Emily Carpenter’s got a raging talent for spinning Southern Gothic yarns, that sweaty, fucked-up genre where small towns feel like pressure cookers of weird, family secrets rot in the attic, and the humidity’s so thick you’d swear the ghosts are sticking to your damn skin. Her past hits, Every Single Secret and The Weight of Lies, screwed around with these vibes in ways that left you itchy and unsettled—good shit. So when I saw Gothictown, I was cackling like some mustache-twirling asshole about to evict orphans in a Dickens novel. This was gonna slap, right?

Well, sorta. It’s more of a playful smack than a full-on wallop.

Meet Billie Hope, a former NYC foodie queen whose career got bitch-slapped by the pandemic. She’s broke, bummed, and basically drifting when—bam—an email drops a Victorian dream house in Juliana, Georgia, in her lap for a hundred bucks, plus a juicy business grant to sweeten the pot. So, like a total moron, she packs up her husband, Peter, and their kid, Meredith, and bolts for Creepsville, USA.

If you’ve ever cracked a horror book—or even seen a shitty B-movie—you know a deal this good comes with a catch: (A) a hell portal in the cellar, (B) a cult with a body count fetish, or (C) ghosts hissing creepy-ass nonsense while you’re trying to catch some Zs. Gothictown grabs B, then sprinkles in some haunted house sprinkles for kicks.

Carpenter digs into sacrifice and privilege, throwing Billie into the ring with Juliana’s founding families—a bunch of old-money pricks who run the town like a Southern-fried mob with better manners. They’ve got spooky chants, cryptic bullshit rituals, and the occasional “oops, we killed someone” to keep the loyalty flowing. It’s like the HOA turned into a murder club, and the fees are paid in blood.

The neat trick here? Carpenter fucks with community and belonging. Billie’s mom ditched her for a cult way back, so she’s starving for a do-over. Juliana’s love-bombing hospitality—think Stepford Wives with sweet tea—makes her pause just long enough before she’s like, “Wait, why do you fuckers keep implying I’m stuck here?” Here’s the rub—Gothictown wants to be a horror badass, but it’s got the heart of a cozy mystery wearing a haunted house’s hand-me-downs. The vibe’s eerie, the tension simmers, but the scare-o-meter barely twitches. Carpenter’s prose is tight as hell, and she’s still got that slow-burn psych game on lock, but this thing leans more suspense than “oh shit, lock the doors” horror. Expecting The Lottery meets Mexican Gothic? Nah, you’re getting a mild case of the heebie-jeebies at best.

Let’s not bullshit—Gothictown is still a good time. The pacing clips along, the twists hit like a satisfying gut punch, and Juliana’s “everyone’s way too nice” schtick makes your skin crawl just right. Billie’s a hot mess of bad choices, but she’s complex enough to root for—kinda like that friend who keeps dating losers but you love ‘em anyway. Then there’s Peter, the poor bastard husband. He starts fraying like a dollar-store sweater the second they roll into town, and it’s a highlight. His spiral into paranoia and “what the fuck is happening” mania is legit unnerving—though sometimes it feels like he stumbled out of Hereditary while the rest of the cast is playing Southern Gothic Clue.

Biggest fuck-up? The ending. After all that buildup, it swerves into a “yay, we won!” finale that feels like it wandered in from a Lifetime movie. Imagine Midsommar wrapping up with Dani slapping a lawsuit on the Harga and cashing a fat check—lame, right? The bad guys get theirs, but it’s so clean you’d think they used bleach. A little grit, a little “what the hell just happened,” would’ve saved it.

So, read Gothictown? Sure, if you’re craving a horror-thriller lite that’s more creepy vibes than pants-shitting terror. Carpenter’s writing keeps you hooked, and there’s enough mystery and suspense to make it worth the ride. But if you’re jonesing for Southern Gothic gut-punches like Harvest Home or The Invited, you’ll be left shrugging. It’s like hitting a tricked-out haunted house at Six Flags—spooky enough to kill an afternoon, but you’re not sleeping with the lights on. Final word: solid, not spectacular. Dig it for the weird-ass small-town feels, but don’t expect it to carve up your soul.

Kensington
Published March 25, 2025