffering—the fact that she is not even a presence, a shadow, a thought, is not just an oversight. It is spiritual illiteracy.
How can anyone claim to speak of Christ’s final hours and exclude the woman who brought Him into the world? Who stood at the foot of the Cross? Who carried the unbearable weight of grief, faith, and maternal love?
This omission is not artistic—it is disgraceful.
And it doesn’t end there.
The author rewrites Gospel timelines, most egregiously by having Lazarus resurrected before Jairus’s daughter. A careless error—one that no writer dabbling in sacred ground should dare to make.
The women in the novel are not empowered—they are preachy, shallow avatars for the author’s personal ideology. Their frequent snide commentary about the Holy Apostles is disrespectful, not bold. This isn’t reclamation. It’s revisionist posturing with no theological backbone.
The characters speak like they’re moderating a women’s retreat in 2024, not grieving the death of Christ in 1st-century Judea. There’s no reverence, no atmosphere, no spiritual rhythm.
And finally, just when the book couldn’t get more disappointing, I received an unsolicited email from the author herself, asking me to leave “a few good words” or “at least 5 stars” because she “poured her heart into it” and “paid a lot” to make it free on NetGalley.
Let me be absolutely clear:
I do not review with pity. I do not reward theological cosplay. And I certainly do not offer stars in exchange for guilt.
This book is not a tribute to Christ. It’s a vanity project masquerading as devotion.
It offends the faith it pretends to honour.
It silences the most powerful woman in the story.
And it insults the intelligence of every reader who takes Scripture seriously.
I do not recommend it. Not for Christians. Not for historical fiction lovers. Not for anyone who values truth.
Let it be forgotten.
‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’
John J. Dunne
A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.
In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.
Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.
The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.
Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.
‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.
Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’
John J. Dunne
‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’
John J. Dunne
A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.
In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.
Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.
The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.
Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.
‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.
Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’
John J. Dunne
‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’
John J. Dunne
A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.
In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.
Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.
The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.
Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.
‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.
Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’
John J. Dunne
‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’
John J. Dunne
A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.
In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.
Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.
The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.
Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.
‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.
Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’
John J. Dunne
Updated a reading goal:
Read 50 books by December 30, 2025
Progress so far: 50 / 50 100%
‘’Madness scares you, it distracts you, but you have to look at it closely.’’
I have read Samanta Schweblin’s work extensively, and each time, I’m struck anew by the power of her writing. In just ten to twenty pages, she constructs riddles—quiet, contained, yet charged with emotional and psychological weight—that can spark hours of discussion. She transforms the mundane into the disturbing, turning everyday encounters into moments of quiet terror. If Fernanda Melchor tests the limits of your sanity with supernatural dread bleeding into reality, Schweblin does the opposite: she takes familiar relationships and recognisable emotions and quietly corrupts them. She invites you to reconsider what it means to age, to belong, to parent, to survive in a world where madness spreads silently, like an infection you didn’t know you were carrying.
The new collection, Good and Evil and Other Stories, published in 2025, continues her exploration of psychological fragility with chilling precision. The stories are brief but relentless. They don’t rely on overt horror or shock—they work like whispers at the edge of your mind, asking unsettling questions in deceptively ordinary settings.
‘’Mommy, are you happy?’’
Welcome to the Club: The story opens with a woman’s failed suicide attempt. What becomes immediately clear is that she is deeply depressed—but why? What has driven her to make a decision that would leave her two daughters without a mother? And who is the strange neighbour, the Hunter, who seems to know everything about her?
A story that raises a million questions and deliberately leaves the answers to the reader.
A Fabulous Animal: Two old friends talk on the phone. One of them is always on the run. The other is dying. After so many years, the only thing that unites them is the death of a boy and a horse…
William in the Window: In a writer’s retreat, two women become friends, sharing their worries about the ones they have left at home. One is afraid her husband will die without her. The other is afraid for her cat and gives little thought to her husband. How do you accept that kind of distance when your own partner is dying of cancer? And what does it mean when a dead animal appears to be watching you?
A quiet tale about the companionship of marriage—or the absence of it—and the human need to cling to whatever anchor life offers
‘’But at night, if the phone rings and my father picks up, no one answers.’’
An Eye in the Throat: Narrated by a precociously bright two-year-old, this is the story of a single moment that leads to the collapse of a family. As is often the case in Schweblin’s fiction, every page holds layers of secrets, instincts, confessions, and quiet mysteries.
One of the saddest stories I’ve ever read—deeply memorable and quietly haunting. A poignant study of a fractured bond between father and son.
‘’And you two?’’, he asked. ‘’What do you do to keep from getting bored?’’
My sister said, ‘’We sneak into other people’s houses.’’
The Woman from Atlantida: The visit of a client takes the narrator back to a summer of her childhood when she and her sister encountered mysterious characters such as a woman poet who seems to be coming from a different time. The story of an unsettling summer, of sisterhood, loneliness and addictions, of the kindness of children, the isolation that comes with age, and the moments of disaster that always find us unaware.
A Visit from the Chief: Unfortunately, this story fell flat for me and made little sense. It follows a troubled 60-year-old woman who can’t seem to decide whether she loves her daughter or resents her, while her mother and another elderly woman engage in bizarre antics at a hospice. Add a repulsive male character to the mix, and you’re left with a disappointing, disjointed narrative.
A weak and confusing ending to an otherwise haunting and incisive collection.
Despite its uneven conclusion, Good and Evil and Other Stories confirms once again Samanta Schweblin’s mastery of the short story form. Her writing is precise, eerie, and emotionally complex—never offering easy answers, but always provoking thought. These stories linger long after the last page, unsettling in the best possible way. For readers drawn to quiet horror, psychological unease, and the emotional fissures of ordinary life, this collection is well worth reading.
‘’Why don’t you talk to me?’’, asked the woman. ‘’Why don’t you ask me things?’’
Many thanks to Pan Macmillan and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘’Madness scares you, it distracts you, but you have to look at it closely.’’
I have read Samanta Schweblin’s work extensively, and each time, I’m struck anew by the power of her writing. In just ten to twenty pages, she constructs riddles—quiet, contained, yet charged with emotional and psychological weight—that can spark hours of discussion. She transforms the mundane into the disturbing, turning everyday encounters into moments of quiet terror. If Fernanda Melchor tests the limits of your sanity with supernatural dread bleeding into reality, Schweblin does the opposite: she takes familiar relationships and recognisable emotions and quietly corrupts them. She invites you to reconsider what it means to age, to belong, to parent, to survive in a world where madness spreads silently, like an infection you didn’t know you were carrying.
The new collection, Good and Evil and Other Stories, published in 2025, continues her exploration of psychological fragility with chilling precision. The stories are brief but relentless. They don’t rely on overt horror or shock—they work like whispers at the edge of your mind, asking unsettling questions in deceptively ordinary settings.
‘’Mommy, are you happy?’’
Welcome to the Club: The story opens with a woman’s failed suicide attempt. What becomes immediately clear is that she is deeply depressed—but why? What has driven her to make a decision that would leave her two daughters without a mother? And who is the strange neighbour, the Hunter, who seems to know everything about her?
A story that raises a million questions and deliberately leaves the answers to the reader.
A Fabulous Animal: Two old friends talk on the phone. One of them is always on the run. The other is dying. After so many years, the only thing that unites them is the death of a boy and a horse…
William in the Window: In a writer’s retreat, two women become friends, sharing their worries about the ones they have left at home. One is afraid her husband will die without her. The other is afraid for her cat and gives little thought to her husband. How do you accept that kind of distance when your own partner is dying of cancer? And what does it mean when a dead animal appears to be watching you?
A quiet tale about the companionship of marriage—or the absence of it—and the human need to cling to whatever anchor life offers
‘’But at night, if the phone rings and my father picks up, no one answers.’’
An Eye in the Throat: Narrated by a precociously bright two-year-old, this is the story of a single moment that leads to the collapse of a family. As is often the case in Schweblin’s fiction, every page holds layers of secrets, instincts, confessions, and quiet mysteries.
One of the saddest stories I’ve ever read—deeply memorable and quietly haunting. A poignant study of a fractured bond between father and son.
‘’And you two?’’, he asked. ‘’What do you do to keep from getting bored?’’
My sister said, ‘’We sneak into other people’s houses.’’
The Woman from Atlantida: The visit of a client takes the narrator back to a summer of her childhood when she and her sister encountered mysterious characters such as a woman poet who seems to be coming from a different time. The story of an unsettling summer, of sisterhood, loneliness and addictions, of the kindness of children, the isolation that comes with age, and the moments of disaster that always find us unaware.
A Visit from the Chief: Unfortunately, this story fell flat for me and made little sense. It follows a troubled 60-year-old woman who can’t seem to decide whether she loves her daughter or resents her, while her mother and another elderly woman engage in bizarre antics at a hospice. Add a repulsive male character to the mix, and you’re left with a disappointing, disjointed narrative.
A weak and confusing ending to an otherwise haunting and incisive collection.
Despite its uneven conclusion, Good and Evil and Other Stories confirms once again Samanta Schweblin’s mastery of the short story form. Her writing is precise, eerie, and emotionally complex—never offering easy answers, but always provoking thought. These stories linger long after the last page, unsettling in the best possible way. For readers drawn to quiet horror, psychological unease, and the emotional fissures of ordinary life, this collection is well worth reading.
‘’Why don’t you talk to me?’’, asked the woman. ‘’Why don’t you ask me things?’’
Many thanks to Pan Macmillan and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘’Madness scares you, it distracts you, but you have to look at it closely.’’
I have read Samanta Schweblin’s work extensively, and each time, I’m struck anew by the power of her writing. In just ten to twenty pages, she constructs riddles—quiet, contained, yet charged with emotional and psychological weight—that can spark hours of discussion. She transforms the mundane into the disturbing, turning everyday encounters into moments of quiet terror. If Fernanda Melchor tests the limits of your sanity with supernatural dread bleeding into reality, Schweblin does the opposite: she takes familiar relationships and recognisable emotions and quietly corrupts them. She invites you to reconsider what it means to age, to belong, to parent, to survive in a world where madness spreads silently, like an infection you didn’t know you were carrying.
The new collection, Good and Evil and Other Stories, published in 2025, continues her exploration of psychological fragility with chilling precision. The stories are brief but relentless. They don’t rely on overt horror or shock—they work like whispers at the edge of your mind, asking unsettling questions in deceptively ordinary settings.
‘’Mommy, are you happy?’’
Welcome to the Club: The story opens with a woman’s failed suicide attempt. What becomes immediately clear is that she is deeply depressed—but why? What has driven her to make a decision that would leave her two daughters without a mother? And who is the strange neighbour, the Hunter, who seems to know everything about her?
A story that raises a million questions and deliberately leaves the answers to the reader.
A Fabulous Animal: Two old friends talk on the phone. One of them is always on the run. The other is dying. After so many years, the only thing that unites them is the death of a boy and a horse…
William in the Window: In a writer’s retreat, two women become friends, sharing their worries about the ones they have left at home. One is afraid her husband will die without her. The other is afraid for her cat and gives little thought to her husband. How do you accept that kind of distance when your own partner is dying of cancer? And what does it mean when a dead animal appears to be watching you?
A quiet tale about the companionship of marriage—or the absence of it—and the human need to cling to whatever anchor life offers
‘’But at night, if the phone rings and my father picks up, no one answers.’’
An Eye in the Throat: Narrated by a precociously bright two-year-old, this is the story of a single moment that leads to the collapse of a family. As is often the case in Schweblin’s fiction, every page holds layers of secrets, instincts, confessions, and quiet mysteries.
One of the saddest stories I’ve ever read—deeply memorable and quietly haunting. A poignant study of a fractured bond between father and son.
‘’And you two?’’, he asked. ‘’What do you do to keep from getting bored?’’
My sister said, ‘’We sneak into other people’s houses.’’
The Woman from Atlantida: The visit of a client takes the narrator back to a summer of her childhood when she and her sister encountered mysterious characters such as a woman poet who seems to be coming from a different time. The story of an unsettling summer, of sisterhood, loneliness and addictions, of the kindness of children, the isolation that comes with age, and the moments of disaster that always find us unaware.
A Visit from the Chief: Unfortunately, this story fell flat for me and made little sense. It follows a troubled 60-year-old woman who can’t seem to decide whether she loves her daughter or resents her, while her mother and another elderly woman engage in bizarre antics at a hospice. Add a repulsive male character to the mix, and you’re left with a disappointing, disjointed narrative.
A weak and confusing ending to an otherwise haunting and incisive collection.
Despite its uneven conclusion, Good and Evil and Other Stories confirms once again Samanta Schweblin’s mastery of the short story form. Her writing is precise, eerie, and emotionally complex—never offering easy answers, but always provoking thought. These stories linger long after the last page, unsettling in the best possible way. For readers drawn to quiet horror, psychological unease, and the emotional fissures of ordinary life, this collection is well worth reading.
‘’Why don’t you talk to me?’’, asked the woman. ‘’Why don’t you ask me things?’’
Many thanks to Pan Macmillan and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘’Madness scares you, it distracts you, but you have to look at it closely.’’
I have read Samanta Schweblin’s work extensively, and each time, I’m struck anew by the power of her writing. In just ten to twenty pages, she constructs riddles—quiet, contained, yet charged with emotional and psychological weight—that can spark hours of discussion. She transforms the mundane into the disturbing, turning everyday encounters into moments of quiet terror. If Fernanda Melchor tests the limits of your sanity with supernatural dread bleeding into reality, Schweblin does the opposite: she takes familiar relationships and recognisable emotions and quietly corrupts them. She invites you to reconsider what it means to age, to belong, to parent, to survive in a world where madness spreads silently, like an infection you didn’t know you were carrying.
The new collection, Good and Evil and Other Stories, published in 2025, continues her exploration of psychological fragility with chilling precision. The stories are brief but relentless. They don’t rely on overt horror or shock—they work like whispers at the edge of your mind, asking unsettling questions in deceptively ordinary settings.
‘’Mommy, are you happy?’’
Welcome to the Club: The story opens with a woman’s failed suicide attempt. What becomes immediately clear is that she is deeply depressed—but why? What has driven her to make a decision that would leave her two daughters without a mother? And who is the strange neighbour, the Hunter, who seems to know everything about her?
A story that raises a million questions and deliberately leaves the answers to the reader.
A Fabulous Animal: Two old friends talk on the phone. One of them is always on the run. The other is dying. After so many years, the only thing that unites them is the death of a boy and a horse…
William in the Window: In a writer’s retreat, two women become friends, sharing their worries about the ones they have left at home. One is afraid her husband will die without her. The other is afraid for her cat and gives little thought to her husband. How do you accept that kind of distance when your own partner is dying of cancer? And what does it mean when a dead animal appears to be watching you?
A quiet tale about the companionship of marriage—or the absence of it—and the human need to cling to whatever anchor life offers
‘’But at night, if the phone rings and my father picks up, no one answers.’’
An Eye in the Throat: Narrated by a precociously bright two-year-old, this is the story of a single moment that leads to the collapse of a family. As is often the case in Schweblin’s fiction, every page holds layers of secrets, instincts, confessions, and quiet mysteries.
One of the saddest stories I’ve ever read—deeply memorable and quietly haunting. A poignant study of a fractured bond between father and son.
‘’And you two?’’, he asked. ‘’What do you do to keep from getting bored?’’
My sister said, ‘’We sneak into other people’s houses.’’
The Woman from Atlantida: The visit of a client takes the narrator back to a summer of her childhood when she and her sister encountered mysterious characters such as a woman poet who seems to be coming from a different time. The story of an unsettling summer, of sisterhood, loneliness and addictions, of the kindness of children, the isolation that comes with age, and the moments of disaster that always find us unaware.
A Visit from the Chief: Unfortunately, this story fell flat for me and made little sense. It follows a troubled 60-year-old woman who can’t seem to decide whether she loves her daughter or resents her, while her mother and another elderly woman engage in bizarre antics at a hospice. Add a repulsive male character to the mix, and you’re left with a disappointing, disjointed narrative.
A weak and confusing ending to an otherwise haunting and incisive collection.
Despite its uneven conclusion, Good and Evil and Other Stories confirms once again Samanta Schweblin’s mastery of the short story form. Her writing is precise, eerie, and emotionally complex—never offering easy answers, but always provoking thought. These stories linger long after the last page, unsettling in the best possible way. For readers drawn to quiet horror, psychological unease, and the emotional fissures of ordinary life, this collection is well worth reading.
‘’Why don’t you talk to me?’’, asked the woman. ‘’Why don’t you ask me things?’’
Many thanks to Pan Macmillan and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
Strange House by Uketsu opens with a compelling setup: a writer interested in the occult is invited by a friend—an architect named Kurihara—to investigate a strangely constructed home in Tokyo. The house is full of oddities: dead space, unnerving layouts, and a past that refuses to stay buried. As they explore its design and history, they encounter unsettling documents, cryptic floorplans, and a widow whose story deepens the mystery.
The novel’s strength lies in its atmosphere. The writing is eerie and disorienting by design, and the shifting timelines and layered perspectives create a sense of constant unease. It kept my interest throughout, especially during my long commutes—there’s something deeply engaging about the way the story slowly reveals itself, piece by piece.
Where it fell short for me was in the resolution. While the buildup is intriguing and the premise original, some of the final turns didn’t deliver the impact I was hoping for. The novel leans heavily into ambiguity, and though that will appeal to some readers, I found certain plot threads less satisfying than expected.
Still, Strange House is a distinctive and original work of psychological horror. Readers who appreciate open-ended narratives, experimental structure, and stories that blur the line between memory and reality will likely find it rewarding.
Many thanks to Pushkin Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
Strange House by Uketsu opens with a compelling setup: a writer interested in the occult is invited by a friend—an architect named Kurihara—to investigate a strangely constructed home in Tokyo. The house is full of oddities: dead space, unnerving layouts, and a past that refuses to stay buried. As they explore its design and history, they encounter unsettling documents, cryptic floorplans, and a widow whose story deepens the mystery.
The novel’s strength lies in its atmosphere. The writing is eerie and disorienting by design, and the shifting timelines and layered perspectives create a sense of constant unease. It kept my interest throughout, especially during my long commutes—there’s something deeply engaging about the way the story slowly reveals itself, piece by piece.
Where it fell short for me was in the resolution. While the buildup is intriguing and the premise original, some of the final turns didn’t deliver the impact I was hoping for. The novel leans heavily into ambiguity, and though that will appeal to some readers, I found certain plot threads less satisfying than expected.
Still, Strange House is a distinctive and original work of psychological horror. Readers who appreciate open-ended narratives, experimental structure, and stories that blur the line between memory and reality will likely find it rewarding.
Many thanks to Pushkin Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
‘’Twilight, meanwhile, gave place to the first gathering night-the glow worms began to twinkle amid the darkness, and over a high cliff covered with fir trees, that rises out of the lake, gleamed the slender solitary crescent of the new moon. The time had passed away unobserved; but now the owls began to shriek, and the night-hawks burst, flapping their wings, from the covert.
Winter’s long darkness may be mystical and imposing, but summer is equally unsettling. Beneath its dazzling light lie long shadows and sultry evenings that coax even the cautious to lower their guard. Across Europe and beyond, folk calendars confirm this: on Walpurgisnacht, bonfires flare across Germanic hills to keep witches at bay; on Saint John’s Eve, Spaniards leap flames to ward off evil; Scandinavian Midsummer crowns lovers with flowers yet insists a maiden sleeping with seven wild herbs beneath her pillow will dream of her future husband; British folklore warns that foxgloves ring for fairies and that Stonehenge still hums with old blood-rites; and even Obon in Japan welcomes ancestral ghosts with lanterns floating down summer rivers. Such rituals remind us that the sunlit half of the year is as haunted as the dark.
Nothing underscores this better than actress Dulcie Gray’s tart reply to the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley: when he suggested sacrificing her at dawn in a Midsummer rite at Stonehenge, she dismissed him curtly, “I absolutely cannot—I don’t like getting up early.” In short, beneath the laughter and bright garlands, summer remains rich with unease, superstition, and the persistent whisper of things that stir in the light.
The First of May or Walburga’s Night (Caroline Pichler translated by R.P.Gillies):
An undoubtedly atmospheric tale of love, jealousy, obsession and witchcraft, set in a mystical spot of the Swiss Alps. Unfortunately, the language of the story has not aged well; the occasion of Walpurgisnacht wasn’t utilised, and the antagonist of the tale is much more interesting than the anaemic Alice.
The Suitable Surroundings (Ambrose Bierce): In an extremely cryptic story set in Cincinnati, a boy witnesses a man’s distress in the middle of a midsummer’s night, and we are offered a glimpse into the publishing industry and its hunger for horror stories. The ending is outrageously open for interpretation.
A Midsummer Night’s Marriage (J.Meade Falkner): Rich in Gothic atmosphere, this is a tale of travelling back in time in the haunting night of St. John’s Eve, of a doomed love and a broken man. It reminded me of an adult version of The Corpse Bride, a dance macabre between the land of the living and the realm of the dead and Protestant cruelty.
‘’The Spirit is me; I haunt this place!’’
The Looking Glass (Walter de la Mare): A garden that may be haunted becomes the meeting place of Alice and a strange elderly woman who seems to wait for her every afternoon. A very unsettling truth with a touch of Folk Horror and a moving closure…
Midsummer At Stonehenge (F.Britten Austin):
Arguably, the most common image associated with Midsummer’s Day is Stonehenge, one of the most mysterious and enticing wonders made by humans. This tale takes us back to the times of the Children of the Sun. A husband and a wife stand among the crowd that eagerly awaits the sun, enjoying the pleasures of early married life. A beautiful tale that pays homage to the people of the past who shaped History, some of them lost in the mists of time. A story rich in elegance, sensuality and spiritualism.
‘’For Hell has long claimed their hideous god. Long, long he dwelt among the hills, a brain-shattering vestige of an outworn age, but no longer his obscene talons clutch for the souls of living men, and his kingdom is a dead kingdom, peopled only by the ghosts of those who served him in his lifetimes and theirs.’’
The Black Stone (Robert E.Howard): Set in Hungary, this is the tale of an educated, inquisitive man who wants to verify the legends that surround a monolith taking place in Midsummer Night. Magyar Folklore is rather unique in Europe, and the monoliths are universally considered charged constructions. Here, its shadow speaks of barbarism and cruelty, and pure evil with one of the most hair-rising scenes of pagan orgies I have ever read.
‘’The dead may not - must not return!’’
The Withered Heart (G.G.Pendarves): This story paints not a warm, boisterous May but a May night of rain and cold and dark intentions. It is a dark tale of inherited malice and sin, of fighting against the corruption of your soul, of necromancy and pure evil, of the attraction between a spoiled woman and the intellectual who tries to resist his desire. A story that would give Poe a run for his money.
‘’It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said - for it was a night of divination, a night of lovers.’’
May Day Eve (Nick Joaquin): It is May Eve - a seductive, mystic night in which girls perform divinations in front of mirrors to see their future husbands. It is a night of saints and sinners, a night when instead of your husband, you see the Deceiver right behind you…What starts as a sultry Gothic love story acquires a bitter, even tragic aura in the end. Some people are better off away from each other…
The Sale of Midsummer (Joan Aiken): According to a legend, such is the beauty of Midsummer Village that it exists for just three days each year. Two young men set out to find the truth, but each villager provides their own version of the story.
As these tales unfold, each offers a glimpse into the long shadows cast by Midsummer’s light: some rich in folklore and dread, others burdened by dated prose or aimless eclecticism. Taken together, they reveal a landscape of rituals, fears, and desires that stretch across centuries and cultures — proof that under the summer sun, darkness finds countless ways to speak. Yet even as the stories vary in power, one constant remains: the heavy hand of the editor, eager to remind us of his supposed daring and broad-minded curation, while often revealing only his shallow contempt for faith and tradition.
Johnny Mains boasts of being “eclectic to a fault,” but what shines through instead is smugness and the hollow superiority of yet another patronizing atheist who uses his platform to cheapen and sneer at Christianity while hiding behind the guise of inclusive curation. His editorial comments reek of self-congratulation and a fundamental contempt for the intelligence of readers, as if we should applaud every hackneyed line simply because he declares himself a champion of the obscure. Let us be clear: reading thousands of books does not make you a better editor—it makes you an efficient consumer. True discernment comes from respecting your audience and knowing when to shut up about your own tired ideology.
‘’Below him shadows were lengthening second by second, creeping across moor and marsh and up the sides of hills like vast grey ghosts. Standing on the brow overlooking the precipitous south end, he could see vague stone pillars set in a circle immediately beneath. In daylight, no doubt they would look mundane enough, but here in twilight their very vagueness seemed to promise life: at any moment they might begin to shuffle and dance. A half-forgotten tale about madens changed into stones for dancing on the Sabbath came back to him.’’
Night on Roughtor (Donald R. Rawe): A Cornish tale of will o’the wisps, moaning winds in the moors, ghosts, enchanted hills, piskies, spriggans, and three very foolish young men.
‘’He didn’t finish. The words were torn away from him on the rising wind which moaned now with a harsh eerie voice of its own…sighing and creaking through furze, stunted bushes and round the monolith shapes emerging beast -like through the thick air.’’
Where Phantoms Stir (Mary Williams): I won’t forget this story soon. Starting with a haunting encounter of a troubled man and a strange young woman as the wind rises through the mist, it soon becomes a terrifying symphony of unholy contact between this world and the next, the innocent sacrifice and the works of the Evil One and its horrendous crowd. Atmospheric and tragic, and my favourite story in the collection.
Foxgloves (Susan Price): There is nothing more frightening than walking alone at night, especially on certain nights of the year. Even the streetlights seem to hide dark corners in an area steeped in legends told to you by your grandmother. A sinister take on the urban legend of the Vanishing Hitchhiker and the myth of Rusalka. This story is full of haunting nocturnal descriptions of nature and the neighbourhood streets that urge you to both be alert and let yourself become absorbed by the beauty in this darkness.
The Midsummer Emissary (Minagawa Hiroko, translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori): The story starts with a mysterious female voice whispering a message that makes no sense. Our young protagonist has visions of a mysterious dark haired woman and seems to be followed by an elderly lady. Each page gives birth to more and more questions in a very strange tale of omens, male prostitutes, sexuality and past secrets. I still can’t say I have fully grasped the purpose of the story, but it is weird. Essentially Japanese.
Heaven on Earth (Jenn Ashworth): A newly-married couple finds itself trapped in a tropical resort during the first wave of COVID. They are now the only guests, and their efforts to contact the British Embassy are to no avail. Despite the fact that they have one of the earthly paradises at their disposal, they become prey to forced inertia and the strange proximity that comes with quarantine, while the man is a typical example of the entitled British upper class. And when you realise what has actually happened, you stare speechless.
In the end, The Dead of Summer is a varied but often rewarding collection. Some stories shine with genuine atmosphere, strong folkloric roots, and unsettling imagery that lingers long after the last page. Others feel outdated or thin, but even then, they add texture to the broader picture of how humanity has wrestled with the long, haunted light of summer nights. For readers who appreciate folklore, ghost stories, and the lingering echo of the past in the present, this collection offers enough moments of true unease and subtle beauty to make it worth their time.
‘’ Midsummer's Eve too- an unlucky night to be out. It was one of the turning days of the year, according to his granny, like Halloween, Christmas Eve and May Day. They were the days when the year turned from winter to spring, from spring to summer, from summer to autumn and then to winter again. They were different from other days… more open. The nights were even more so. Ghosts walked on those nights that couldn't walk other nights. Things were seen on those nights that couldn't be seen on other nights. On those nights, magic worked. According to Granny.’’
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘’Twilight, meanwhile, gave place to the first gathering night-the glow worms began to twinkle amid the darkness, and over a high cliff covered with fir trees, that rises out of the lake, gleamed the slender solitary crescent of the new moon. The time had passed away unobserved; but now the owls began to shriek, and the night-hawks burst, flapping their wings, from the covert.
Winter’s long darkness may be mystical and imposing, but summer is equally unsettling. Beneath its dazzling light lie long shadows and sultry evenings that coax even the cautious to lower their guard. Across Europe and beyond, folk calendars confirm this: on Walpurgisnacht, bonfires flare across Germanic hills to keep witches at bay; on Saint John’s Eve, Spaniards leap flames to ward off evil; Scandinavian Midsummer crowns lovers with flowers yet insists a maiden sleeping with seven wild herbs beneath her pillow will dream of her future husband; British folklore warns that foxgloves ring for fairies and that Stonehenge still hums with old blood-rites; and even Obon in Japan welcomes ancestral ghosts with lanterns floating down summer rivers. Such rituals remind us that the sunlit half of the year is as haunted as the dark.
Nothing underscores this better than actress Dulcie Gray’s tart reply to the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley: when he suggested sacrificing her at dawn in a Midsummer rite at Stonehenge, she dismissed him curtly, “I absolutely cannot—I don’t like getting up early.” In short, beneath the laughter and bright garlands, summer remains rich with unease, superstition, and the persistent whisper of things that stir in the light.
The First of May or Walburga’s Night (Caroline Pichler translated by R.P.Gillies):
An undoubtedly atmospheric tale of love, jealousy, obsession and witchcraft, set in a mystical spot of the Swiss Alps. Unfortunately, the language of the story has not aged well; the occasion of Walpurgisnacht wasn’t utilised, and the antagonist of the tale is much more interesting than the anaemic Alice.
The Suitable Surroundings (Ambrose Bierce): In an extremely cryptic story set in Cincinnati, a boy witnesses a man’s distress in the middle of a midsummer’s night, and we are offered a glimpse into the publishing industry and its hunger for horror stories. The ending is outrageously open for interpretation.
A Midsummer Night’s Marriage (J.Meade Falkner): Rich in Gothic atmosphere, this is a tale of travelling back in time in the haunting night of St. John’s Eve, of a doomed love and a broken man. It reminded me of an adult version of The Corpse Bride, a dance macabre between the land of the living and the realm of the dead and Protestant cruelty.
‘’The Spirit is me; I haunt this place!’’
The Looking Glass (Walter de la Mare): A garden that may be haunted becomes the meeting place of Alice and a strange elderly woman who seems to wait for her every afternoon. A very unsettling truth with a touch of Folk Horror and a moving closure…
Midsummer At Stonehenge (F.Britten Austin):
Arguably, the most common image associated with Midsummer’s Day is Stonehenge, one of the most mysterious and enticing wonders made by humans. This tale takes us back to the times of the Children of the Sun. A husband and a wife stand among the crowd that eagerly awaits the sun, enjoying the pleasures of early married life. A beautiful tale that pays homage to the people of the past who shaped History, some of them lost in the mists of time. A story rich in elegance, sensuality and spiritualism.
‘’For Hell has long claimed their hideous god. Long, long he dwelt among the hills, a brain-shattering vestige of an outworn age, but no longer his obscene talons clutch for the souls of living men, and his kingdom is a dead kingdom, peopled only by the ghosts of those who served him in his lifetimes and theirs.’’
The Black Stone (Robert E.Howard): Set in Hungary, this is the tale of an educated, inquisitive man who wants to verify the legends that surround a monolith taking place in Midsummer Night. Magyar Folklore is rather unique in Europe, and the monoliths are universally considered charged constructions. Here, its shadow speaks of barbarism and cruelty, and pure evil with one of the most hair-rising scenes of pagan orgies I have ever read.
‘’The dead may not - must not return!’’
The Withered Heart (G.G.Pendarves): This story paints not a warm, boisterous May but a May night of rain and cold and dark intentions. It is a dark tale of inherited malice and sin, of fighting against the corruption of your soul, of necromancy and pure evil, of the attraction between a spoiled woman and the intellectual who tries to resist his desire. A story that would give Poe a run for his money.
‘’It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said - for it was a night of divination, a night of lovers.’’
May Day Eve (Nick Joaquin): It is May Eve - a seductive, mystic night in which girls perform divinations in front of mirrors to see their future husbands. It is a night of saints and sinners, a night when instead of your husband, you see the Deceiver right behind you…What starts as a sultry Gothic love story acquires a bitter, even tragic aura in the end. Some people are better off away from each other…
The Sale of Midsummer (Joan Aiken): According to a legend, such is the beauty of Midsummer Village that it exists for just three days each year. Two young men set out to find the truth, but each villager provides their own version of the story.
As these tales unfold, each offers a glimpse into the long shadows cast by Midsummer’s light: some rich in folklore and dread, others burdened by dated prose or aimless eclecticism. Taken together, they reveal a landscape of rituals, fears, and desires that stretch across centuries and cultures — proof that under the summer sun, darkness finds countless ways to speak. Yet even as the stories vary in power, one constant remains: the heavy hand of the editor, eager to remind us of his supposed daring and broad-minded curation, while often revealing only his shallow contempt for faith and tradition.
Johnny Mains boasts of being “eclectic to a fault,” but what shines through instead is smugness and the hollow superiority of yet another patronizing atheist who uses his platform to cheapen and sneer at Christianity while hiding behind the guise of inclusive curation. His editorial comments reek of self-congratulation and a fundamental contempt for the intelligence of readers, as if we should applaud every hackneyed line simply because he declares himself a champion of the obscure. Let us be clear: reading thousands of books does not make you a better editor—it makes you an efficient consumer. True discernment comes from respecting your audience and knowing when to shut up about your own tired ideology.
‘’Below him shadows were lengthening second by second, creeping across moor and marsh and up the sides of hills like vast grey ghosts. Standing on the brow overlooking the precipitous south end, he could see vague stone pillars set in a circle immediately beneath. In daylight, no doubt they would look mundane enough, but here in twilight their very vagueness seemed to promise life: at any moment they might begin to shuffle and dance. A half-forgotten tale about madens changed into stones for dancing on the Sabbath came back to him.’’
Night on Roughtor (Donald R. Rawe): A Cornish tale of will o’the wisps, moaning winds in the moors, ghosts, enchanted hills, piskies, spriggans, and three very foolish young men.
‘’He didn’t finish. The words were torn away from him on the rising wind which moaned now with a harsh eerie voice of its own…sighing and creaking through furze, stunted bushes and round the monolith shapes emerging beast -like through the thick air.’’
Where Phantoms Stir (Mary Williams): I won’t forget this story soon. Starting with a haunting encounter of a troubled man and a strange young woman as the wind rises through the mist, it soon becomes a terrifying symphony of unholy contact between this world and the next, the innocent sacrifice and the works of the Evil One and its horrendous crowd. Atmospheric and tragic, and my favourite story in the collection.
Foxgloves (Susan Price): There is nothing more frightening than walking alone at night, especially on certain nights of the year. Even the streetlights seem to hide dark corners in an area steeped in legends told to you by your grandmother. A sinister take on the urban legend of the Vanishing Hitchhiker and the myth of Rusalka. This story is full of haunting nocturnal descriptions of nature and the neighbourhood streets that urge you to both be alert and let yourself become absorbed by the beauty in this darkness.
The Midsummer Emissary (Minagawa Hiroko, translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori): The story starts with a mysterious female voice whispering a message that makes no sense. Our young protagonist has visions of a mysterious dark haired woman and seems to be followed by an elderly lady. Each page gives birth to more and more questions in a very strange tale of omens, male prostitutes, sexuality and past secrets. I still can’t say I have fully grasped the purpose of the story, but it is weird. Essentially Japanese.
Heaven on Earth (Jenn Ashworth): A newly-married couple finds itself trapped in a tropical resort during the first wave of COVID. They are now the only guests, and their efforts to contact the British Embassy are to no avail. Despite the fact that they have one of the earthly paradises at their disposal, they become prey to forced inertia and the strange proximity that comes with quarantine, while the man is a typical example of the entitled British upper class. And when you realise what has actually happened, you stare speechless.
In the end, The Dead of Summer is a varied but often rewarding collection. Some stories shine with genuine atmosphere, strong folkloric roots, and unsettling imagery that lingers long after the last page. Others feel outdated or thin, but even then, they add texture to the broader picture of how humanity has wrestled with the long, haunted light of summer nights. For readers who appreciate folklore, ghost stories, and the lingering echo of the past in the present, this collection offers enough moments of true unease and subtle beauty to make it worth their time.
‘’ Midsummer's Eve too- an unlucky night to be out. It was one of the turning days of the year, according to his granny, like Halloween, Christmas Eve and May Day. They were the days when the year turned from winter to spring, from spring to summer, from summer to autumn and then to winter again. They were different from other days… more open. The nights were even more so. Ghosts walked on those nights that couldn't walk other nights. Things were seen on those nights that couldn't be seen on other nights. On those nights, magic worked. According to Granny.’’
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.
Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.
I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.
Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.
I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.
Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.
I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.
Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.
I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
“It was a wonderful night, the kind of night which is only possible when we are young.”
I approached White Nights with curiosity and an open mind, aware of its reputation as a delicate, melancholic tale of youthful longing and the human need for connection. Yet, despite its many admirers and the recent surge in popularity—fueled largely by BookTok influencers and endless tea reels—I found myself frustrated, detached, and frankly unimpressed.
The young man is dreamy to a fault—too naïve, too desperate, and far too ethereal to feel like a real person. He “protests too much,” as if clinging to an ideal of love rather than experiencing it. Nastenka, on the other hand, isn’t just a fragile, weeping girl—she’s a calculated manipulator wrapped in a pretty sob story. Her tears aren’t signs of weakness but weapons aimed to entangle the dreamer in her self-centred drama. She knew exactly what she was doing all along: milking his desperation for attention and comfort, then dropping him without a second thought. No innocence here—just cold, strategic emotional theatre. Together, they form one of the most exasperating “couples” in literature—two lonely souls wrapped up in their own emotional whirlwinds but lacking genuine chemistry or empathy.
Yet, I can’t deny that Dostoevsky’s novella strips the human soul bare in its reflections on loneliness, silence, and the pain of unfulfilled dreams. His insights into how deeply we understand others’ unhappiness when we ourselves are hurt are thoughtful and timeless. But these moments are few and far between, scattered amid dialogue that often feels juvenile and melodramatic, and a narrative tone that rarely sustains a believable atmosphere.
It’s no secret that White Nights has recently become a darling of social media, especially BookTok, where emotional intensity is sometimes mistaken for literary depth. I am sceptical of the frenzy—and honestly, it feels more like romanticising a lost innocence than engaging with a fully realized story. Who am I to judge Dostoyevsky, or the legions of wannabe influencers who have likely never read another book but flood the internet with vapid tea reels? But my frustration stands: this novella didn’t move me in the way so many claim.
Let’s be real. These two characters? They don’t need to be adored; they need a reality check. The dreamer is a pathetic mess—clinging to an idea of love like a drowning man to driftwood. He’s more a ghost than a person, lost in his own desperate fantasy, incapable of genuine connection.
Nastenka? She’s a minx of the highest order—a self-serving drama queen who weaponises her tears and vulnerability like a pro. She knows exactly what she’s doing: playing the dreamer for all he’s worth, soaking up attention and comfort without giving a damn in return. She treats him like a consolation prize, a warm body to fill the void while waiting for the “real” love to come back.
Their so-called “love story” is nothing more than a masterclass in emotional manipulation and self-absorption. They’re two lonely people caught in a circle of neediness and theatrical sadness, with zero chemistry and zero growth.
And yet, thanks to social media hype and BookTok’s obsession with manufactured emotional intensity, this tired, overwrought novella has been elevated to some kind of romantic ideal.
Here’s the truth: White Nights isn’t the soaring ode to love and loneliness it’s cracked up to be. It’s a theatrical farce dressed in the guise of a poignant tale, and if you want to read something genuinely moving, you’ll have to look elsewhere.
“And you regret that the momentary beauty faded so quickly, so irretrievably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain — you regret this because there was not time for you even to fall in love with her…”
In the end, White Nights is like watching a beautiful painting from a distance—there is technique and occasional tenderness, but the emotional pull never quite reaches me. It remains an important literary piece with meaningful themes, but for me, it was more an exercise in observation than immersion. I can appreciate its place in literature without sharing the hype that currently surrounds it.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
“It was a wonderful night, the kind of night which is only possible when we are young.”
I approached White Nights with curiosity and an open mind, aware of its reputation as a delicate, melancholic tale of youthful longing and the human need for connection. Yet, despite its many admirers and the recent surge in popularity—fueled largely by BookTok influencers and endless tea reels—I found myself frustrated, detached, and frankly unimpressed.
The young man is dreamy to a fault—too naïve, too desperate, and far too ethereal to feel like a real person. He “protests too much,” as if clinging to an ideal of love rather than experiencing it. Nastenka, on the other hand, isn’t just a fragile, weeping girl—she’s a calculated manipulator wrapped in a pretty sob story. Her tears aren’t signs of weakness but weapons aimed to entangle the dreamer in her self-centred drama. She knew exactly what she was doing all along: milking his desperation for attention and comfort, then dropping him without a second thought. No innocence here—just cold, strategic emotional theatre. Together, they form one of the most exasperating “couples” in literature—two lonely souls wrapped up in their own emotional whirlwinds but lacking genuine chemistry or empathy.
Yet, I can’t deny that Dostoevsky’s novella strips the human soul bare in its reflections on loneliness, silence, and the pain of unfulfilled dreams. His insights into how deeply we understand others’ unhappiness when we ourselves are hurt are thoughtful and timeless. But these moments are few and far between, scattered amid dialogue that often feels juvenile and melodramatic, and a narrative tone that rarely sustains a believable atmosphere.
It’s no secret that White Nights has recently become a darling of social media, especially BookTok, where emotional intensity is sometimes mistaken for literary depth. I am sceptical of the frenzy—and honestly, it feels more like romanticising a lost innocence than engaging with a fully realized story. Who am I to judge Dostoyevsky, or the legions of wannabe influencers who have likely never read another book but flood the internet with vapid tea reels? But my frustration stands: this novella didn’t move me in the way so many claim.
Let’s be real. These two characters? They don’t need to be adored; they need a reality check. The dreamer is a pathetic mess—clinging to an idea of love like a drowning man to driftwood. He’s more a ghost than a person, lost in his own desperate fantasy, incapable of genuine connection.
Nastenka? She’s a minx of the highest order—a self-serving drama queen who weaponises her tears and vulnerability like a pro. She knows exactly what she’s doing: playing the dreamer for all he’s worth, soaking up attention and comfort without giving a damn in return. She treats him like a consolation prize, a warm body to fill the void while waiting for the “real” love to come back.
Their so-called “love story” is nothing more than a masterclass in emotional manipulation and self-absorption. They’re two lonely people caught in a circle of neediness and theatrical sadness, with zero chemistry and zero growth.
And yet, thanks to social media hype and BookTok’s obsession with manufactured emotional intensity, this tired, overwrought novella has been elevated to some kind of romantic ideal.
Here’s the truth: White Nights isn’t the soaring ode to love and loneliness it’s cracked up to be. It’s a theatrical farce dressed in the guise of a poignant tale, and if you want to read something genuinely moving, you’ll have to look elsewhere.
“And you regret that the momentary beauty faded so quickly, so irretrievably, that it flashed before you so deceptively and in vain — you regret this because there was not time for you even to fall in love with her…”
In the end, White Nights is like watching a beautiful painting from a distance—there is technique and occasional tenderness, but the emotional pull never quite reaches me. It remains an important literary piece with meaningful themes, but for me, it was more an exercise in observation than immersion. I can appreciate its place in literature without sharing the hype that currently surrounds it.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
From Madagascar, Nubia, Egypt, Algeria, and beyond, this isn’t history wrapped in dry academia—it pulses with life, with setting, and with complexity.
The women portrayed here are not polished icons—they’re leaders. Some inspire awe, others provoke horror. I found myself deeply disturbed by the portrayal of the queen of Madagascar (Ranavalona I), whose reign was soaked in blood and torture, particularly in her persecution of Christians. Yet the narrative hesitates, offering lines like “whether she was right or wrong,” as if such barbarity lives in a grey zone. It doesn’t. And moral flexibility in the face of religious slaughter is something I find impossible to accept. You know, that moral flexibility that appears only when Christians are persecuted and slaughtered.
In contrast, Dahia al-Kahina, the Jewish queen of Algeria, stood out as a revelation. Her strength, intelligence, and resistance against Arab conquest stayed with me long after I finished the book. I could easily imagine her as the centre of a sweeping historical novel—and someone should definitely write it. It just shows how fierce Jewish women are when faced with the horror of Muslim barbarians.
Above all, I appreciated that Clark, for the most part, avoided the trend of turning these women into modern ideological symbols. She presents their triumphs, flaws, and legacies with elegance and restraint, allowing readers to think, react, and—importantly—judge.
A challenging, often powerful read that doesn’t always get it right—but never stops being compelling.
Many thanks to Pen & Sword History and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
From Madagascar, Nubia, Egypt, Algeria, and beyond, this isn’t history wrapped in dry academia—it pulses with life, with setting, and with complexity.
The women portrayed here are not polished icons—they’re leaders. Some inspire awe, others provoke horror. I found myself deeply disturbed by the portrayal of the queen of Madagascar (Ranavalona I), whose reign was soaked in blood and torture, particularly in her persecution of Christians. Yet the narrative hesitates, offering lines like “whether she was right or wrong,” as if such barbarity lives in a grey zone. It doesn’t. And moral flexibility in the face of religious slaughter is something I find impossible to accept. You know, that moral flexibility that appears only when Christians are persecuted and slaughtered.
In contrast, Dahia al-Kahina, the Jewish queen of Algeria, stood out as a revelation. Her strength, intelligence, and resistance against Arab conquest stayed with me long after I finished the book. I could easily imagine her as the centre of a sweeping historical novel—and someone should definitely write it. It just shows how fierce Jewish women are when faced with the horror of Muslim barbarians.
Above all, I appreciated that Clark, for the most part, avoided the trend of turning these women into modern ideological symbols. She presents their triumphs, flaws, and legacies with elegance and restraint, allowing readers to think, react, and—importantly—judge.
A challenging, often powerful read that doesn’t always get it right—but never stops being compelling.
Many thanks to Pen & Sword History and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
This book hit me right where I live—the relentless, gnawing anxiety I’ve carried since I was a child. Gary Zimak doesn’t just offer prayers; he reaches deep into those dark places of hopelessness, despair, weariness, and fear that feel all too familiar. What moved me most was how he weaves Scripture through every page, linking God’s Word directly to those raw emotions that can otherwise feel so overwhelming and lonely.
For years, anxiety has been a shadow I couldn’t shake. But lately, with the help of my Bible study and devotional books like this one, I’ve started to reclaim my peace. Lord, Save Me! became a powerful companion on that journey—not because it promises quick fixes, but because it meets you exactly where you are, even in the middle of the storm.
I will be honest: a few devotionals felt a little light on faith—maybe because they’re written for those whose faith is fragile or distant. That’s not my place. My faith is strong, growing every day. And for me, this book reinforced that strength, reminding me again and again that Jesus is real, present, and ready to carry me through when the weight feels too heavy.
If you’re struggling with fear or anxiety, whether your faith is shaky or solid, Lord, Save Me! offers prayers and reflections that feel like a hand reaching out—steady, warm, and unwavering. It’s not just a book; it’s a lifeline. For me, it’s a reminder that even in the darkest moments, I’m not alone, and that peace is waiting when I lean into Jesus with everything I have.
Many thanks to Ave Maria Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
This book hit me right where I live—the relentless, gnawing anxiety I’ve carried since I was a child. Gary Zimak doesn’t just offer prayers; he reaches deep into those dark places of hopelessness, despair, weariness, and fear that feel all too familiar. What moved me most was how he weaves Scripture through every page, linking God’s Word directly to those raw emotions that can otherwise feel so overwhelming and lonely.
For years, anxiety has been a shadow I couldn’t shake. But lately, with the help of my Bible study and devotional books like this one, I’ve started to reclaim my peace. Lord, Save Me! became a powerful companion on that journey—not because it promises quick fixes, but because it meets you exactly where you are, even in the middle of the storm.
I will be honest: a few devotionals felt a little light on faith—maybe because they’re written for those whose faith is fragile or distant. That’s not my place. My faith is strong, growing every day. And for me, this book reinforced that strength, reminding me again and again that Jesus is real, present, and ready to carry me through when the weight feels too heavy.
If you’re struggling with fear or anxiety, whether your faith is shaky or solid, Lord, Save Me! offers prayers and reflections that feel like a hand reaching out—steady, warm, and unwavering. It’s not just a book; it’s a lifeline. For me, it’s a reminder that even in the darkest moments, I’m not alone, and that peace is waiting when I lean into Jesus with everything I have.
Many thanks to Ave Maria Press and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
‘’The remnants of a pagan past combined with Catholic faith and political conflict have rendered Ireland a bewitching land for those who wish to be initiated to its mysteries, marvels, wonders and horrors.’’
There’s something quietly magnetic about the way Irish storytelling leans into the mist—how it welcomes the uncanny, the haunted, the half-seen. Uncanny Ireland, edited by Maria Giakaniki, is a rich and atmospheric collection that does just that, drawing together strange tales from across time and place. The book is divided into six evocative sections—Folktales and Folk Beliefs, Myths and Legends Reimagined, Some Rural Ghosts and Uncanny Sounds, Gothic Chills, Strange and Dangerous Women, and Modern Horrors—each offering a different lens into Ireland’s darker imaginings. I was especially proud, as a Greek reader, to see this volume edited by a fellow Greek woman. There’s a quiet affinity, I think, between Irish and Greek storytelling—both steeped in myth, shaped by sorrow, and fiercely rooted in land and lore, even if our shores are miles apart.
‘’Open and let me in,’’ she called to the warder. ‘’I claim the protection of this holy place.’’
The Evil Eye (Lady Jane Wilde): Snippets written in the language of the Irish people, narrating true stories of omens, customs, and beliefs.
The Unquiet Dead (Lady Augusta Gregory): True cases of spectral encounters and the connection between our world and the next.
The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows (William Butler Yeats): A tale of the sidhe, of loss and death set during the Irish Confederate Wars.
A Legend of Barlagh Cave (Fitz James O’Brien): Celtic mythology is strongly imbued in the Irish tales. This is a story of love and despair.
The Monks of Saint Bride (Herminie Templeton Kavanagh): One of the most atmospheric tales in the collection, this is the legend of a curse in the name of love, and uncanny sounds echoing in an old abbey.
The Drowned Fisherman (Anna Maria Hall): The tragic fate of a fisherman who drowns, but the mystery and sorrow surrounding his death unravel deeper secrets within the tight-knit community. Hall weaves themes of loss, superstition, and human frailty with a poignant sensitivity to the harsh realities of rural life.
A Scrap of Irish Folklore (Rosa Mulholland): Fairy men are better than real men, no doubt about it.
The Strange Voice (Dora Sigerson Shorter): A love that withstands death as a young woman is determined to follow her shadowy lover.
The Wee Gray Woman (Ethna Carbery): One of the most haunting, moving, tragic stories. A tale of a doomed love, condemned by a young man's reluctance to acknowledge his love for a mysterious girl.
Tale of the Piper (Donn Byrne’): A piper's tune that may echo the Devil’s music.
The Last of Squire Ennismore (Charlotte Riddell): A fascinating tale of a seaside spectre and unlucky vessels.
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh (Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu) : I can never connect to the stories of this writer. I just can't get the fascination with his stories which, for me, are the epitome of the sleeping pill.
“It is now the fall of the night. The last of the neighbours are hitting the road for home.”
The Watcher O’ The Dead (John Guinan):
A sad tale that makes use of the conviction that the last person to be buried must guard the graveyard and its souls.
The Sea's Dead (Katharine Tynan): My favourite story in the collection. The tale of a woman who may be a selkie and her undying love for her man.
Julia Cahill's Curse (George Moore): I am not sure what this story wanted to accomplish. Promiscuity is hardly the road to progress…Indifferent, idiotic.
The Return of Niav (Dorothy Macardle): An interesting take on the myth of the Changeling that briefly echoes the Children of Lir and a few of the most famous Irish myths.
The Back Drawing-Room (Elizabeth Bowen): A Christmas story in which one of the guests narrates an unsettling encounter in an abandoned estate.
The Raising of Elvira Tremlett (William Trevor): A boy finds solace in the company of a strange girl as domestic life becomes more and more difficult.
Encounter by Night (Mary Frances McHugh): A man who is trying to find shelter for the night stumbles upon a tragic event. Sad and shocking, set in Dublin.
A Ghost Story (Mary Beckett): A young married couple that seems unable to see eye to eye in practically everything is about to fall apart because of a haunted house and a TV.
Uncanny Ireland left me with a range of responses, which is something I value in a collection like this. A few stories stayed with me—The Sea’s Dead and The Wee Gray Woman in particular—while others felt forgettable or simply not for me. But that’s part of reading widely: letting yourself respond honestly, rather than expecting each piece to resonate in the same way. What I appreciated most was how rooted these stories are in place and memory—how they carry the weight of old beliefs, quiet heartbreaks, and things half-said. There’s something universal in that, even if the setting is deeply Irish. These stories may come from another time and place, but the feelings they stir—longing, fear, wonder—are instantly familiar. While Uncanny Ireland offers many moments of atmospheric richness and haunting storytelling, it didn’t consistently maintain that immersive quality for me throughout. A few stories truly stood out and lingered, but others felt less compelling or just didn’t resonate. By my usual standards, when I find myself wavering between 4 and 5 stars, it’s a clear sign to lean toward 4—honesty in ratings matters to me. This collection is well worth reading, especially for lovers of Irish folklore and uncanny tales, but it’s not without its uneven patches.
“The greys of the landscape deepened; the green - purple of the trees sunk into gulfs of black all around; a few poplars beyond the cabins stirred faintly in the sky, and the white-blossomed boughs of an alder-tree glimmering out of the deepest darkness down the vanished road, and suggested the hovering nearness, yet aloofness of a reserve of sympathetic and vigilant spirits.”
Many thanks to the British Library Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/
‘’The remnants of a pagan past combined with Catholic faith and political conflict have rendered Ireland a bewitching land for those who wish to be initiated to its mysteries, marvels, wonders and horrors.’’
There’s something quietly magnetic about the way Irish storytelling leans into the mist—how it welcomes the uncanny, the haunted, the half-seen. Uncanny Ireland, edited by Maria Giakaniki, is a rich and atmospheric collection that does just that, drawing together strange tales from across time and place. The book is divided into six evocative sections—Folktales and Folk Beliefs, Myths and Legends Reimagined, Some Rural Ghosts and Uncanny Sounds, Gothic Chills, Strange and Dangerous Women, and Modern Horrors—each offering a different lens into Ireland’s darker imaginings. I was especially proud, as a Greek reader, to see this volume edited by a fellow Greek woman. There’s a quiet affinity, I think, between Irish and Greek storytelling—both steeped in myth, shaped by sorrow, and fiercely rooted in land and lore, even if our shores are miles apart.
‘’Open and let me in,’’ she called to the warder. ‘’I claim the protection of this holy place.’’
The Evil Eye (Lady Jane Wilde): Snippets written in the language of the Irish people, narrating true stories of omens, customs, and beliefs.
The Unquiet Dead (Lady Augusta Gregory): True cases of spectral encounters and the connection between our world and the next.
The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows (William Butler Yeats): A tale of the sidhe, of loss and death set during the Irish Confederate Wars.
A Legend of Barlagh Cave (Fitz James O’Brien): Celtic mythology is strongly imbued in the Irish tales. This is a story of love and despair.
The Monks of Saint Bride (Herminie Templeton Kavanagh): One of the most atmospheric tales in the collection, this is the legend of a curse in the name of love, and uncanny sounds echoing in an old abbey.
The Drowned Fisherman (Anna Maria Hall): The tragic fate of a fisherman who drowns, but the mystery and sorrow surrounding his death unravel deeper secrets within the tight-knit community. Hall weaves themes of loss, superstition, and human frailty with a poignant sensitivity to the harsh realities of rural life.
A Scrap of Irish Folklore (Rosa Mulholland): Fairy men are better than real men, no doubt about it.
The Strange Voice (Dora Sigerson Shorter): A love that withstands death as a young woman is determined to follow her shadowy lover.
The Wee Gray Woman (Ethna Carbery): One of the most haunting, moving, tragic stories. A tale of a doomed love, condemned by a young man's reluctance to acknowledge his love for a mysterious girl.
Tale of the Piper (Donn Byrne’): A piper's tune that may echo the Devil’s music.
The Last of Squire Ennismore (Charlotte Riddell): A fascinating tale of a seaside spectre and unlucky vessels.
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh (Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu) : I can never connect to the stories of this writer. I just can't get the fascination with his stories which, for me, are the epitome of the sleeping pill.
“It is now the fall of the night. The last of the neighbours are hitting the road for home.”
The Watcher O’ The Dead (John Guinan):
A sad tale that makes use of the conviction that the last person to be buried must guard the graveyard and its souls.
The Sea's Dead (Katharine Tynan): My favourite story in the collection. The tale of a woman who may be a selkie and her undying love for her man.
Julia Cahill's Curse (George Moore): I am not sure what this story wanted to accomplish. Promiscuity is hardly the road to progress…Indifferent, idiotic.
The Return of Niav (Dorothy Macardle): An interesting take on the myth of the Changeling that briefly echoes the Children of Lir and a few of the most famous Irish myths.
The Back Drawing-Room (Elizabeth Bowen): A Christmas story in which one of the guests narrates an unsettling encounter in an abandoned estate.
The Raising of Elvira Tremlett (William Trevor): A boy finds solace in the company of a strange girl as domestic life becomes more and more difficult.
Encounter by Night (Mary Frances McHugh): A man who is trying to find shelter for the night stumbles upon a tragic event. Sad and shocking, set in Dublin.
A Ghost Story (Mary Beckett): A young married couple that seems unable to see eye to eye in practically everything is about to fall apart because of a haunted house and a TV.
Uncanny Ireland left me with a range of responses, which is something I value in a collection like this. A few stories stayed with me—The Sea’s Dead and The Wee Gray Woman in particular—while others felt forgettable or simply not for me. But that’s part of reading widely: letting yourself respond honestly, rather than expecting each piece to resonate in the same way. What I appreciated most was how rooted these stories are in place and memory—how they carry the weight of old beliefs, quiet heartbreaks, and things half-said. There’s something universal in that, even if the setting is deeply Irish. These stories may come from another time and place, but the feelings they stir—longing, fear, wonder—are instantly familiar. While Uncanny Ireland offers many moments of atmospheric richness and haunting storytelling, it didn’t consistently maintain that immersive quality for me throughout. A few stories truly stood out and lingered, but others felt less compelling or just didn’t resonate. By my usual standards, when I find myself wavering between 4 and 5 stars, it’s a clear sign to lean toward 4—honesty in ratings matters to me. This collection is well worth reading, especially for lovers of Irish folklore and uncanny tales, but it’s not without its uneven patches.
“The greys of the landscape deepened; the green - purple of the trees sunk into gulfs of black all around; a few poplars beyond the cabins stirred faintly in the sky, and the white-blossomed boughs of an alder-tree glimmering out of the deepest darkness down the vanished road, and suggested the hovering nearness, yet aloofness of a reserve of sympathetic and vigilant spirits.”
Many thanks to the British Library Publishing and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
My reviews can also be found on https://theopinionatedreaderblog.wordpress.com/