Before we dive into the bloody Victorian Psycho, let’s talk about the sick genius who birthed it: Virginia Feito. A Spaniard-turned-New Yorker, Feito ditched a career in advertising (probably because selling toothpaste wasn’t twisted enough) to pen dark, deranged tales. Her debut, Mrs. March, was a descent into domestic paranoia, proving she’s got a knack for making unhinged women the stars of her show. With Victorian Psycho, Feito’s traded the suburbs for the Victorian moors, unleashing her inner Gothic gremlin. Rumor has it she wrote this bastard in a caffeine-fueled haze, cackling at her own depravity. We’re not mad about it.

Meet Winifred Notty, the governess from hell. She rolls up to Ensor House—think Gothic shithole meets The Shining—ready to whip two snot-nosed brats, Drusilla and Andrew, into shape. She’s prim, she’s proper, and she’s got a twinkle in her eye that screams, “I might just eat these little fuckers for breakfast.” Except Ensor House isn’t some cozy manor—it’s a steaming pile of rot, both the walls and the wankers living in it. The Pounds family, her employers, are a dysfunctional mess of lunatics hiding secrets nastier than a Victorian chamber pot.

Winifred, though? She’s no saintly savior. She’s sneaking around in her skivvies, terrorizing the staff like a demented poltergeist, and wrestling with urges so fucked-up they’d make Patrick Bateman blush. By the time Christmas hits, she’s not decking the halls—she’s decking someone’s skull, delivering holiday cheer in the form of blood-soaked chaos.

This novel is an autopsy of Victorian society, slicing open its prissy façade to reveal the festering guts beneath. Feito’s got Winifred’s madness dialed up to eleven, but it’s not just her losing her marbles—it’s a big “fuck you” to a world of corset-tight hypocrisy and class bullshit. Death’s everywhere, right from the opening lines: corpses bobbing in rivers, typhoid-ravaged peasants, dead babies getting a free coffin ride. Subtlety? Nah, Feito’s here to shove the rot in your face and make you laugh while gagging.

It’s Jane Eyre humping American Psycho in a filthy alley. Winifred’s no simpering madwoman locked away—she’s a gleeful agent of anarchy, scratching her murder itch with a rusty nail. Is she unreliable? Hell yes. Half the time, you’re wondering if Ensor House is really this batshit or if Winifred’s just projecting her cracked psyche onto the wallpaper. Either way, it’s a riot.

Feito’s pen is a weapon, dripping with snark so dry you’ll need a pint to wash it down. It’s Gothic horror with a middle finger to pompous tradition—grim, grotesque, and piss-yourself funny. Then there’s the sensory gut-punch. When Winifred bashes a deer’s head in with a rock, it’s not a mercy kill—it’s a sick, wet, borderline-pornographic explosion of violence. Feito’s got a gift for making you feel the squelch, and you’ll love her for it, you twisted bastard.

Strengths

• A Protagonist Who’s a Villainous Shitstorm: Winifred’s a trainwreck you can’t look away from—vicious, hilarious, and nuttier than a squirrel’s stash. You won’t cheer for her, but you’ll be glued to her carnage.
• Dark Humor That Slaps: This isn’t just gloom—it’s gloom with a grin. The satire’s so sharp it could carve up a Christmas goose.
• Gothic Vibes That Breathe: Ensor House is a living, breathing cesspit—creaking, bleeding, and whispering “you’re fucked” in every shadow.
• Prose That Kicks Ass: Every sentence pops like a firecracker, dripping with wit and gore. Feito doesn’t fuck around.

Critiques

• Not for Pussies: This book’s dark as hell. If you want a dainty Gothic tease, fuck off—this is murder, muck, and bodily fluids galore.
• Winifred’s a Lot: Need a heroine to root for? Tough shit. She’s a petticoated disaster, and you’ll either love her or loathe her.
• Reality’s a Blur: Feito fucks with your head, leaving you wondering what’s real. If you need a tidy bow on your story, this ain’t it, pal.

Victorian Psycho is Virginia Feito’s deranged lovechild—a book so funny, horrifying, and smart it’ll stick to your brain like blood on a butcher’s apron. It’s horror with a cackle, satire with a snarl, and a protagonist who’d slit your throat then make a quip about it. If you’re into pitch-black laughs, relentless depravity, and a governess who’d shank Santa, grab this now. It’s tons of fun, just don’t expect to to have a whole lot of depth.

Liveright
Published January 9, 2025