The eponymous Tennessee town that serves as the setting of Cinderwich, a novel by speculative fiction powerhouse Cherie Priest, was once a prosperous railroad city. But by the time jaded adjunct professor Kate Thrush arrives, Cinderwich is “barely on Google Maps, just a wide spot in the road” (p. 6). It has a greasy diner, a small library, a neocolonial hotel, lots of foreboding woods, and a jagged necklace of parking meters that are mostly missing their heads. It also has a decades-old mystery that the Tennessee newspapers dredge up every Halloween: In 1979, the body of an unidentified woman was found wedged in the forked branches of a tree.

It is this mystery, and the graffiti that still shows up all over town asking, “Who put Ellen in the blackgum tree?” that lure Kate and her former thesis advisor, Judith Kane, to town. The two of them want to know if the Ellen found in the blackgum tree is their Ellen: Kate’s long-lost aunt and Judith’s former student-turned-lover. It’s a compelling premise, and one that this Southern gothic novel capitalizes on. Cinderwich has gray-clad specters gesturing towards autumnal woods, mysterious women digging holes in the forest, vague warnings slipped under Kate’s hotel room door, and the kind of isolated, cracking roads anyone with common sense knows to be wary of after dark. Although there is enough danger and scares to keep the narrative tense, the book’s horror is gentle. This is a novel that was made for spooky season: It’s deliciously creepy, delightfully atmospheric, and a lot of fun.

The novel is narrated by Kate, whose straight-talking, clever, bare-all storytelling is refreshing and immediately immersive. When Kate first introduces her relationship to Judith—who was her thesis advisor as well as Aunt Ellen’s—she explains, “You could say I had a crush, though that wouldn’t quite be true. I didn’t want to fuck her; I wanted to be her” (p. 3). She later describes a Cinderwich resident’s vibe as “a Viking who left her shieldmaiden gig to become a Victorian witch” (p. 101). Kate is funny, smart, vulnerable, a little prickly, and deeply likable. She is also adept at capturing the ominous atmosphere of the town. As Kate drives in, she notes, “It wasn’t raining yet, but I could smell it in the air when I cracked the window. Moldering leaves, a distant campfire, and rain-to-come: the Appalachian foothills’ version of pumpkin spice” (p. 11-12). Later, she observes how an evening’s long, thin shadows “laced together like fingers across the road” (p. 134).

Much of the novel’s eeriness comes from the setting: the out-of-the-way, wooded landscape and the closed-off community. Cinderwich is a town of secrets and it’s clear, even early on, that all is not right there. On first reaching downtown, Kate notes, “The internet had prepared me for the emptiness and the Closed signs and the vacant sense of decay. It hadn’t prepared me for the quiet” (p. 12). But it’s worth remarking that the town doesn’t conform to some of the more problematic stereotypes often associated with the rural south and Appalachia. Priest, who has lived in Tennessee, portrays the town’s residents as complex and fully realized individuals. Kate and Judith meet a woman with pink-tinged hair who makes elaborate dresses to sell online. Another resident drives a ’68 Falcon with chrome trim, and “swan[s] out of the driver’s seat in a shimmering black and purple outfit” (p. 76). Priest also incorporates Appalachian folklore, such as clootie wells, and celebrates the tradition of “women’s medicine” in the region. The setting contributes to the spookiness, but not in a way that is exploitative.

The novel is propelled forward by the mysteries at its core: What happened to Kate’s missing aunt? Why was this anonymous woman’s corpse left in such an unusual position? Who is leaving the strange graffiti about the crime? Along the way, it explores the importance of found family, the troubling way outsiders often mythologize small towns, the long trail that grief can leave in people’s lives, and queer identities. The novel also fits in the genre of feminist horror: It contains plenty of strong, daunting women who support one another, acknowledges the integral roles women play in upholding and protecting the traditions of the region, and explores how these contributions are often overlooked. And, because Cinderwich has become a draw for anyone looking for a “long-lost daughter, sister, mother, or lover,” the novel reflects on the frequency of violence against women. A kind librarian tells Kate, “Til the day those little girls found that body in the tree, I swear to God, I had no idea how many young women go missin’ in a year” (p. 19). Cinderwich doesn’t delve particularly deeply into any of these ideas, but they add richness to an already compelling narrative.

The dynamic between Kate and Judith in particular is fascinating and complex. Judith is a stunning elder queer, aging gracefully and impeccably dressed (she wears a signature scent and is always decked in tasteful jewelry). She crossed a line with Kate’s aunt when Ellen was her student, forming a romantic relationship that led to a scandal and a temporary career setback. When Kate was her mentee, they in turn shared an attachment that Kate admits “might be considered unhealthy” (p. 3): Kate, who is also queer and has a contentious relationship with her homophobic family, once considered Judith “the most important person in [her] life” (p. 3). Kate had to disentangle herself from Judith as an adult, and has clearly struggled since in her career and personal life. Although their relationship is not inappropriate, it certainly sets off some alarm bells: Kate muses that the patterns of their relationship, which they fall back into once they are reunited in their joint quest to find the truth about Ellen, are both “comforting and stifling” (p. 23); she feels an “embarrassing sense of giddy pleasure to be in [Judith’s] presence,” and teeters towards “the old teacher/student arrangement that was always both too much and not enough” (p. 23). Their relationship dynamic is uncomfortable, as many relationship dynamics are, but at the same time it is clear that Judith and Kate care deeply for one another—for one thing, Judith accepts Kate in a way Kate’s family does not. To Priest’s enormous credit, she never tries to fully reconcile the awkwardness of this relationship, or provide an easy answer.

That’s not to say that the novel is one of unease. Although there are some genuinely scary and unnerving moments in this book—including the chilling motif of the ghostly sound of digging in the night and a tense climax—the novel might be described as “cozy,” a descriptor often used for mysteries but rarely for horror. Cinderwich may include characters telling stories about looking up into the boughs of a tree and seeing a bloodless limb, but these tales are told over blackberry tea and lavender lemonade, or among a trio of witchy women who live together in a “tasteful gothic wonderland” they’ve made for themselves. The novel conjures the same feeling that one might get decorating for Halloween or walking through a cemetery in the fall.

There’s nothing particularly groundbreaking or thematically ambitious in Cinderwich, then. But it is a very welcome and needed addition to the Southern gothic genre, with queer characters who aren’t neatly disposed of, a nuanced portrayal of an oft-stereotyped region, and a strong feminist impulse. This is a well-told tale, rich in atmosphere, with memorable and complex characters. It’s a book to enjoy when the air grows crisp and the nights get longer, and the blackgum leaves turn their striking fiery red.