Buckle up, horror freaks, because Sarah Langan’s Pam Kowolski Is a Monster! is a wild-ass novella that’ll leave you questioning your own damn memories while laughing at the absurdity of it all. At a lean 120 pages, this little beast packs more punch than a spiked piña colada at a high school reunion. Langan, a seasoned pro at unsettling the shit out of her readers, delivers a surreal, creepy, and unexpectedly poignant tale full of psychological horror and dark comedy. Let’s dive into this unhinged gem, dissect its guts, and figure out why it’s both a bloody delight and a bit of a frustrating tease.

Sarah Langan’s no newbie to the horror game. With a resume boasting novels like The Keeper and The Missing, she’s carved out a niche for stories that creep under your skin, blending domestic unease with cosmic terror. A three-time Bram Stoker Award winner, Langan’s got a knack for making the mundane feel like a goddamn nightmare. Her background in environmental science and public policy sneaks into her work, grounding her horror in real-world anxieties—think crumbling ecosystems or societal decay, but with a side of existential dread. In Pam Kowolski, she leans hard into psychological horror, proving she can still fuck with your head in novella form. This isn’t her first rodeo, and it shows.

Meet Janet Chow, a washed-up journalist in her forties who’s about as successful as a one-star Yelp review. Once a high school hotshot with dreams of Pulitzer glory, she’s now slumming it in a dead-end warehouse job, surrounded by ignored emails and a roommate she’d rather see in a ditch. Janet’s life is a shitshow, and she’s got one person to blame: Pam Kowolski, her high school nemesis who supposedly screwed her over with some vague, cruel act Janet can’t quite pin down. Fast-forward to 2031, and Pam’s no longer a nobody—she’s Madame Pamela, a TikTok-famous psychic raking in millions by predicting the end of the world. Naturally, Janet smells a scam and a chance to revive her career by exposing Pam as a fraud.

What starts as a petty revenge plot spirals into a fever dream of repressed memories, nosebleeds, suicides, and a world that’s maybe, just maybe, unraveling at the seams. As Janet digs into their shared past, interviewing old teachers and classmates, she realizes her grudge might be built on shaky ground. Pam’s doomsday visions start feeling too real, and reality itself gets wobbly. Is Pam a monster, or is Janet’s own fucked-up head the real villain? By the time Pam’s hyped-up “Big Reveal” livestream looms, you’re not sure if you’re rooting for Janet to take her down or just hoping they both survive whatever cosmic shitstorm’s coming.

Langan’s novella is a masterclass in unpacking trauma, memory, and the lies we tell ourselves to keep going. Janet’s an unreliable narrator par excellence, her recollections of high school warped by years of resentment and self-loathing. The story’s central question—are things as we remember them?—hits like a brick to the face. Memory here is a slippery bastard, a funhouse mirror that distorts truth until you’re not sure what’s real. Langan uses Janet’s obsession with Pam to explore how trauma can rewrite our past, turning us into our own worst enemies.

Symbolism’s thick on the ground. Pam’s psychic empire, with its apocalyptic promises, feels like a middle finger to a world obsessed with influencers and instant gratification. The “Big Reveal” is a twisted stand-in for our collective doomscrolling, where we’re all waiting for the next big catastrophe to drop. Nosebleeds and suicides pepper the story, visceral reminders of a reality that’s cracking under pressure. Even the near-future setting—2031, with its AI creepiness and societal decay—screams “we’re fucked” without ever preaching. Langan’s too smart for that shit. The contrast between Janet’s bitter cynicism and Pam’s glossy success symbolizes the gap between who we are and who we wish we’d become—a gut-punch for anyone who’s ever felt like life kicked them in the teeth.

If there’s a takeaway from Pam Kowolski, it’s that monsters aren’t always who you think. Janet’s hell-bent on painting Pam as the villain, but the deeper she digs, the more she’s forced to face her own flaws. Langan’s not here to coddle you with clear heroes and villains; she’s saying we’re all capable of being dicks, especially when we’re hurting. The novella’s heart lies in its plea for empathy—maybe Pam’s not a fraud, maybe Janet’s not a failure, maybe we’re all just fumbling through trauma’s aftermath.

There’s also a sly jab at our obsession with fame and truth. Pam’s psychic schtick thrives because people want to believe, even if it’s bullshit. In a world drowning in misinformation and viral stunts, Langan’s asking: what’s real, and does it even matter when we’re all so desperate for meaning? It’s heavy stuff, but she wraps it in enough snark and gore to keep it from feeling like a lecture.

Langan’s prose is a goddamn delight—crisp, conversational, and dripping with attitude. She writes like your coolest, most cynical friend who’s seen some shit but still cracks jokes. Janet’s voice is sardonic as hell, peppered with millennial snark that makes her both infuriating and relatable. Lines like “her best accomplishment? knowing exactly how long she can ignore an email before people think she died” had me cackling. Langan’s got a gift for blending humor with horror, so one minute you’re laughing at Janet’s petty grudges, and the next you’re wincing at a gruesome suicide.

The pacing’s relentless, barreling toward the climax like a runaway train. At 120 pages, there’s no fat to trim—every scene earns its keep. Langan’s descriptions are vivid without being overwrought; she paints a near-future world that’s unsettlingly plausible, with just enough techy weirdness to keep it spooky. The surreal elements—think reality-bending visions and psychic fuckery—are handled with a light touch, letting the horror sneak up on you. It’s not jump-scare cheap; it’s the kind of dread that lingers like a bad hangover.

This novella’s got balls. Janet’s a brilliantly flawed protagonist—petty, bitter, and so human it hurts. You want to shake her, but you also get why she’s such a mess. Langan nails the unreliable narrator trope, making Janet’s unraveling memories the story’s beating heart. The horror’s layered, blending psychological torment with cosmic stakes, so it works whether you’re here for the creeps or the feels. The dark humor’s a standout, cutting through the bleakness like a machete. And that cover art? Chef’s kiss—love that Lichtenstein shit.

The world-building’s another win. Langan sketches a near-future dystopia that’s chilling because it’s so damn believable—AI, social decay, an embrace of magic over science, and a society hooked on spectacle. Pam’s psychic empire feels like a natural extension of our influencer-obsessed culture, and the “Big Reveal” hype nails our morbid fascination with disaster. It’s smart without being smug, a rare feat.

Alright, let’s not blow smoke up Langan’s ass. The biggest gripe? That ending.

Holy abrupt, Batman—it’s like the story trips over its own feet and faceplants. After all the buildup, the “Big Reveal” and its fallout feel rushed, leaving too many questions dangling like loose threads on a cheap sweater. What’s Pam’s deal? Is the world actually ending? Why the hell are there so many nosebleeds? A few extra pages—hell, even 30—could’ve tied things up without spoon-feeding us. As it stands, the non-ending feels like a cop-out, especially when the rest of the novella’s so tight.

Some readers might also find Janet too much of a prickly bitch to root for. She’s judgmental, selfish, and not exactly charming, which can make the first half a slog if you don’t vibe with her voice. The horror, while effective, doesn’t always land as hard as it could—Langan teases some truly fucked-up shit (suicides, reality cracks), but she doesn’t always linger long enough to make it stick. It’s like she’s afraid to go full Event Horizon when we’re begging for it.

Pam Kowolski is a Monster! is a batshit fun novella that’ll have you laughing, cringing, and double-checking your own grudges. Sarah Langan’s at the top of her game, delivering a story that’s as funny as it is unsettling, with a protagonist who’s equal parts infuriating and heartbreaking. It’s a quick read that punches above its weight, tackling big themes—trauma, memory, the lies we live by—while keeping you hooked with snark and scares. The near-future setting and psychic shenanigans are creepy as hell.

But that ending? Fuck me, it’s a letdown. I’m not opposed to ambiguity, but in this case, the abruptness robs the story of the boom it deserves, leaving you with more “huh?” than “holy shit.” Still, this is a must-read for horror fans who love their scares with a side of wit and don’t mind filling in some blanks. If you dig unreliable narrators, surreal vibes, and a world that’s maybe two tweets away from apocalypse, grab this bad boy. Just don’t expect all the answers—or a clean getaway. It’s a wild, weird trip that’s almost excellent but stumbles at the finish line. Pour yourself a piña colada and dive in, you masochist.

Raw Dog Screaming Press
Published May 21, 2025