Grady Hendrix’s Witchcraft for Wayward Girls isn’t your typical horror romp—it’s an experience that challenges you to lean into discomfort and examine your expectations. The premise sets the stage for something atmospheric and unsettling: a group of young women in a 1970s unwed mothers’ home, navigating not only their oppressive circumstances but the unexpected discovery of witchcraft. It’s a slow burn of a book that demands patience, and while it wasn’t what I initially anticipated, letting go of those expectations was key to truly enjoying the story.

Let’s talk about the pacing—because this book takes its time. At first, I found myself eager for the action, but Hendrix is deliberate here, laying down the groundwork of oppressive societal norms and the suffocating realities these young women face. If you’re someone who thrives on fast-paced horror, this story might test your resolve. Trust me, though—stick with it. The payoff lies in the layers of the characters, the choices, the stakes, and the way Hendrix ultimately ties his themes together.

There are a lot of characters in this book. Secondary and peripheral characters fill the pages, and keeping track of them all can sometimes feel a tad overwhelming. Yet, as you progress, their individual arcs begin to weave together into something meaningful. It’s like a puzzle that slowly reveals its image, and by the time you step back, you can see the full picture Hendrix has been crafting.

One of the most important lessons I learned reading this was about expectations. I came into the book anticipating something different—maybe more immediate action or fewer narrative threads to untangle. That initial disconnect skewed my thoughts about how good the book was. But once I took a step back and let the story unfold for what it is rather than what I thought it should be, I enjoyed it far more. It’s a reminder that sometimes the stories that challenge us to adjust our perspective are the ones that stick with us the longest.

I’ve seen and read some criticism about how Hendrix writes female and Black characters, but I find that argument unnecessary. Writing characters of a different gender or race is always going to result in a different lens, and that’s okay. The real question isn’t whether the portrayal is identical to someone else’s lived experience but whether it feels authentic within the story’s context. And before anyone rushes to judgment, I suggest reading the acknowledgments at the end of the book. Hendrix takes the time to explain his intentions, research, and inspirations, which adds meaningful context to the choices he made. If we’re not criticizing female writers for their portrayal of men, why hold Hendrix to an impossible double standard? It’s a debate that, in my view, misses the point entirely.

Finally, Witchcraft for Wayward Girls left me uncomfortable—and that’s where its power lies. Hendrix has always been great at holding a mirror to society, and this time, the horrors aren’t monsters lurking in the dark but the brutal realities of shame, judgment, and systemic oppression. The witchcraft element isn’t just a plot device; it’s a metaphor for taking control in a world determined to strip it away. It’s messy, imperfect, and dangerous, but that’s what makes it real.

Is it Hendrix’s most fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat novel? No. But it might be one of his most thought-provoking. If you can embrace the discomfort, navigate the layered characters, and allow the story to unfold on its own terms, you’ll find a book that lingers with you long after you’ve turned the final page. It’s not the story I expected—but it’s one I won’t soon forget.