WOODWORM

Two women, a grandmother and her granddaughter, grapple with their legacy in a house forged from hate.

The troubling fact that all houses are haunted isn’t lost on Spanish author Martínez, who infuses the bewitched homestead in her little nightmare with saints and angels to balance out its familial terrors. “We have a lot of traditions, including locking each other away,” confesses the unnamed granddaughter, who co-narrates the story in alternating chapters with her equally anonymous grandmother. Set against the backdrop of La Mancha—a region that bore the brunt of the country’s civil war—the story unfolds in a very old house where the girl still dreams of escape to university in Madrid, or any kind of better life really, but her elder knows better: “It’s a trap. Nobody ever leaves it, and those who do always end up coming back.” We soon learn that the grandmother’s own mother buried her abusive husband alive within the walls of the house, which seems to have awakened a hunger in it. Crippled by poverty, the narrators are also burdened by their parasitic relationship with the Jarabos, a wealthy family that suffers under the curses the grandmother and her saints unfurl upon them, and that waits, if subconsciously, for their comeuppance. The grandmother’s marriage to the Jarabos’ foreman, Pedro, ended with his mysterious demise, and the granddaughter’s employment under their roof only deepens the familial rift. If the book’s stubborn employment of unnamed characters seems confusing, it is. Martínez’s prose is fairly straightforward with a menacing snarl hiding amid all this subtext, but it often leaves one guessing as to what’s happening at all. There are interesting dynamics simmering underneath, not least the palpable sense of inherited trauma and the oppressive nature of inequality. However, the book’s metaphysical ambitions are compromised by structural flaws that threaten to leave readers adrift, if alarmed.

A ghost story buried in a family closet laden with skeletons and sins.