Maeve Fly

I’ll admit, I hesitated before hitting play on *Maeve Fly*. ‘Feminist revenge horror’ can so easily tip into exploitation or preachy allegory, but Leede walks that razor’s edge with unsettling precision. The story follows Maeve, a former child star turned recluse, as she methodically dismantles the men connected to her trauma—only to reveal layers of complicity and corruption that make her quest feel less like catharsis and more like a descent into something older, darker. The horror here isn’t just in the violence (though the body horror scenes are *brutal*—one involving a certain household tool had me wincing for days) but in how Leede implicates the reader. You’re never quite sure if you’re rooting for Maeve or being seduced by her madness. Sosie Bacon’s narration is a masterclass in restraint. She doesn’t overplay Maeve’s rage; instead, she lets it simmer in the pauses, the swallowed breaths, the way her voice drops to a whisper during the most grotesque moments. The audio production is minimalist but effective—no distracting sound effects, just the occasional echo or hush that makes you feel like you’re listening to a confession in a hollowed-out church. My only critique? The pacing stumbles slightly in the middle, where Leede’s mythic asides (think: riffs on selkies and witches) occasionally pull focus from the main plot. And while the ending lands with a gut-punch, it’s so bleak that some listeners might feel cheated out of a ‘satisfying’ resolution. But that’s the point, isn’t it? *Maeve Fly* isn’t here to comfort you. It’s here to haunt you—and it succeeds, spectacularly.