First off, let me just say: how Diavola landed on so many “Best Horror Novels of 2024” lists is as mystifying as the “locked tower” trope Jennifer Thorne seems to think is groundbreaking. This book is less about being scared out of your wits and more about wondering why nobody in Anna Pace’s family has been arrested for crimes against humanity (or at least sibling decency). But I digress—let’s unpack this haunted suitcase of disappointment.

The novel kicks off with Anna Pace, the designated black sheep of the Pace family, heads to a “charming” Italian villa for a family vacation. While this characterization initially seems designed to elicit sympathy, her own flaws—namely her tendency toward self-absorption and passive-aggressiveness—contribute just as much to her isolation. The novel presents a character whose outsider status is as much self-inflicted (I found her and her internal dialogue entirely insufferable) as it is imposed by her family, creating a complex dynamic that is ripe for exploration but often frustrating to witness. Now, when you think “Italian villa,” you imagine sun-drenched afternoons and wine-soaked evenings, not ghost-infested towers and passive-aggressive sibling warfare. But Thorne doubles down on making this the least appealing getaway imaginable.

Anna’s family dynamic is a train wreck: there’s Benny, her twin brother, who’s brought along his smug boyfriend Christopher (think human embodiment of a bad Yelp review-complete asswipe); Nicole, the older sister whose personality is 90% disdain; and their parents, who seem to alternate between cluelessness and outright hostility. Anna, naturally, gets blamed for everything, from childhood pet deaths to marital infidelity. If resentment were a sport, the Paces would have a trophy case full of gold medals.

From the moment they arrive at Villa Taccola, the vibes are off. The locals are cagey, the villa is teeming with inexplicable drafts, and Anna starts seeing some real weird shit. Doors slam, whispers echo, and there’s a locked tower everyone’s told to avoid (which, of course, means someone’s going to unlock it because horror plots gotta horror plot).

What should be terrifying is undercut by the fact that Anna’s family’s dysfunction is far scarier than any ghost. The supernatural elements feel like an afterthought compared to the real horror: sitting through dinner with this crew. Christopher’s rudeness, Nicole’s sniping, and the parents’ apathy make you wonder if Thorne was trying to write a horror novel or an exposé on generational trauma.

Credit where it’s due: Thorne knows how to set a scene. The descriptions of Villa Taccola are lush, teeming with unease. The tower looms ominously; the villa’s history seeps into the pages like mold. But then Thorne tries to inject humor, and it’s like watching someone slip on a banana peel in a funeral home. There’s a disconnect between the book’s tone and its themes that makes it feel uneven. Are we scared, or are we laughing? Should we be doing both? Neither? Who knows!

One of the central ideas of Diavola is Anna’s role as her family’s “sin-eater.” Everyone dumps their guilt and failures onto her because it’s easier than self-reflection. This metaphor is interesting, but it’s buried under layers of melodrama and cliché. The family’s constant blaming of Anna feels cartoonish, and by the time any resolution occurs, you’re too annoyed to care. Frankly, I lacked much of any sympathy for Anna at all.

The haunting itself mirrors Anna’s internal struggle, which is neat in theory but messy in execution. The ghost’s backstory is hinted at but never fully fleshed out, leaving you with more questions than answers. Why does the ghost target Anna specifically? Is it because she’s the most vulnerable? Or because she’s the only one with enough brain cells (does she?) to notice?

There are flashes—and I mean flashes—of inspiration in this novel. Anna’s moments of introspection about her place in the family and her growth by the end of the book are compelling, though she frequently continues to seem self-absorbed. While these moments showcase her increasing self-awareness, they occasionally come across as more about justifying her own actions than genuinely addressing her flaws. This leaves me questioning whether Anna’s arc feels authentic or if it simply reinforces her insufferable tendencies. The scenes where she stands up for herself are satisfying, like watching a long-suffering friend finally snap and tell off their toxic relatives. And the villa’s atmosphere is genuinely creepy at times, especially when Anna starts piecing together its gruesome history.

However, the pacing is all over the place. The first half drags, bogged down by endless family bickering that feels less like character development and more like someone airing out their group therapy notes. When the horror finally kicks in, it feels predictable. Oh, the ghost wants revenge? Shocker.

Then there’s the dialogue. Everyone in this book talks like they’re auditioning for a reality show. Christopher, in particular, deserves his own category of hatred for being an unrelenting asshole with zero redeeming qualities. He’s not even entertainingly awful—just a walking pile of condescension.

And let’s talk about that ending. Let’s just wrap this up with a generic emotional breakthrough and call it a day… The final confrontation lacks punch, and the epilogue—well, let’s just say it’s saccharine.

For a book that’s supposed to be a gothic horror masterpiece, Diavola is surprisingly bland and overly reliant on tired tropes. If you’re into family drama that’ll make you feel better about your own Holidays, sure, give it a go. But if you’re looking for a genuinely scary, thought-provoking horror novel? Maybe try something that doesn’t hinge on a dysfunctional family and a ghost with boundary issues and “piss yellow” hair (yeah, that’s repeated excessively).

So, no, I’m not joining the chorus of readers calling Diavola a modern horror classic. But hey, at least it’s got a creepy villa. That counts for something, right?

Tor Nightfire
Published March 26, 2024