This has to be my favourite Kingfisher book I’ve read so far. It was the kind of creepy that had tingles up my spine the whole way through, left me scared to look out my window at night, and jumping at any sound that sounded like the tapping of glass. Kingfisher writes hysteria in such a brilliant way where you think the narrator is keeping their cool, and then all of a sudden you realize that we’re actually in full blown panic and we have been for a while, you just didn’t notice until now. It’s this very gradual, subtle shift from fine, to uneasy, to on edge, and then finally over that edge. It was just as brilliant in The House with Good Bones and The Hollow Places, but this one takes the cake for me. It’s my perfect kind of horror; creepy woods and the weird shit that lives in them is my jam (I threw in that semicolon just for Mouse