Rachel Harrison’s latest, Play Nice, is a glitter-dusted rebellion against the demons, literal and metaphorical, that haunt women who dare to be messy. It’s a chic, snarky romp through a fashion-world It-girl’s cursed childhood, featuring a dead mom who might be shacking up with a demon, séance rooms so incense-choked they could knock out a pope, and enough family dysfunction to make Thanksgiving look like a cage match. It’s intermittently sharp as a stiletto, funny as hell, and readable as a tabloid. But the scares? Undercooked like a vegan steak. The structure? Lumpier than a thrift-store sweater. And the book’s so damn eager to spoon-feed its thesis, it forgets to creep under your skin.

Rachel Harrison is horror’s pop-punk princess. She’s a USA Today bestseller who’s been slinging pop-forward horror like a bartender at a Halloween rave. Her hits include The Return (Bram Stoker Award–nominated, because apparently even vampires stan her), Cackle (witches, but make it feminist), Such Sharp Teeth (werewolves with attitude), Black Sheep (family drama with extra bleating), and So Thirsty (vampires, but, like, hot vampires). She’s a New Jersey native who probably writes in a leather jacket, blasting Paramore, with a coffee table stacked with occult zines and fashion mags. Her prose has a glossy, contemporary snap that keeps you flipping pages even when the plot stumbles like a drunk influencer at Fashion Week. Harrison’s got a knack for blending horror with social satire. She’s not reinventing the wheel, but she’s spray-painting it neon and giving it a good spin.

Meet Clio Louise Barnes, a downtown New York fashion gremlin who’s equal parts trouble magnet and trouble maker. She’s got a knack for slinking out of chaos in sky-high heels, but when her estranged mom, Alexandra, kicks the bucket, Clio’s dragged back to Connecticut. Alexandra wasn’t just a hot mess; she wrote a whole-ass memoir about the demon that allegedly turned their suburban Edgewood Drive house into a paranormal Airbnb. Clio shows up for a funeral thrown by her glamorous spiritualist aunt, Mariella, and Alexandra’s demonologist sidekick, Roy, who’s basically Ghostbusters meets Project Runway. It’s part wake, part occult Comic-Con, part family scream-fest. Old wounds bleed. A white-gold snake charm at Clio’s throat hisses trouble. Something dark might still be lurking, ready to RSVP. What unfolds is a tangle of grief, performative wellness bullshit, and internet-age spectacle as Clio wrestles with whether she’s prey, skeptic, survivor, or just fucking done. By the end, she draws a line in the ash and tells the past to take a hike.

This book’s about control. Who’s got it, who’s faking it, and who’s stealing it with a wink and a smirk. Harrison cranks the volume on feminine rage, spotlighting how women get slapped with the “crazy” label for daring to call out the truth. The dedication and author’s note are basically a punk anthem: “It’s easier to call us nuts than admit we’re right—trust your damn self.” Clio gets it, clocking that “there’s a being out there that’d fuck with me just because it can” and deciding the real win is to tell it to shove off.

The symbols are Instagram-ready: a white-gold snake charm with diamond eyes that screams danger and reinvention; glitter and perfume clouds that double as armor and catnip; a Victorian parlor stuffed with Ouija boards and mourning veils that’s basically a Goth influencer’s wet dream; the Edgewood house as a nesting doll of generational trauma. Harrison’s prose is pop-bright, voicey, and performative as a TikTok dance. Clio narrates like she knows the world’s watching, tossing shade and slicing with cruelly funny details. The opening party scene pops with sensory overload: “It’s hope, is what it is,” Clio muses, inhaling the night’s perfume and the crowd’s desperate need to be noticed. It’s a perfect thesis for a book where attention is both a drug and a curse.

Under the occult glitter, Play Nice argues that demons are just metaphors for the systems that keep women in line: toxic family cults, brand parties that double as altars, algorithms that reward your trauma dump then dunk on you forever. When Clio says “fuck it” to the demon and opts out of the game, it’s framed as harm reduction, like blocking a toxic ex on every platform. The “After” section doubles down: in a world that monetizes your breakdowns, recovery’s just a PR problem. Clio climbs the career ladder but knows her vulnerability will always be the headline. That shit hits because it’s real.

Originality: The mash-up of fashion-girl snark, demonology, and a funeral-as-Met-Gala is fresh enough to keep you hooked. Mariella, rocking a red satin mourning gown like she’s auditioning for American Horror Story, is a vibe and a half. Roy, the leather-panted demonologist, is half rock god, half therapy bro. The book’s smartest move is treating belief like a social media ecosystem (likes, follows, and all) rather than a binary.

Pacing: The first act sizzles like a fresh gossip drop. The funeral scene hums with voyeuristic juice. Then the middle flops like a bad Tinder date, recycling the same “trauma or demon?” and “Clio posts, Clio spirals, Clio posts about spiraling” beats until you’re begging for a plot twist. A random apartment-fire detour throws in smoke but no fire; it’s just a loud echo of the theme. The “After” section snaps back, but you’re still bloated from the slog.

Character: Clio’s a chaotic, modern mess, mean, charming, starving for something real, and allergic to earnestness. She’s a blast to follow, even when you want to yeet her phone into the Hudson. Her sisters, Leda and Daphne, bring iron-willed and feral-chef energy, sparking real sibling heat, though they sometimes flatten into “sensible buzzkills” scolding Clio for mythologizing their trainwreck mom. Alexandra’s a ghost with gravitas, but her fan club’s version of her feels like a wannabe influencer. Roy and Mariella steal scenes like pros, but you can smell the plot strings when they turn into walking metaphors.

Scare Factor: Spooky-lite, at best. There’s some solid dread. A tear-stained veil, an organ buried in wineglasses, the queasy pull of a house that might want your soul. But Play Nice doesn’t let terror build. Harrison’s chasing social horror, and while that fits the vibe, it leaves you chilly, not chilled. If you want a possession story to punch you in the gut, this one’s more like a sassy side-eye.

Quotables: Harrison’s got a gift for zingers that snap like a clutch. Clio slays a boring CEO with: “We can exchange childhood traumas if you like.” Later, after a public shitshow, she laments that what she’s spilled “will forever overshadow everything I do.” Those lines cut deep and lock tight.

The book’s so busy preaching its point it forgets to haunt you. Clio’s “game over” moment lands like a TED Talk, not a showdown with the abyss. It’s a muted comment thread, not a survived nightmare. The middle act rehashes its case like a stuck record, bleeding momentum. And while the brand-culture satire is sharp, some side characters tip into cartoon territory, which dulls the book’s take on how belief bubbles form.

Harrison’s voice is a firecracker, and her map of grief, gossip, and female ambition is worth the ride. The ending’s choice to frame survival as kicking the game to the curb, not winning it, is sneaky-brilliant. It just needs sharper claws or fewer mirrors. As is, it’s a stylish, chatty mood read that fades like last season’s trends. Fun. Talky. Fine.

TL;DR: Slick as a Sephora séance, Play Nice dives into grief, image management, and the demonization of women who don’t play nice. The voice is a banger, the middle’s a drag, and the scares are more whisper than roar. You’ll love the party, check your reflection, and forget the playlist by Tuesday.