Moonsorrow

I’ll admit, I went into *Moonsorrow* expecting another atmospheric but forgettable gothic horror novel. What I got instead was a story that *bit back*. Pagan’s writing has this uncanny ability to make the supernatural feel like a physical illness—something crawling under Emmy’s skin, something that’s been there all along. The audiobook’s strength lies in how Shane Martinez *embodies* that sickness. His narration isn’t performative in the traditional sense; it’s more like listening to a confession from someone who’s already half-lost to the thing they’re describing. His pacing is deliberate, almost sluggish in the early chapters, which I initially found frustrating—until I realized it was intentional, mirroring Emmy’s own resistance to the inevitable. By the time the story’s claws sink in, you’re as trapped as she is. That said, this isn’t a perfect listen. The middle act drags in places, with repetitive internal monologues that could’ve been tightened. And while Martinez’s voice is hypnotic, his delivery sometimes flattens the secondary characters, making them harder to distinguish in dialogue-heavy scenes. But these are minor quibbles in an otherwise gripping experience. The real triumph is how the audiobook *sounds* like a curse—something you can’t shake, something that lingers in the quiet after you’ve paused it. If you love gothic horror that’s more psychological excavation than ghost story, or if you’re tired of narrators who over-embroider the dread, *Moonsorrow* is a standout. Just don’t listen to it alone at night. Or do. Maybe that’s the point.