When We Keep Them

This is a tight, elegant piece of domestic gothic with a clear moral core. The author smartly grounds the supernatural premise — a house that revives the absent at the cost of being forgotten — in very ordinary legal and emotional work: deeds, bills, a funeral. That landing in mundanity intensifies the horror. The details are precise: Mae’s oil, the sticky syrup tang under the mildew, the clock stopped at a quarter to three. These anchor scenes give weight to the reveal about the town’s private payments and Nell’s discovery of the records. The pacing is deliberate; the slow, methodical starving of the house mirrors Nell’s shift from anger and guilt to grim responsibility. Characterization is economical but effective: Nell’s guilt over the night Cal vanished is never overwritten by exposition, it’s shown in small actions. Thematically, the story interrogates what we preserve and what we let go, and the cost of choosing memory over forgetfulness. A satisfying, thoughtful horror story.

When We Keep Them hit me in the chest like a hand I didn’t know was missing. Nell’s return to her mother’s house is so tactile — the stopped clock at a quarter to three, the swung chain like an old promise, the bright citrus of Mae’s polishing oil — that I could smell the rooms. The book folds grief and supernatural dread together neatly: the house that brings the absent back while the living forget them is a devastating moral trade-off, and Nell’s decision to starve it and keep the records of payments felt both righteous and heartbreakingly lonely. I loved the small scenes: the half-knit blanket in the parlor, the funeral that felt like a checklist, the way rain turned the town into a bruise. The ending, with Nell as reluctant guardian, stayed with me for days — a quiet, unsettled peace that feels absolutely earned. Beautifully written, sad, and quietly terrifying.

I wanted to like this more than I did. The premise — a house that resurrects the absent at the price of collective forgetting — is intriguing, and there are moments of lovely atmosphere (that stopped clock, the syrup-smell detail). But the story often feels more like a mood piece than a fully realized plot. A few things bothered me: the town’s logistics around the payments are never convincingly explained (how do so many people agree to this and then go on with life?), and Nell’s shift to becoming the house’s guardian happens with less resistance than I expected given the moral cost. The funeral scene and the drive from the city are vivid, but the central conflict felt underexplored — why would people keep paying without wider consequences? I also wanted stronger repercussions for the house-starving plan; it’s presented as a noble sacrifice, but the mechanics remain vague. Solid writing and good lines, but I left wanting more concrete answers and deeper character motivation.

Okay, so this one’s spooky in the best way. The house with “crooked teeth” is such a great line — I kept picturing that porch the whole time. Nell’s guilt about being away the night Cal vanished gives the story real emotional teeth, and the whole idea of paying the house to bring someone back while making you forget them? Wild and horrible, in a good way. I laughed/ate my nails when she finds the private payments ledger — like, of course the town would go sneaky about it. Feels like a modern ghost story that actually cares about grief. Also, the syrup-y smell detail? Chef’s kiss. 👌

I finished When We Keep Them late at night and lay awake thinking about what it means to owe someone memory. The prose is spare but luminous: a porch that leans, paint flaking like retreating color, a clock with its hands frozen as accusing fingers. The writing trusts the reader — grief is not explained away but built into domestic objects: a half-knit blanket, Mae’s oil, the swing chain that hangs like an unfulfilled promise. The central conceit — a house that can bring the absent back only if the living forget them — is handled with restraint. The moral calculus is never spelled out as a thesis; instead, we watch Nell comb through deeds and bills, find the town’s secret payments, and decide to starve the house. That sequence is quietly devastating: the discovery of records in a shabby drawer, the numbing realization that people chose to forget loved ones to have them returned, and the physical act of denying the house sustenance. Nell becoming the house’s guardian is a heartbreaking, ambiguous resolution. She keeps other people’s memories and yet is left with a solitude that’s both sacrificial and stoic. The domestic gothic atmosphere — the way everyday objects hold the past — lingers after you close the book. This is a story about what we preserve at the cost of ourselves, and it haunts in the most human way.

Short, sharp, and strangely tender. The story doesn’t rely on jump-scares but on made objects — the stopped clock, the half-knit blanket, the lingering scent of oil — to create unease. Nell’s arc from returning for practicalities to taking on the burden of the house feels earned; the reveal of private payments and her choice to starve the house are morally messy in a way I appreciated. A compact, effective read that balances horror with grief. I wanted a little more on how the town justified the trade-offs, but maybe ambiguity is the point. Recommended if you like your ghosts domestic and your scares thoughtful.