Hunger, Faith, and Monstrous Women: My 2025 Reading Year
In 2025, I gravitated toward stories about starvation, cannibalism, witchcraft with consequences, religion as horror, and women who are allowed to be monstrous, morally compromised, or feral without apology.
A surprising number of these books grappled with faith, inheritance, and the costs of survival, whether that survival was physical, cultural, or emotional. Medieval sieges, colonial starvation, Victorian repression, and wartime resistance all became backdrops for the same question: what happens to people when systems fail, and desperation takes over?
Below is a detailed look at everything I read this year — what worked, what didn’t, and why these books stuck with me.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐Five-Star Reads
Victorian Psycho by Virginia Feito
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This short novel is a brutal, hilarious, fearless descent into madness, and I loved it completely. From the opening pages, Feito makes it clear that Winifred Notty is not a mystery to be solved but a force of destruction, and the book dares you to judge her.
Notty has never felt fear, not even as a child, despite an upbringing steeped in neglect and violence. She arrives at a Victorian mansion as a governess. She calmly informs the reader that everyone in the house will be dead within three months. The horror here isn’t just the violence (though there is plenty of that, including repeated and explicit child death), but the voice. Notty’s narration is obscene, funny, confrontational, and deeply unsettling. She breaks the fourth wall constantly, mocking Victorian morality, pseudoscience like phrenology, and the idea that evil can be categorized or measured.
The children are alarming — especially Drusilla, who mirrors Notty’s cruelty and detachment — and the adults are useless, self-absorbed, and blind. The final twist (yes, there is a twist) reframes the entire book without softening it, and the ending commits fully to annihilation rather than redemption. This is Gothic horror that is intentionally offensive, grotesque, and razor-sharp.
Five stars. No notes. Merry Christmas.
A Resistance of Witches by Morgan Ryan
This is my favorite book of 2025, and honestly, it’s better experienced than summarized. What I will say is that it passes my biggest test: if a book has “witch” in the title, the witchcraft actually matters.
The magic here is dark, powerful, and integral to the plot, not decorative. Set against the backdrop of World War II, the story grounds its supernatural elements in real historical Nazi tension, making the stakes feel urgent and terrifying. Lydia is a strong FMC — intelligent, loyal, and unafraid to call out bullshit — and her relationships with Rebecca and Henry are some of the most satisfying character dynamics I read all year.
What hit me hardest was the emotional core: grief, loyalty, resistance, and the quiet devastation of loss. Lydia’s mother’s storyline broke my heart, especially given my own recent loss, and even the villains were compelling to read about, despite never earning my sympathy. This book tore through my defenses and left me desperate for a sequel (fingers crossed).
⭐⭐⭐⭐ Four-Star Reads
One Dark Window by Rachel Gillig
This dark fantasy was nearly perfect for me. Elspeth Spindle is a refreshing FMC; she’s capable, flawed, and infected with forbidden magic that manifests as a voice in her head called Nightmare. Their dynamic is one of my favorites of the year: equal parts terrifying, funny, and emotionally charged, with strong Venom-esque energy.
The magic system, built around Providence Cards that each offer power at a terrible cost, is fascinating, and I loved that magic always takes something in return. The gothic atmosphere is thick, the political tension works, and the slow-burning romance never overshadows the plot. I did think some of the degenerative effects of magic could have been more varied, and the early Cinderella-style family setup felt unnecessary — but the ending? Dark, tragic, and perfect. I didn’t want to leave this world, and I have already picked up the sequel.
HELL: The Necromancer by Tom Lewis
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This was a fantastic read and genuinely scary AF from start to finish. At its heart are two sisters separated at birth, both developing terrifying psychic and necromantic abilities that intensify with trauma and age. As they experience loss, their powers grow stronger, culminating in cult involvement, family destruction, and emotional reckoning.
The dynamic between the sisters is the novel’s strongest element because it is authentic, complicated, and emotionally grounded. The scares are well placed, and the book surprised me with moments of tenderness. My main critique was the rushed handling of the biological mother reveal; that turning point deserved more weight and cultural depth. Still, the atmosphere is chilling, and more than one scene genuinely scared me. I’ll absolutely read more from this author.
The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones
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This was my first Stephen Graham Jones novel, and it was challenging in both structure and subject matter; however, it was ultimately rewarding. The book confronts historical violence, colonialism, and survival, with supernatural horror layered on top.
Good Stab, the Indigenous vampire, is the standout voice: imaginative, culturally grounded, and emotionally devastating. His perspective required adjustment, but once I settled into it, I was completely immersed. The priest’s chapters had moments of genuine terror (especially a mock crucifixion scene, which is burned into my brain). Still, they often felt repetitive, and the modern-day dissertation framing pulled me out of the story entirely.
The ending didn’t entirely work for me — particularly the priest’s final transformation into a large prairie dog creature — but the book’s richness and historical weight make it worth revisiting. Personally, I would have rather stayed in the dust and blood of the past with Good Stab than shared even two pages with the modern-day great-great-great (how many greats?) granddaughter.
Stay in the Light by A.M. Shine
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A rare sequel that improves on the original. The pacing is tighter, the action ramps up earlier, and the archaeological elements fascinated me. I would’ve loved more foreshadowing and more time spent on the history itself, but the atmosphere remained deeply unsettling throughout. Shine continues to prove he’s an exceptional horror writer, and I’m anxiously awaiting book three. I won’t say anything more, other than yes, you must read the first book, The Watchers, before diving into this one. Trust me, this is a series you do not want to miss, especially if you are fond of creepy fairies.
Withered Hill by David Barnett
This book surprised me and stayed with me long after I finished reading it. Sophie is deeply unlikeable in the real world — selfish, cruel, morally compromised — but the version of her trapped in Withered Hill is frightened, desperate, and yearning to be better.
The nonlinear structure builds mystery, and the village’s rituals, pagan festivals, and cryptic rules are deeply unsettling. The changeling twist reframes everything, forcing the reader to confront uncomfortable questions about punishment, guilt, and whether someone “deserves” their fate. A few coincidences stretched believability, but overall, this was layered, atmospheric folk horror done right.
To the Bone by Alena Bruzas
One of the most emotionally brutal books I’ve ever read and one of the most important. Set during the Jamestown “Starving Time,” this novel depicts hunger, ignorance, and colonial violence with devastating realism.
Ellis is naïve and complicit, and the book never excuses that, even as it portrays her suffering. Her forbidden love with another girl adds tenderness to an otherwise merciless story, and the cannibalism scenes are horrifying precisely because they are historically accurate (look it up, I was shocked). My only critique is that some events are told rather than shown; however, when the book anchors itself in scene, it becomes unforgettable. I won’t reread it, but I’ll never stop thinking about it.
The Butcher’s Daughter: The Hitherto Untold Story of Mrs. Lovett by Corinne Leigh Clark and David Demchuk
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I don’t usually enjoy spin-offs of classic tales, but The Butcher’s Daughter was a welcome exception. This epistolary reimagining of Mrs. Lovett’s life is gruesome, atmospheric, and unexpectedly tender, reframing one of fiction’s most infamous women as a product of relentless trauma rather than pure evil.
Told primarily through letters between a journalist and a mysterious woman who eventually reveals herself to be Mrs. Lovett, the novel unfolds like a Victorian true-crime thriller. Through Lovett’s correspondence, we trace a life marked by abandonment, exploitation, sexual violence, and brief, fragile moments of love — most notably in a brothel where she finds safety and a lover — before she stumbles into the infamous pie shop and meets Sweeney Todd. The book argues persuasively that Lovett is capable of care, devotion, and even tenderness… until survival and bitterness consume her.
The ending delivers a satisfying gut-punch, allowing Lovett to escape justice and reunite with her son, with a deliciously dark implication linking him to Jack the Ripper. That said, the novel isn’t without flaws. Several plot threads feel unnecessary or underdeveloped: her mother vanishes from the story entirely, the detour to the convent feels tonally odd, and a brief marriage subplot disrupts the pacing. Lovett’s moral descent also wobbles at times, shifting abruptly between sympathy and cruelty rather than committing fully to her unraveling.
Despite these issues, the book is deeply atmospheric, soaked in London gloom, and elevated by its epistolary format and morally gray focus. With vivid characters, macabre tension, and a subtle thread of lesbian chemistry, The Butcher’s Daughter is a compelling read for anyone drawn to gothic horror, traumatic origin stories, and women who refuse to be easily redeemed.
⭐⭐⭐ Three-Star Reads
The Lamb by Lucy Rose
This book is relentlessly disgusting from the first sentence to the last, and I mean that as a compliment. Packed with cannibalism and despair, The Lamb never softens its gore, and every time I thought it couldn’t get more disturbing, the next chapter proved me wrong (yes, including a recipe for roasted human thigh). The horror isn’t just in the violence, though; it’s in the suffocating mother-daughter dynamic and the emotional bleakness that hangs over every scene. Margot, her mother with the smeared red lipstick, Eden with her snake-like behavior and tempting beauty, and even the bus driver all felt visceral and real.
That said, the book overstays its welcome. The extremely short chapters felt unnecessary, and the middle became repetitive, especially the constant burying and unburying of remains, which added little beyond frustration because there was no payoff. Several subplots went nowhere: the mother’s lover, his grieving daughter, and even Eden herself needed more development to justify their roles in the story.
The ending is shocking but not entirely surprising, and I’m still conflicted about it. The sudden shift into the paranormal — after a story grounded entirely in human cruelty — felt tonally abrupt, though I did appreciate Margot ultimately getting her revenge. Beneath the gore, the novel is rich with themes: motherhood, bodily autonomy, untreated postpartum depression, and suppressed queer desire. There’s a lot here to unpack and discuss, even if not all of it lands cleanly.
The Starving Saints by Caitlin Starling
Medieval horror is my favorite subgenre, and The Starving Saints hit many of the right notes. The setting and religious horror create a suffocating, oppressive atmosphere that remains effective throughout, and when this book leans into horror (especially gore and villainy), it truly shines. The statue-like saint figures are genuinely terrifying, and one scene in particular has stayed with me: the saints convince a starving, besieged kingdom that they’re feasting, only for it to be revealed that they’ve been unknowingly eating each other. Cannibalism appears even before the saints arrive, reinforcing the idea that desperation itself is the real monster.
Where the book falters lies in repetition and restraint. Because the kingdom is under siege, the characters remain largely confined to the castle, revisiting the same towers, corridors, and secret passageways until the setting begins to feel stale. Several characters — especially the men — are underdeveloped, which undercuts moments meant to land with emotional weight. The much-teased “sapphic” elements are also overstated; any attraction between women is fleeting and rarely explored in a meaningful way. While I don’t need spice in medieval horror, I did want more intentional tension or development.
The ending leaves too much unresolved: the origins of the saint figures, the source of Phosyne’s power, and Ser Voyne’s return from death all remain mysteries, and some character choices strained believability. Still, the core concept — a besieged kingdom where time warps, faith curdles into horror, and cannibalism and magic intertwine — is strong enough to keep this book on my shelf. All the ingredients are here; it just needed a bit more seasoning, particularly in character depth and setting variety.
The Bewitching by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
The Bewitching was a delightful, easy read, and once again, Silvia Moreno-Garcia proves her skill at creating immersive, vividly realized settings. This is my second book by her, and her ability to transport readers across time and place remains her greatest strength.
The novel unfolds across three timelines — early 1900s Mexico, the 1930s, and the late 1990s — and while all three are easy to follow, the older timelines were far more compelling. The 1900s storyline, in particular, was my favorite. Alba, a young Mexican girl living on a struggling farm, becomes entangled in witchcraft, family betrayal, and forbidden desire when her uncle Arturo arrives. This section stands out through its use of Mexican folklore, particularly the inclusion of teyololani (heart-eater witches) and nahuales (shapeshifters), and through the eerie revelation that Alba’s missing brother returns as something monstrous. Arturo’s role as a warlock behind the family’s misfortune made this timeline dark, intimate, and genuinely unsettling.
The later timelines were more uneven. The 1930s college storyline, centered on a mysterious disappearance and a cruel, predatory witch, felt underdeveloped and could have been significantly trimmed to strengthen its impact. The 1998 thread, following Alba’s granddaughter Minerva as she researches witchcraft for her thesis, had an intriguing dark-academia angle, but spent surprisingly little time with the novel at the center of her research, making the revelations feel predictable rather than revelatory.
While some characters — especially Alba’s mother, brother, and the 1930s witch — could have been more fully developed, the novel succeeds in its atmosphere and sense of connection across generations. Alba remains the strongest and most memorable character.
Hungerstone by Kat Dunn
Hungerstone is a moody, sensual retelling of Carmilla that leans heavily into gothic atmosphere. Set in an isolated, decaying estate, the novel follows a young woman who is drawn into an intimate and unsettling relationship with a mysterious female stranger, whose presence brings both desire and danger. The story is steeped in repression, secrecy, and slow-building unease, capturing the emotional claustrophobia that defines classic gothic fiction.
I loved the tone and setting, particularly the hushed corridors, the sense of isolation, and the constant undercurrent of hunger and longing (although it could have used more yearning). The prose is lush and evocative, and the novel clearly understands the seductive menace at the heart of Carmilla. However, while the book gestures toward eroticism and emotional intensity, it ultimately felt too restrained for my taste. The sensual elements never fully ignited, and the emotional stakes remained just out of reach.
Overall, Hungerstone is atmospheric and beautifully written, but I wanted it to push further. It needed to go deeper into desire, danger, and transgression rather than holding back when it mattered most.
Phantasma by Kaylie Smith
Phantasma hooked me immediately with its premise: a haunted mansion that roams from city to city, packed with demonic trials, ghouls, vampires, poltergeists, and ghosts — very Something Wicked This Way Comes in spirit. While I’m still warming up to dark fantasy and romantasy as genres, this book leaned far more toward the latter, offering gothic aesthetics and sensuality rather than genuine horror. Hardcore horror readers seeking genuine scares should look elsewhere.
The setting was easily the strongest element. The mansion itself is draped in red and black velvet, riddled with secret passageways and impossible doors; it was a deliciously atmospheric setting. I was also intrigued by the lore surrounding the King of Devils and the supernatural figures trapped inside. The worldbuilding was enjoyable, if somewhat surface-level, and yes, the first smut scene absolutely delivered.
Where the book faltered was in character and tension. The cast felt underdeveloped, making it hard to care when bad things happened. The trials (which echoed the Hunger Games), though clever in concept, lacked stakes and often resolved too quickly, with major events happening off-page. Ophelia, in particular, disappointed me: for a lifelong necromancer, she felt oddly helpless, and some of her abilities appeared far too conveniently when the plot needed them. The ending was predictable and matched the low-stakes feel of the trials.
In the end, Phantasma was an enjoyable palate cleanser — fun, unserious, and easy to read. If you’re in the mood for something gothic and sexy and don’t mind shallow characterization or convenient twists, it’s worth a look. I’m curious enough about the mansion’s inhabitants to eventually continue the series, but I’m in no rush to return.
The Possession of Alba Díaz by Isabel Cañas
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The Possession of Alba Díaz resonated with me on a personal level, especially as a Mexican woman. The turbulent family dynamics, the sense of obligation, and the pressure to endure situations where love and appreciation are absent all felt painfully familiar. The interrelationships between Alba, her fiancé Carlos, his family, and his cousin Elías were one of the novel’s greatest strengths. The bickering cousins, the cruel uncle and grandfather, and the simmering resentments rang true and were sharply drawn, even when those characters appeared only briefly.
A central theme is Alba’s fight for autonomy over her body and future. Her planned marriage to Carlos — a gay man and longtime friend — offers her an escape from sexual obligation and forced motherhood, while also saving her family from financial ruin. This theme dovetails nicely with the possession plot, as Alba battles a demon for control of her body and spirit. However, the repetition of this message occasionally felt heavy-handed, with Alba repeatedly asserting her refusal to be controlled even as the narrative circled the same point.
Elías emerges as the novel’s true anti-hero: initially self-serving and eager to escape his family, but gradually transformed by his desire to protect Alba. While his emotional arc worked for me, the book underutilizes his role as an alchemist. Given how crucial his abilities are to the ending, I wanted to see far more of his craft on the page. Similarly, the silver mine — so central to the story’s mythology — never felt fully explored, and the possession scenes themselves were surprisingly restrained and familiar rather than frightening.
I appreciated the twist that Alba was abandoned as a baby in the mine and marked by the demon from birth, but the novel ultimately felt more ambitious than its execution. The ending was too neat for my taste, as it left key events summarized rather than shown and raised unanswered questions about several characters’ fates. Still, the prose is beautiful, the atmosphere is strong, and the depiction of family tension is deeply compelling. I just wish the book had committed more fully to darker horror, deeper lore, and a bleaker conclusion.
Powerless Trilogy by Lauren Roberts
Powerless was my first foray into YA fantasy, and at first, it worked. The story was exciting and romantic without being drowned in smut, and I was immediately drawn in by the strong FMC, the Hunger Games–style trials, and the immersive worldbuilding. The competition, the enemies-to-lovers tension, and the escapism all did their job — I finished the first book eager to stay in the world longer.
Unfortunately, the cracks showed quickly. Major plot points hinge on shaky logic, especially Pae’s fixation on the killer’s “unforgettable eyes,” which ultimately leads to a reveal that feels unearned and undermines her certainty. The trials themselves were also underwhelming beyond hunger, thirst, and an overreliance on snakes; the challenges lacked the creativity the worldbuilding promised. Most frustratingly, Adena’s death — clearly meant to be emotionally devastating — felt rushed and underdeveloped.
I hoped the novella, Powerful, would address these gaps, particularly why Adena was chosen as a sacrifice. Instead, it offered no meaningful answers. Much of the book is spent on a flat side plot involving Mak, whose infiltration mission goes nowhere, and tension is repeatedly undercut by odd narrative choices. The novella felt like an afterthought rather than a necessary expansion, reinforcing the sense that Adena’s role was never fully thought through.
Reckless improved the worldbuilding — new cities, history, the Resistance, journal entries, and the illegal fighting ring were all highlights — but the plot stalled. The romance dominated the page count while other important characters vanished without explanation. Mak disappeared entirely, the Resistance’s fate was ignored, and several character decisions (especially involving Kitt) felt rushed and illogical. The repeated “I hate you/ I want you” dynamic wore thin, and the story ended with more unanswered questions than momentum.
By the end of Reckless, the plot hadn’t progressed enough to justify continuing. While the series has strong ideas, compelling characters, and flashes of genuinely good writing, too many threads are introduced only to be dropped, and too much relies on emotional beats that aren’t properly earned. I ultimately stopped here — the world was interesting, but the story fell apart before it could deliver on its promise.
The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories
This collection is a wide-ranging and uneven, yet often fascinating, compilation that captures the full spectrum of nineteenth-century supernatural fiction. While not every story is explicitly set at Christmas, the anthology succeeds in recreating the Victorian tradition of seasonal ghost storytelling, where atmosphere, memory, and moral reckoning take precedence over the calendar itself.
The collection includes genuine standouts as well as several entries that felt tedious. Stories like Elizabeth Gaskell’s “The Old Nurse’s Story” and Margaret Oliphant’s “The Lady’s Walk” are emotionally rich and quietly unsettling, though occasionally weighed down by repetition and dense prose. Others — particularly the rational, debunked “ghost” tales such as “Old Hooker’s Ghost,” “Jack Layford’s Friend,” and “How Peter Parley Laid a Ghost” — were difficult to stay engaged with and lacked the tension I look for in supernatural fiction.
My absolute favorite was Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Captain of the ‘Pole-Star’,” a haunting, atmospheric story set aboard an Arctic ship trapped in the ice. Its isolation, credible narrators, and refusal to explain away the supernatural made it genuinely chilling and unforgettable. I also really enjoyed “The Doll’s Ghost” by F. Marion Crawford, a short, creepy yet heartfelt and emotionally effective story that didn’t overstay its welcome.
Overall, this collection is best appreciated as a historical survey rather than a consistently thrilling read. When it works, it works beautifully; when it doesn’t, it reveals just how broad (and sometimes dull) the Victorian definition of a “ghost story” could be. Still, for readers interested in the evolution of supernatural fiction, this anthology is well worth exploring.
Final Thoughts
This year reaffirmed what I love most in fiction: atmosphere over answers, horror rooted in history, and women who are allowed to be monstrous. I want witchcraft that costs something, gothic stories that smell like rot and incense, and horror that refuses redemption.
If it involved cannibalism, faith, folklore, or morally gray women, chances are I either loved it — or couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Here’s to more hunger, more witchcraft, and absolutely no mercy next year. What did you read last year that scared you?
For full reviews of these books, look for Scare Me Sam! wherever you listen to Podcasts.
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