Hey there, you freaky fuckers, welcome back. Today, we’re trudging through The Haunting of Room 904, the latest from Erika T. Wurth, a Native American writer who’s got some chops but didn’t quite bring the heat this time. Wurth’s White Horse was a gut-punch debut that had me hooked, but this follow-up? It’s a lukewarm ghost story that won’t haunt your dreams—or your bookshelf. Let’s break this down.

Erika T. Wurth’s a legit talent—mixed Apache/Chickasaw/Cherokee, Colorado-bred, and rocking a PhD. She’s a creative writing prof with a knack for weaving Indigenous identity into dark tales, as seen in her short stories, poetry, and White Horse, a debut that hit hard with its raw grief and barroom grit. She’s not afraid to tackle history’s ugly side, and that’s her calling card. The Haunting of Room 904 is her second crack at a novel, aiming for paranormal thrills with a cultural twist. Spoiler: it’s got heart, but it’s missing the spark that’d make you give a damn.

Here’s the deal: Olivia Becente’s a Denver paranormal investigator who ditched her shrink gig after her sister Naiche offed herself five years ago. She snagged Naiche’s knack for chatting with the dead, and now she’s the chick you call when your eBay mirror starts whispering creepy shit. The plot kicks in when the Brown Palace Hotel—a real Denver joint—rings her up. Every few years, a woman checks in, winds up dead in Room 904 (no matter her booked room), and Naiche was the last casualty. Olivia’s got baggage, so she’s on it.

Cue a muddled mess of a cult, a pissy journalist, some backstabbing pals, and vague hints about Naiche’s secret life. The hauntings supposedly link to the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864—where U.S. troops slaughtered Cheyenne and Arapaho folks—but it’s more background noise than backbone. Olivia’s trying to break the curse before another gal croaks, but it’s a slog that feels like chasing a ghost who forgot why they’re mad.

Wurth’s tossing some weighty stuff in here, but it lands like a wet fart. Grief’s the biggie—Olivia’s moping over Naiche, and it’s supposed to hit deep, but it’s more whiny than wrenching. There’s a sisterhood vibe, blood and found family, that could’ve tugged heartstrings if it wasn’t so half-assed. The Sand Creek Massacre ties in, hinting at colonial vengeance, but it’s a footnote, not a fire. Room 904’s a cursed trap, sure—past sins on repeat—but it’s more confusing than chilling.

Symbolism’s there if you squint. Mirrors and haunted trinkets (dybbuk boxes, eBay junk) nod at trapped trauma, but they’re props without punch. The golem’s a cool idea—protection gone rogue, like history’s fuckups—but it’s barely fleshed out. The cult’s a power grab metaphor that fizzles, and the Indigenous, Jewish, and Mexican spiritual mashup feels like a neat trick that forgot the payoff. It’s all “ooh, deep,” but it’s shallow as a kiddie pool.

Wurth’s got a rough edge to her prose—think barstool banter meets ghost story. The Brown Palace starts off eerie, and her dialogue’s got sass, fitting Olivia’s ragtag crew. But it’s a mess that can’t find its footing. Pacing’s a slogfest: a quick hook, then a middle that drags like a hungover Monday, and a climax that’s more “eh” than “oh shit.” Transitions are nonexistent—you’re here, then there, good luck keeping up. She drowns you in details—history, rituals, random eBay ads—until you’re bored, not immersed. The writing’s raw, sometimes juvenile, and while Olivia’s voice has grit, the rest feels like a rough sketch that didn’t get finished. It’s not awful, just uninspired—like Wurth had ideas but forgot to glue them together.

Credit where it’s due: the premise isn’t terrible. A haunted hotel room tied to a massacre, with a Native heroine? That’s got potential to grab you by the throat. Olivia’s a decent lead—tough, flawed, carrying her sister’s ghost like a backpack—but she’s stuck in a story that doesn’t care. The Indigenous angle’s a fresh twist in a sea of basic ghost tales. There’s a flicker of something here, but it’s dim as hell.

This book’s a snooze, plain and simple. It’s overstuffed—cults, ex-boyfriend bullshit, a pointless blogger, historical asides, a whiny friend named Sarah who’s dead weight. Wurth’s juggling too much and drops it all into a pile of “who gives a fuck?” The middle’s a bore; you’re wading through trivia while the plot naps. The hauntings should spook you, but they’re a jumbled mess—too many spirits, no focus. The cult’s a yawn, the ex-drama’s a waste, and the Sand Creek tie-in? Barely there. The ending’s a shrug—ties up some loose ends, leaves others flapping, and feels like Wurth just wanted out. Characters like Sarah and the journalist are filler; cut ‘em, and nothing changes. The “she suicided” phrasing is still weird as fuck—someone, anyone, edit this shit. It’s got the makings of a decent yarn but settles for mediocrity, leaving you wondering why you bothered.

So, The Haunting of Room 904 is not a trainwreck, but it’s not worth your time either. There’s a kernel of a good story—Olivia’s cool, the premise has legs—but it’s buried under a pile of meh execution and wasted chances. Wurth’s got talent, and I’ll still check her next swing, but this? It’s a ghost that doesn’t haunt, a thriller that doesn’t thrill. Skip this one, you freaks—you’re not missing a damn thing. Go re-read White Horse or watch The Conjuring instead; your spooky soul will thank you.

Stay scared, you lazy bastards.

Flatiron Books
Published March 18, 2025