Gothic horror and generational curses collide in House of Monstrous Women by Daphne Fama

Daphne Fama’s House of Monstrous Women is a lush and terrifying gothic horror novel set in 1986 Philippines, where revolution outside mirrors the quiet rebellion unfolding within a house that may as well be alive. Set against the backdrop of the People Power Revolution, this novel layers political upheaval with supernatural dread in a way that feels both intimate and epic.

Radios hum with news from Manila as protests rise and a dictator’s hold begins to crumble—but inside the labyrinthine Ranoco home, another kind of battle is taking place. The connection between the two is unmistakable: both are revolutions built on desperation and the dream of escape. The hopelessness that Alejandro feels about the People Power movement echoes Hiraya’s belief that she can never escape the legacy of her cursed family.

The Ranoco women are, indeed, monstrous—but the brilliance of this novel lies in how it complicates that word. Yes, the things they’ve done are brutal. Yes, they wield power in ways that destroy. But Hiraya and her sister Sidapa are trapped in a destiny written for them by generations before. Their aunt Tadhana once resisted, too, before surrendering to the engkanto’s demands and embracing her fate. Fama poses an unnerving question: at what point does survival turn into monstrosity? And who gets to decide whether a woman fighting for her freedom is a witch or a victim?

Josephine, the young woman invited into this twisted game, has her own chains to break. Her brother Alejandro claims to want to protect her—by marrying her off to an old man. His hypocrisy is staggering. He’s quick to endanger her when it suits his political ambitions, and his cruelty is brushed off as the influence of the engkanto. But as the novel makes clear, the real monsters are often men. Alejandro’s behavior feels all too human, a chilling embodiment of everyday patriarchy.

Filipino folklore, particularly the legend of the aswang, runs deep in this story. It enriches the narrative, giving it a mythic pulse that makes the horror feel ancient and inevitable. Still, it raises a fascinating question: how much of that folklore was shaped by the same patriarchal forces that once turned women into witches in Western cultures? Were these women truly monstrous, or were they simply vilified for refusing to conform? While House of Monstrous Women touches on these ideas, I wished Fama had dug a little deeper into the cultural and feminist subtext of the mythology.

As for the writing—it’s exquisite and deeply unsettling. Fama crafts a gothic atmosphere thick with rot, salt air, and creeping dread. The Ranoco home feels alive, every wall breathing secrets. One claustrophobic scene, in which a character tries to squeeze through a narrowing tunnel, left me physically tense and gasping for air. It’s rare for horror to evoke that kind of visceral reaction, but this book achieves it beautifully.

House of Monstrous Women is both a haunting and a reckoning—a story of women trapped by history, family, and the men who would claim to save them. It’s a gothic feast laced with blood, sorrow, and a sliver of defiance.

Have you read House of Monstrous Women yet? Share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear what you think about its blend of folklore, feminism, and horror.

Related Content

• Daphne Fama Talks Filipino Culture and Lore in House of Monstrous Women (She Writes)
• Daphne Fama on the House of Monstrous Women and the Genius of Filipino Horror Lore (Lesbrary)
• Daphne Fama: On pouring your blood, heart, and soul into the pages (Writer’s Digest)
• House of Monstrous Women – A Game of Life and Death (OUTSFL)

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