Strange Pictures is a twisting, quietly haunting novel that balances horror, mystery, and generational trauma in a way that feels both brisk and lingering—though perhaps not indelible. I admired how Uketsu captures a creeping sense of wrongness without relying on overt violence, instead letting unease accumulate through missing blog posts, childhood memories, and half-told truths.

The story’s fragmented structure—first Sasaki's fascination with the dormant "Oh No, Not Raku!" blog, then young Yuta’s unsettling home life, then the devastating truths hidden in Naomi’s past—creates a slow-burning dread that pays off when the narratives converge. Uketsu’s decision to reveal the monstrousness of love, the way violence can wear the mask of protection, felt especially resonant. Naomi is not a caricature of evil; she is a wounded woman who chooses to perpetuate harm in the name of care, a complexity that echoes across generations.

That said, while Strange Pictures held my attention easily, it left a surprisingly light impact after I closed the final page. There’s a dreamlike, almost vaporous quality to the story's movement—it drifts rather than lingers. The characters’ voices, though distinct enough in the moment, don’t fully anchor the book emotionally, which made the tragedy at its core slightly more intellectual than visceral for me. 

Strange Pictures is a novel that keeps you engaged while reading, but when the dust settles, it doesn’t quite stay with you as deeply as it could have. Even so, Uketsu’s ability to weave together mystery and emotion makes this a thought-provoking, if not entirely unforgettable, read.