Blindfold

I went into *Blindfold* expecting a straightforward YA thriller, but Diane Hoh delivered something far more unsettling: a story that feels like a half-remembered nightmare. Maggie’s gradual loss of sight isn’t just a plot device—it’s a visceral metaphor for how trauma distorts reality, and Hoh leans into that ambiguity with eerie precision. Cris Dukehart’s narration deserves serious praise; her voicing of the town’s eerie “friend” is chillingly off-kilter, like hearing a child’s voice coming from an adult’s mouth. That said, the plot stumbles slightly in the final act when the mystery’s resolution relies a bit too heavily on convenient backstory. The production itself is flawless, with Dukehart’s delivery so immersive that I found myself reaching for a light after just 30 minutes. That’s the magic of *Blindfold*: it’s not just a story about being trapped in a building, but about the emotional cages we build for ourselves. The audiobook’s strengths lie in its atmosphere—Hoh doesn’t need jump scares when she can make the quiet feel like a threat. Dukehart’s performance ensures every creak of the courthouse’s floorboards feels personal, like the house itself is watching you. My only real critique? The ending wraps up a tad too neatly, as if Hoh wanted to leave room for a sequel but couldn’t commit to the ambiguity. Still, this is a rare horror audiobook that lingers longer than the credits, and I’m still hearing Maggie’s voice in my head days later.