Broken Monsters

I’ll admit, *Broken Monsters* frustrated me at first. Beukes drops you into a Detroit that’s equal parts hyper-real and hallucinatory, and the opening chapters feel deliberately disjointed—like tuning into a radio station mid-broadcast. But that’s the point. The story unfolds through fragmented perspectives: a jaded detective, a washed-up journalist, a teenage girl navigating grief, and a monster who might not be metaphorical. Frallonardo’s narration sells this chaos. She doesn’t just read; she *inhabits* each character, from Versado’s exhausted cynicism to the eerie, almost childlike cadence of the novel’s more otherworldly voices. Her pacing is deliberate, letting the surreal elements seep in rather than bludgeoning you with them. The real standout? How Beukes weaves social commentary into the horror. Detroit’s bankruptcy and gentrification aren’t just backdrop—they’re part of the terror. The city’s hollowed-out buildings and abandoned lots become a playground for something ancient and hungry. That said, the supernatural thread *does* feel undercooked at times. The rules of the ‘monster’ are vague even by cosmic horror standards, and the ending leans more on mood than payoff. But if you’re here for an audiobook that lingers like a bad dream—where the narration makes even a trip to the morgue feel uncanny—this delivers. Just don’t expect neat answers. Expect unease, in stereo.