Cora Zeng is a crime scene cleaner—but the bloody messes don’t bother her, not when she’s already witnessed the most horrific thing possible: her sister being pushed in front of a train. The killer was never caught, and Cora is still haunted by his last words: “bat eater.”

These days nobody can reach Cora: not her aunt, who wants her to prepare for the Hungry Ghost Festival; not her weird colleagues; and especially not the slack-jawed shadow lurking around her door frame. After all, it can’t be real—can it? After a series of unexplained killings in Chinatown, Cora believes someone might be targeting East Asian women, and something might be targeting Cora herself.

I received an advance copy of this audiobook courtesy of the publisher via NetGalley. All thoughts are my own.

Okay, first of all—wow. I’m not sure I’ve ever read a horror novel that managed to wreck me emotionally and also have me side-eyeing every shadow in my house at the same time. This book is absolutely terrifying, but it’s also deeply moving, heartbreaking, angry in all the right ways, and so, so layered. It’s not just a ghost story (though it’s a damn good one)—it’s a story about grief, identity, trauma, and what it means to carry both cultural history and personal loss in a world that keeps trying to erase or blame you for its troubles.

Let me start by saying this: I generally avoid COVID books and TV shows. The pandemic still feels too fresh, and I’m not ready to relive it. But in this case, it’s not a backdrop or a gimmick. It’s integral to the story. The racism and violence that surged during that time—especially toward East Asian communities—drives much of what Cora is experiencing, and it’s what gives the book its name. “Bat eater,” if you recall the ignorant slurs hurled at people during the early pandemic, hits hard here. It’s the last thing Cora hears the man who pushed her sister to her death say, and it becomes an echo that haunts her throughout the book.

Cora is a character who you instantly root for. She’s a crime scene cleaner—which, if you’re already picturing the gore, yes, it’s as gnarly as it sounds. But she’s also carrying this impossible weight: the unresolved murder of her sister Delilah, the absence of justice, and the constant fear that she might be next—mainly because the crime scenes she cleans are after the deaths of Asian women. She’s shut down, emotionally numb, and surrounded by death, both professionally and personally. But what I love about her is that she’s never portrayed as weak or pitiful. She’s angry. She’s scared. She’s determined. She’s real.

The supporting cast? Also fantastic. I fell a little in love with her coworkers Yifei and Harvey—two fellow crime scene cleaners who bring a kind of dark humor and unexpected warmth to the story. And Auntie Zeng! She was such a vibrant, grounding presence. Her efforts to bring Cora into the Hungry Ghost Festival traditions added a layer of cultural depth that I really appreciated. The novel doesn’t just use Hungry Ghost Month as a spooky setting—it teaches you about it. There’s such richness in the way Baker incorporates Chinese traditions, mythology, and beliefs about the dead, and it’s all done respectfully and with nuance.

Now let’s talk horror. The scares in this book? Legit. Like, Ju-On (The Grudge) levels of creeping dread. There’s a slack-jawed shadow that keeps showing up around Cora, and it honestly had me reading with all the lights on. The horror isn’t just jump scares, though—it’s psychological. It’s personal. The ghosts don’t just haunt the characters; they represent what’s been left unsaid, undone, unresolved. There’s also this slow-building feeling that something is targeting Cora specifically—and Baker keeps that tension taut throughout.

What pushed this to a full five-star read for me, though, was how emotionally invested I was. That first scene with Delilah? Absolutely gutted me. And the grief that pulses through the rest of the novel never lets up. Cora’s heartbreak is palpable, and Baker doesn’t let you look away from it. But—here’s the thing—it’s not hopeless. There are moments of connection, moments of healing, even if they’re fragile and fleeting.

This is one of those books I need to see as a movie. But not a glossy, Hollywoodified version. I want the gritty, atmospheric, tense, and gloomy vibe that comes from Korean and Japanese horror. Think dim lighting, claustrophobic apartments, shadows that move wrong, and tension you can’t shake. It would seriously work so well as a film.

I did a tandem read (physical and audiobook), and the narrator – Natalie Naudus – does a fantastic job of voicing the characters and perfectly hits all of the beats. If you’re more into audiobooks, I definitely recommend this one.

Final verdict? If you’re looking for a horror novel that will do more than just scare you—one that will make you feel something and think deeply about the cultural weight of fear and grief—this is an absolute must-read. It’s raw, it’s bold, it’s beautifully written, and it’s unforgettable. It’s one I will definitely come back to.

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