The Hounding by Xenobe Purvis is a strange, lyrical, and unsettling debut that blends folklore, paranoia, and feminist allegory into a haunting exploration of fear, conformity, and the dangers of rumor. Set in eighteenth-century rural England, the novel feels like something between The Crucible and We Have Always Lived in the Castle a gothic fever dream that asks what happens when a society decides a group of young women are monsters.
The story unfolds in the small, superstitious village of Little Nettlebed, a place where ravens gather before death and strange things occasionally wash up on the riverbank. Into this eerie backdrop step the five Mansfield sisters Anne, Elizabeth, Hester, Grace, and Mary. Orphaned and struggling to survive under the care of their frail, nearly blind grandfather, the girls are seen by the villagers as peculiar, too independent for their own good. When a local ferryman claims to have seen them transform into dogs, the rumor spreads like wildfire.
Told through multiple points of view from the villagers themselves, The Hounding reveals not just the story of the sisters but the collective hysteria of a community eager to find a scapegoat. What begins as idle gossip becomes moral panic, fueled by jealousy, insecurity, and the need to control what is not understood. The sisters’ “difference” their beauty, their freedom, their refusal to conform becomes their undoing.
Purvis writes with moody, atmospheric prose that perfectly captures the isolation of the village and the rising dread of the situation. The writing often feels like a spell itself: rhythmic, dark, and poetic. There are moments that shimmer with quiet horror, not because of anything supernatural, but because of the villagers’ cruelty. The supposed transformation into dogs becomes a metaphor for how women are dehumanized when they refuse to fit the mold society demands.
Readers expecting a fast-paced or traditional witch-trial narrative may find The Hounding more subdued than anticipated. It is a slow, introspective work that lingers on emotion and perception rather than plot twists. Much of the novel is spent examining the villagers’ minds their envy, fear, and moral decay rather than providing answers. As one character notes, “We went out when we weren’t supposed to, we were too free, and this is our punishment. It has nothing to do with becoming dogs, and everything to do with being girls.”
This line encapsulates the book’s core: The Hounding is less about magic and more about misogyny, less about transformation and more about how society punishes women for simply existing outside its narrow rules. In this way, Purvis’s debut feels both historical and painfully relevant.
The narrative’s ambiguity will not appeal to everyone. Some may wish for a clearer resolution or more tangible supernatural moments. Yet, for readers drawn to literary horror and atmospheric feminist fiction, this book will resonate deeply. Its quiet fury and lyrical storytelling mark Xenobe Purvis as a promising new voice in gothic literature.
Dark, reflective, and eerily beautiful, The Hounding is an unforgettable meditation on otherness, rumor, and the monstrous imagination of a fearful society.
If you enjoy gothic tales that blend history with haunting social commentary, get your copy of The Hounding here: Buy on Amazon.
