3.5
Adriana Chartrand’s An Ordinary Violence announces its intentions from the very first chapter: this is a novel steeped in unease, in the subtle dread that leaks from the edges of everyday life, and in the lingering, generational shadows that follow us even when we believe we have escaped them. Chartrand’s debut is eerie in a way that feels genuinely original—not merely an accumulation of horror tropes but a disturbance that rises from character, history, and the unspoken emotional ruptures within a family. It is a novel that often feels less like a series of frightening events and more like the literary equivalent of a haunting.
Chartrand’s greatest strength lies in the atmosphere she sustains. The Indigenous gothic frame she works within gives the story a rare texture: grounded in the physical world yet permeated with unseen presences, cultural inheritance, and a sense of danger that is both spiritual and brutally real. The world she builds is one in which the boundaries between psychological trauma and supernatural threat blur until they become indistinguishable. This is where the book feels most assured—where Chartrand trusts the reader to sit in that ambiguity, to feel its discomfort, and to accept that some horrors cannot be neatly explained.
What most lingers, though, is the relationship between the siblings at the novel’s center. Their bond is fraught, tender, and deeply unhealthy, a dynamic that positions the book within a long gothic lineage. Gothic literature has always had a fascination with siblings who exert powerful, often damaging influences over one another—whether through loyalty, rivalry, codependency, or unspeakable secrets. Chartrand’s contribution to this tradition is notable because she avoids melodrama. Instead, she portrays a sibling connection that is unsettling precisely because it feels possible, the kind of relationship forged by shared trauma and distorted by the unequal distribution of resilience, guilt, and need. The siblings’ dynamic is not only thematically resonant; it becomes one of the novel’s most intriguing—and at times chilling—elements.
Though An Ordinary Violence succeeds in mood and character, it does bear the marks of a debut, particularly in its structure. The novel’s opening is captivating: tight, evocative, and effectively destabilizing. It draws the reader into its web with a clear sense of direction. The middle section continues this momentum, deepening the emotional stakes and sharpening the supernatural tension. But by the time the ending arrives, the threads pulled taut throughout the narrative do not quite weave back into a cohesive whole. The closing chapters feel rushed compared to the richly paced buildup, and some of the story’s thematic and supernatural implications remain underdeveloped, as though Chartrand was reaching for an ending the book was not fully prepared to deliver.
This unevenness does not diminish the novel’s impact, but it does create a slightly fragmented reading experience. One leaves the book with questions—not the satisfying, haunted kind, but the sense that certain narrative pieces were set in motion only to drift out of alignment. Still, the ambition behind Chartrand’s storytelling is clear, and the missteps feel more like the marks of a writer stretching her craft than structural failures.
Ultimately, An Ordinary Violence is a striking debut: haunting, emotionally intelligent, and original in its approach to the gothic. Even when it falters, it remains compelling, carried by Chartrand’s ability to render dread both intimate and culturally rooted. If the novel doesn’t fully tie its beginning and ending together, the journey between them is nonetheless absorbing, promising a writer whose future work could be extraordinary.