Spoilt Creatures

I’ll admit, I went into *Spoilt Creatures* expecting another *The Secret History* knockoff—moody, pretentious, all style over substance. Instead, I got a story that’s far messier, far more *human*. Twigg’s Iris is a protagonist who makes terrible decisions not because she’s stupid, but because she’s starving for something—anything—to make her feel alive. The cult-adjacent plot (and I use “cult” loosely; this isn’t some grand, ritualistic scheme, just a group of damaged people clinging to each other) unfolds with a creepy plausibility. There’s no grand villain, just the quiet horror of realizing you’ve handed over your agency piece by piece. Sarah Lambie’s performance is stellar, though I’ll say her pacing in the first hour feels *just* a hair too deliberate—like she’s holding back when the text wants to snap. But once the story tightens its grip, she’s flawless, especially in the scenes where Iris’s internal monologue spirals into self-loathing or euphoric delusion. The production is clean, with no distracting edits, though I wished for a touch more atmospheric sound design in the more surreal moments (a faint hum, a distant voice—something to underscore the unreality Iris slips into). What lingers isn’t the plot’s twists (there are a few, but they’re not the point) but the way Twigg nails the specific ache of being a woman who’s both too much and not enough. If you’ve ever resented how neatly female rage is usually packaged for consumption, this audiobook will feel like a gut punch in the best way.