Mexican Gothic: A Lush and Unsettling Reimagining of Classic Horror

Silvia Moreno-Garcia's Mexican Gothic arrived in 2020 like a poisoned flower—beautiful on the surface, deadly underneath. This is gothic horror at its most atmospheric and unsettling, a novel that takes the familiar tropes of the haunted house story and transplants them to 1950s Mexico, where colonialism, eugenics, and supernatural rot intertwine in horrifying ways.

Our protagonist, Noemí Taboada, is a delightful subversion of expectations. She's a glamorous socialite with impeccable fashion sense and a cigarette perpetually at hand—hardly the typical horror heroine. But beneath the red lipstick and cocktail party charm lies a sharp intellect and fierce determination. When her cousin Catalina sends a desperate, disturbing letter from her new husband's estate, Noemí doesn't hesitate to investigate.

High Place, the Doyle family's decaying mansion, is as much a character as any of its inhabitants. Cold, damp, and perpetually shrouded in mist, the house feels alive with malevolent intent. No electricity, no laughter, no color—only the oppressive weight of generations of secrets pressing down on everyone within its walls. The Doyles themselves are wonderfully sinister: the patriarch Howard, ancient and obsessed with eugenics; the coldly beautiful Virgil, Catalina's husband; and Francis, the youngest, who might be Noemí's only ally.

Moreno-Garcia excels at building dread slowly and deliberately. The first half of the novel is a masterclass in atmospheric tension—strange dreams, inexplicable illness, rules that must be followed without explanation. When the horror finally reveals itself, it's genuinely shocking and deeply disturbing, drawing on body horror and cosmic dread in equal measure.

What elevates Mexican Gothic beyond mere genre exercise is its sharp commentary on colonialism and the violence of so-called civilization. The Doyles are English, their fortune built on exploiting Mexican land and labor. Their obsession with bloodlines and genetic purity is both historically resonant and horrifyingly relevant. The supernatural elements serve as metaphor for very real historical evils.

If there's a weakness, it's in the pacing. The slow build is essential to the atmosphere, but some readers may find the middle section drags before the revelations accelerate in the final act. The romance subplot, while handled with nuance, may also feel unnecessary to some.