3.5 ⭐️

Listen, I love a good horror novel as much as I love a late-night Taco Bell run (thrilling AND regrettable). This book, McNeil’s first stab (pun intended) at adult horror, promised a feminist eco-creeper with Midsommar vibes, and I was here for it. Did it deliver? Well, mostly. It’s like ordering a deluxe burrito and getting a solid taco instead. It’s still tasty, but you’re left wanting that extra guac. Let’s unpack this forest of frights with some campfire storytelling. 

Our girl Jen Monroe is a woman with more baggage than a cross-country Greyhound bus. Seven years ago, she fled her small town of Barrow, Washington, after her forest ranger dad vanished into the woods, leaving behind a legacy of tree-hugging passion and a town full of logging goons who probably sharpen their axes with glee. When Jen gets a text from her estranged mom saying Dad’s remains have been found, she’s like, “Nah, my dude’s still out there, probably braiding ferns or frolicking in a meadow like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.” So, she hauls back to Barrow, determined to prove he’s alive. Cue her ex-boyfriends (because of course) suggesting a camping trip into the creepy woods to “honor” her dad. Spoiler: the forest is not serving up warm fuzzies. It’s got secrets darker than my sense of humor after three espressos, and Jen’s about to stumble into a nightmare that makes The Blair Witch Project look like a cozy picnic.

McNeil knows how to set a scene, and boy, does she lean into the Pacific Northwest’s misty, mossy menace. The woods are practically a character but “friendly oak” and more “that tree’s definitely whispering my Social Security number.” Her prose paints a vivid picture of gnarled branches and eerie silences. McNeil’s got a knack for building dread, layering it like a cursed lasagna until you’re sure something’s gonna jump out at you. 

Jen herself is a solid protagonist. She’s scrappy, stubborn, and just relatable enough to root for (eventually). By the end, she’s got this mix of grit and grief that feels real, like the friend who’d sob over a missing puppy but also yeet a bear into next week if it got sassy. But, oh boy, Jen is NOT likable at the start. This woman kicks off the book as a hot mess, and not the fun kind. She’s having an affair with her married boss, an older guy who’s got the emotional range of a teaspoon with his, “lol, sorry can you send me your notes” in response to Jen when she learns her dad—missing for a decade in a national forest—is dead. Like, sir, your timing is worse than a rom-com misunderstanding. Jen’s delusion that this sleaze will pick her over his wife is peak “girl, get a grip,” and it makes her hard to root for early on. Thankfully, she grows on you like a stubborn lichen, her pain and tenacity smoothing out the rough edges.

The supporting cast, however, is where things get wobbly. Some characters feel like they wandered in from a B-movie, spouting lines that made me snort—like, “We’re fine, it’s just the woods!” Uh, buddy, have you seen a horror movie? The woods are never “just” anything. 

The horror itself is a mixed bag of treats and tricks. McNeil weaves in folklore and eco-horror elements that give the story a fresh twist, like a haunted compost pile with feminist flair. But while the buildup is chef’s-kiss spooky, the climax feels like it tripped over a root. Without spoiling, let’s just say the big reveal is less “mind-blown” and more “huh, okay, I guess.” It’s not a total letdown, but I wanted a gut-punch that left me gasping, not a shrug that left me checking how much time I had left in my Kindle. 

It’s a rollercoaster that thrills but doesn’t quite stick the landing. The pacing drags in the middle, like a hike where you’re stuck behind someone who stops to photograph every mushroom, and some plot threads dangle like cobwebs you’re too short to dust.

McNeil’s horror pedigree shines through, though. She’s clearly having a blast branching out into adult territory. The feminist undertones are subtle but sharp, poking at patriarchy and environmental greed. It’s like she’s saying, “Hey, maybe don’t mess with Mother Nature or women who’ve had enough.” I respect the hustle.

In the end, They Fear Not Men in the Woods is a creepy, atmospheric read that’s perfect for a stormy night when you want to feel like the forest is watching you (unless you live in Appalachia, then you know it already is). It’s got enough chills to make you double-check your locks, but it doesn’t quite reach the pantheon of horror greats. If you’re into Midsommar folk-horror weirdness or just want a quick, spooky escape, this’ll do the trick. Now, I’m off to burn some sage and apologize to my Monstera for side-eyeing them while reading.

TL/DR: it’s a fun, feminist fright-fest that’s more eerie campfire tale than nightmare fuel. Just lower your expectations for the ending.