“‘The walls speak to me. They tell me secrets. Don’t listen to them, press your hands against your ears, Noemí. There are ghosts. They’re real. You’ll see them eventually.’

This house, she was sure, was haunted. She wasn’t one for believing in things that go bump in the night either, but right that second she firmly felt every spook and demon and evil thing might be crawling about the earth, like in Catalina's stories.”

I'm envious of Silvia Moreno-Garcia as much as I am awed by how it seems she so simply (though I'm sure it's not simple at all, just an exemplary showing of her understanding of how to craft a good horror) scared me senseless. Ever so slowly she wraps a rope loosely around you, pulling you closer while simultaneously tugging the binds tighter until you realize that the monstrosities that had been hinted at are right there in front of you. By that time it's impossible to look away. It's an incredible feat.

To summarize: Noemí is called upon by her father to travel to her cousin, Catalina, lives after they receive an off-color letter. Catalina seems to be in distress or at the very least not herself and Noemí is to find out why that is and take her back home to Mexico City if necessary. In the quaint old mining town, Catalina resides with her husband's extended family, the Doyles, on a large estate complete with sprawling grounds, a graveyard full of deceased mineworkers, and an oversize dusty manor. Right away Noemí sees that Catalina is sickly, with tuberculosis says the woman of the house, the niece of the aging patriarch Howard Doyle. Noemí is also quick to notice how cagey each of the Doyles is as they keep her apart from Catalina, insisting she let her cousin rest and imposing a litany of rules she guesses must have something to do with their stuffy English upbringing. Left on her own, Noemí spends ample time with the youngest Doyle, Francis, who accompanies her to and from the nearby town and is kind and open to her when the rest of the family is not. Soon enough Noemí will see for herself what darkness lies at the heart of their secrets in that wretched godforsaken house.

I'm not overly familiar with Victorian-era novels, and this one isn't quite that either, taking place smack in the middle of the 20th century, but the ominous tone and the over-the-top formality of the cast all seem to point farther backward in time. Read this book knowing that whatever you think is going to happen, whatever languid plot you think you've stumbled onto–it's wrong. Read this book to be creeped the hell out.