I went into The Ravine expecting something sharper—something that leaned harder into the horror it so clearly flirts with. Instead, what I found was a slow-burning psychological suspense novel that hovers right at the edge of darkness without ever quite plunging in.
The premise is unsettling: a misty, wooded island; a husband
returning to his childhood home; a luminous tradwife influencer neighbor who
feels just slightly too polished to be real; and a ravine that may, or may not,
hold evidence of something unspeakable. On paper, this had all the ingredients
for full-bodied horror. In execution, it reads more horror-adjacent than
outright terrifying.
Harlow is a compelling narrator in her fragility. Her longing for pregnancy, her desire to cement her place in her marriage, and her creeping sense that something is wrong create a steady undercurrent of unease. The tension builds in whispers rather than screams. There are rumors of missing girls, hints of ritual, and the unsettling feeling that isolation is tightening its grip—but the story resists going fully feral.
If there’s a category forming around “cozy horror,” The
Ravine may sit comfortably there. The dread is muted, atmospheric rather
than visceral. It’s a slow burn in the truest sense—patient, deliberate, and
more interested in psychological disorientation than outright shock.
Maia Chance’s writing style is smooth and immersive. She
captures settings well; the island feels damp and claustrophobic, the woods
heavy with implication. The domestic tension is drawn with care, and the subtle
unraveling of Harlow’s certainty is handled skillfully.
Where the novel lost some momentum for me was in its ending.
After such a careful build, the resolution feels tonally off—less bite than the
setup seemed to promise. I kept waiting for a sharper twist, something with
teeth. Instead, the conclusion softens rather than strikes.
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