Hey, I just finished binging “The Haar” by David Sodergren on Audible—and wow, I tore through it in two weeks (which feels lightning-fast when you’ve got half a dozen books on the go).
I’m handing it a solid 5 out of 5 coffee mugs.
What really hooked me was that sea-borne shapeshifter—half monster, half healer—haunting a coastal fishing village. The way it devours and mends, learns human quirks, even cracks its own jokes…pure genius. And then there’s the unlikely duo: our main character, a wise grandma, and this creature. Their bond? Beautifully drawn, every tense moment in that cramped bathtub setting pulsing with suspense.
Yes, most of the novel unfolds in a bathtub—trust me, it works. Plot twists bubble up around soap-scummy water, turning a mundane scene into something eerily intimate. Meanwhile, the real horror lies with the TV crew and wealthy outsiders driving locals out. You find yourself rooting for the creature to take down these human monsters.
By the end, you’re left asking: who’s the real monster here? This goth-tinged modern horror flips our assumptions, forcing us to cheer for the creature while questioning our own. Literary, unsettling, and darkly funny—I loved every unsettling minute of it.
Read it now on Amazon or buy it at Bookshop.org
Everyone’s Favorite scene in The Haar
Here’s a scene readers can’t stop talking about—one that crystallizes everything that makes The Haar so haunting and brilliant. In Chapter 14, the fog rolls in thicker than ever, and Muriel McAuley finds herself alone in her cold, tile-floored bathroom, steam curling off the surface of a deep clawfoot tub. She’s just heard the distant hum of helipads and the booted feet of developers stomping across her village, and her hands shake as she inches toward the tub’s brim. That’s when the water ripples without a sound, like the surface of a dark pond shuddering at midnight.
Then the creature emerges. Only its head—slick, black eye unblinking—surfaces first, as if testing the temperature of this new world. Muriel doesn’t scream. Instead, she squats on the edge of the tub, ancient bones creaking, and addresses it by name: “You’re called the Haar, aren’t you?”
It tilts its head, and in that silent moment, the bathroom feels vast—an arena where grief, memory, and monstrous hunger converge. The creature’s slimy tendril wraps around her wrist, not to drag her under, but to guide her hand to a cut on its tentacle. The raw, briny taste of blood on her palm turns into a whispered promise: she will both feed and heal this being, just as it will protect her from the bulldozers that threaten Witchaven.
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What Reviewers Are Saying About This Terror Love
Reviewers rave about this bathtub encounter because it upends our expectations. We imagine a final girl screaming at a monster, but here the lines blur: the ancient fisherman’s lore, the village’s dying traditions, and this sea-born shapeshifter all collide in a scene that’s equal parts fragile humanity and primordial terror. Muriel isn’t a passive observer—she’s the heart that pumps life into this dark fairy tale. And while every reader expects gore when Sodergren writes “sea monster,” it’s the quiet intimacy in a steamy bathroom that lingers long after the tub has cooled.
This moment also spotlights the novel’s central tension: the true monsters aren’t always the ones with fangs and tentacles. They’re the developers who’d raze homes, the TV crews who exploit trauma, the outsiders who treat Witchaven like a set-piece. In that bathtub, Muriel and the Haar forge an alliance born of mutual vulnerability—reminding us that compassion can be as uncanny, and as powerful, as any ancient curse.
By dissecting this scene, you see why The Haar isn’t just another creature feature. It’s a goth-tinged parable about who—and what—we choose to save. And once that fog slips in, you’ll never look at a bathtub the same way again.
Synopsis of The Haar
Muriel McAuley, 84, has spent her entire life in the Scottish fishing village of Witchaven—cherishing its rugged beauty and its deep-rooted traditions. When property magnate Patrick Grant moves in with offers to buy up every shoreline home and turn it into a luxury resort, Muriel flat-out refuses, igniting a David-vs.-Goliath battle against gentrification.
Just as the village braces for eviction notices, an unnatural mist drifts in from the sea: The Haar. “To some it brings redemption … to others, it brings only madness and death. What macabre secrets lie within … The Haar”. That fog doesn’t simply blanket the coast—it burrows into minds, dredging up long-drowned regrets and darker impulses.
Within its swirling embrace, Witchaven’s residents confront their worst fears:
a shipwreck’s scars, whispered curses, and the suspicion that Muriel’s husband’s death wasn’t an accident but a scheme by Grant himself. United by grief and a fierce will to survive, Muriel and a the sea creature band together, determined to pierce the media veil and uncover its human monsters.
“I don’t fear death … but they do,” Muriel declares—her steel-edged calm anchoring a tale that blurs who the real monsters are: the sea-born curse or the avaricious outsiders who’d raze homes without a second thought.
David Sodergren’s The Haar is a gorge-soaked folk-horror fairy tale—a gothic parable where ancient forces and human greed collide on one windswept shore. It’s atmospheric, character-driven, and utterly unforgettable.
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