The first half of this is a solidly average horror novel. I don't quite call it Gothic romance, as to my mind that's "horror plus romance" but the romance here is entirely one-sided, and all on the side of the obsessed narrator. I almost wish it were Gothic romance, because it would be the first of its kind that I've read, I think, where the narrator/protagonist was a man. 

Unfortunately, he was a very stupid man, and the total collapse of the second half of the book was entirely down to him. An academic at Oxford, he becomes so enamored with a married woman who is - apparently - periodically and violently possessed by the ghost of a dead actress, that he covers up her killings and intends to take the blame for them. That makes him partly responsible for her actions in my book, and he's so weakly, morally bankrupt, and so miserably useless at any rational action - every time he has a choice, he makes the wrong one - that I was hoping to see him hanged, just to be shot of him. Alas. There's an abrupt and dreadful ending, as the central metaphor is pushed to breaking (burning) point, and gormless Harry gets off scot free. 

Unless the ghost gets him. We can only hope.