“This is insane, she thought.
But wasn't it fun, too? Wasn't it also the most thrilling thing she'd ever seen?”

At no time during reading this was I comfortable. Wherever I’d put my feet, I felt as if someone would tap my shoe with theirs, even though I was alone. When I’d put my hand on the armrest of my chair, I’d imagine someone who wasn’t there grabbing it. There were times where I’d hold the book further away from my face, as if it would help prepare me for whatever was at the end of a particularly creeping scene. A lot of the book’s energy encapsulated what it feels like to swim where you can’t see the bottom. Malerman’s perfect marriage of claustrophobia, thalassaphobia, and obsession powered this novella into overdrive.

But the end felt like sprinting through the woods at night and feeling like you’re never going to get out of them until all of a sudden you’re in a field and when you turn around there were never trees. Sometimes, over-styled terror without staying power or substance can feel snobbish, even if the terror was done well.

3.5/5 I need to create a Goodreads shelf that’s labeled “Surprise Horny” and this would be at the top.