Books like Slewfoot — picked by fans

I couldn't put this book down, and I stayed haunted by the ordinary people of the town long after the last page.

What unsettled me most was the chilling reality of what people tolerate to preserve an appearance of peace. I have always been more frightened by the way a community polices its own silence while rot spreads beneath the floorboards. It forced me to see how denial is more dangerous than any haunting because it protects power instead of truth.

This story remains a low hum in my bones, proving the real horror is how easily we turn on each other.

What? Something inhuman is stalking through the New York Museum of Natural History? Yes, please! This book started a phenomenal run for Preston and Child, and they continue to hatch more gems to this day. You really can’t go wrong with anything these guys write, whether as a pair or individually.

Its gripping narrative made me quickly rip through it and want much more. Fortunately, there’s a treasure trove of subsequent novels from these guys. This is just the kind of story I love—an intellectual mystery mixed with some good old archaeology/anthropology and a pinch of supernatural monster horror. It has strong characters, it’s fast-paced, and often spooky. And isn’t there something about museums that makes the creative mind wander?

I loved that about the novel’s main setting. The movie was not as good, so I recommend just reading the book.

This was the book that made me realize horror could terrify in a way that felt entirely familiar.

I read it when the cruelty of school was still a raw wound because I understood exactly how laughter is used to flatten a person until they start to disappear. It wasn’t the supernatural elements that stayed with me, but the profound loneliness of a girl shamed into a silence that eventually caught fire.

I finished it with the understanding that a "final snap" is never an accident, but the inevitable result of humiliation accumulating like a slow-burning medicine. King showed me that even the most quiet, discarded person carries a power that the world should be afraid of.

This book messed with my head in all the right ways. I expected scares, but I didn’t expect the emotional gut-punch.

It’s not just about death; it’s about grief, denial, and how far someone will go to outrun the pain.

You feel the characters trying to escape what’s coming, running from fear, from loss, from truth, but it always catches up. The horror creeps in slowly, then hits like a truck, literally. Once the line between life and death is crossed, there’s no turning back. 

It’s one of the few books that left me genuinely unsettled because I understood the choices, even when they led straight into darkness.

I love that a normal human being, Ig Perrish (awesome character name), wakes up one morning and notices he is physically transforming into a supernatural being. The progressive growth of the horns (excellent anatomical descriptions of their extension from the cranium) coinciding with his gradual distaste and rejection of all things Judeo-Christian is brilliant.

I also love that Joe Hill turned the idea of what a demon is on its head, that they are not inherently evil but become that way because they can detect the hypocrisy of human thought, which drives them mad. They are so mad that they want to harm the very beings that tell them one thing but believe in another. Something I believe is responsible for all that is truly evil in the natural world. 

History and the supernatural are my literary biscuits and gravy—it doesn’t come around often, but I readily devour it when offered. (Well, now I’m hungry, dang it.) I haven’t often encountered a tale like this featuring an abandoned mining town (thus the book’s title) that isn’t exactly abandoned. I could tell things weren’t going to go well in this novel, but like a gawker at a car accident, I went ahead and looked anyway. I’m really glad I did.

I loved the premise of a crew investigating an abandoned mining town. Folks, I can’t think of many uglier places to have lived in history than a mining town, and that’s bound to leave some residue. Needless to say, the setting was amazing, and the action was intense. A setting like that is begging for the supernatural to come out, and yes, it does.

This story felt like a heavy conversation with long-dead relatives because it captures how ancestral memory is both a gift and a haunting.

I connected with the idea that our blood carries stories we didn’t ask for but are forced to finish. It reminded me that the "magic" we inherit is never simple because it demands we look at the parts of our history that others would rather keep buried in the smoke.

I loved how it treated magic as something visceral and ancient, a bond reaching through time to guard the present when everyone else has turned their backs.

This one hit close to the bone because it captures the specific rage of being discarded by the people who were supposed to keep you safe.

I was drawn to the way these girls, hidden away in a place meant to break them, found a way to turn their collective shame into a weapon. It reminded me that there is a sacred power in the "wayward" and the "unwanted" because they are the ones who aren't afraid to look into the dark.

It is a beautiful, terrifying testament to the fact that you can only push someone into the shadows for so long before they learn how to make the shadows move for them.

Mulry also takes Britain and its trans-Atlantic empire as her focus.

What most impressed me about the book was the exciting way she shows how individual health and personal character, public health, the natural environment, and statecraft were all strangely intertwined in the 17th century.

She argues that the many schemes for “improving” the landscape of both England and its overseas colonies were intended not only to yield a profit for investors, but also to foster public health and knit together the far-flung empire into a healthy body politic. I find myself recommending this book on a regular basis.

Pearsall’s book is the sort that leaves a reader entertained, deeply informed, and unable to see the past the same way again. Polygamy, she shows, was at the center of the social and political systems of many Indigenous nations. As European soldiers and settlers attempted to trade with—or dominate—the people of these nations, they provoked violent reprisals. Opposition to monogamy drove Indigenous resistance movements. Europeans increasingly argued that their monogamous practices made them racially and religiously superior to the people they subordinated. The centrality of metaphors about monogamy and polygamy to American revolutionary political ideas is one of the book’s most enlightening—and entertaining—contributions in a book rich with surprises.