She Is a Haunting marks Trang Thanh Tran’s debut novel—an ambitious blend of gothic horror, coming-of-age narrative, and post-colonial commentary that creeps under your skin with the persistence of the parasites that inhabit its pages. Set against the misty backdrop of Đà Lạt, Vietnam, this novel follows Jade Nguyen, a Vietnamese-American teenager visiting her estranged father for a summer that promises college tuition but delivers nightmares instead.
At its heart, the novel explores how spaces can become parasitic—feeding on human emotions, histories, and vulnerabilities. The central image of Nhà Hoa (literally “Flower House”) serves as both setting and antagonist—a French colonial structure with a hunger that extends beyond mere metaphor. Unfortunately, while Tran crafts scenes of genuine unease and body horror that will satisfy genre fans, the novel sometimes buckles under the weight of its ambitious themes and metaphors.
Colonialism, Identity, and the Hunger for Belonging
Tran masterfully uses horror as a vehicle to explore the lingering trauma of colonialism. The French colonial house doesn’t just represent occupation—it actively continues it through literal and metaphorical consumption:
“Ce sont tous des parasites,” goes the French from Marion’s mouth. They are all parasites. She picks a fresh oyster from the platter Cam carries back. “If they’re not working, they’re scheming. Should we not keep them busy, then?”
This parasitic relationship extends brilliantly to Jade’s struggle with her Vietnamese-American identity. Neither fully Vietnamese nor fully American, she exists in a liminal space that the novel explores with nuance:
“I am a tourist in the country where my parents were born. Even my clothes have been here before me. All made in Vietnam by Vietnamese hands, then sent overseas where a Vietnamese American girl (that’s me) picks it off the rack and one day brings it to a place she can’t call home but the clothes can, if inanimate objects could claim shit.”
The author excels at illustrating how colonialism creates an internalized sense of not belonging that haunts generations long after colonial powers have physically departed. This exploration of cultural identity provides the novel’s strongest and most resonant themes.
Language as Barrier and Bridge
Tran’s thoughtful incorporation of Vietnamese language without excessive translation represents one of the novel’s strengths. The protagonist’s limited grasp of her heritage language creates realistic barriers while also highlighting her journey toward reclamation:
“I have a Vietnamese tongue,” I snap, catching up to her on the steps. Technically, Florence is right. I can’t read Vietnamese, despite Mom’s efforts over the tonal rises and falls for each accent mark. It was always easier speaking English like everyone else.
These language barriers reflect the larger theme of cultural disconnection—how colonial legacies create ruptures in cultural transmission that haunt subsequent generations. However, the occasional overreliance on language barriers as plot devices sometimes feels convenient rather than organic to the story.
Gothic Horror with Teeth (and Feelers)
Where Tran truly shines is in creating visceral body horror that will make readers’ skin crawl:
“Sitting by the fireplace, the canvas of bone white behind her, Cam dangles it over her mouth by one end.
‘F*ck no,’ I say, recoiling despite this not being real. Like a rearing snake, the centipede’s long front pincers snap into her slender cheek.
She shoves its middle, legs and all, between her teeth in a sickening crunch.”
The novel’s most effective horror elements come from its unflinching focus on consumption—whether that’s physical ingestion of insects, psychological possession, or cultural appropriation. The parasitic imagery creates a consistent through-line that elevates the horror beyond mere spectacle.
Unfortunately, the supernatural elements sometimes suffer from inconsistent rules. The ghosts’ abilities and limitations shift according to plot needs rather than established logic, which undermines some of the tension the novel works hard to build.
Character Connections and Disconnections
The heart of She Is a Haunting lies in its exploration of familial relationships, particularly between Jade and her father, Ba. Their estrangement and tentative reconnection form the emotional core of the novel:
“‘What?’ Shrimp falls from my bánh xèo. The website was always part of the deal, thanks to programming classes, but he’d said nothing about a group project.”
While Jade’s relationship with her sister Lily provides authentic moments of both conflict and tenderness, the romantic subplot between Jade and Florence often feels underdeveloped despite its potential. Their connection lacks the depth and nuance given to the family relationships, making it difficult to fully invest in their romance amidst the horror elements competing for narrative space.
Structural Foundations: Plot and Pacing
The novel’s structure mimics its content—sometimes unsettlingly effective, other times disjointed in ways that don’t serve the narrative. The beginning draws readers in with immediate tension and creeping dread, but the middle section struggles with pacing issues as Jade’s false haunting plans and website development stretch across too many chapters without significant advancement.
By the climactic house fire, some readers may find the resolution simultaneously too abrupt and too convenient. The final act burns through plot developments at breakneck speed, raising questions about character motivations that remain partially unresolved.
Strengths and Weaknesses
What Works:
Atmospheric horror that creates genuine unease through visceral descriptions
Cultural commentary on colonialism woven seamlessly into the supernatural elements
Complex protagonist with realistic flaws and compelling identity struggles
Intergenerational trauma depicted with nuance and emotional resonance
Innovative narrative structure with segments from the house’s perspective
What Falters:
Inconsistent pacing, particularly in the middle sections
Supernatural rules that sometimes bend for plot convenience
Side characters who occasionally lack depth beyond their relationship to the protagonist
Romantic subplot that doesn’t receive sufficient development
Thematic exploration that sometimes becomes heavy-handed
Final Assessment
She Is a Haunting represents an impressive debut that showcases Trang Thanh Tran’s talent for atmospheric horror and cultural commentary. The novel’s central metaphor of parasitic relationships—whether between colonizer and colonized, parent and child, or house and inhabitant—creates a thematically rich foundation for its horror elements.
Despite structural issues and occasionally uneven character development, the novel succeeds in creating a memorable exploration of cultural identity through a horror lens. Readers seeking Vietnamese representation in gothic literature will find much to appreciate, even as they navigate the occasionally frustrating plot developments.
For fans of books like Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Mexican Gothic or Tiffany D. Jackson’s White Smoke, Tran’s debut offers similar explorations of how spaces inherit and perpetuate historical traumas. However, those seeking tightly plotted horror with consistent supernatural rules might find themselves occasionally frustrated by the novel’s narrative choices.
Who Should Read This Book
She Is a Haunting will appeal most to readers who:
Enjoy atmospheric horror with cultural and historical dimensions
Appreciate LGBTQ+ representation in genre fiction
Are interested in explorations of Vietnamese and Vietnamese-American identity
Don’t mind some pacing issues if the atmosphere and themes resonate
Like their horror with literary aspirations and metaphorical depth
Comparable Titles
Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
White Smoke by Tiffany D. Jackson
The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson
House of Hollow by Krystal Sutherland
The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix
She Is a Haunting reminds us that the most terrifying hauntings aren’t just supernatural—they’re the legacies of historical trauma that continue to feed on successive generations. Trang Thanh Tran has crafted a novel that, despite its structural imperfections, leaves readers with the unsettling sense that some hungers can never truly be satisfied, and some houses never stop consuming, even after they’ve burned to the ground.
Like the parasitic insects that populate its pages, this novel burrows under your skin and leaves parts of itself behind—for better and for worse.