Everyone harbors inner demons—some abstract, others all too tangible—but rarely are we forced to embody one. In the case of Victory Witherkeigh’s The Demon, the entity has been robbed of strength and not only plunged into the raw vulnerability of human existence, but thrust into the heart of a coming-of-age story.
As a standalone companion to Witherkeigh’s debut, The Girl (2022), this novel follows an unnamed demon, once a servant of Death but now condemned to inhabit a girl’s body and navigate the turbulent world of freshman year at the University of California, Berkeley. Steeped in Filipino mythology, The Demon dissects identity, punishment, and the cost of human connection with raw, lyrical intensity. Its cultural authenticity and emotional depth are electrifying, though its restrained supernatural elements may leave horror fans wanting more. Still, Witherkeigh’s sophomore effort is a haunting mirror for anyone who’s felt torn between who they are and who they’re forced to be. And it works to redefine the boundaries of the bildungsroman.
The demon’s tale begins with a hollow triumph: She has possessed the body of the protagonist of The Girl, but amnesia clouds her victory. She recalls only fragments, glimpses of the girl’s life and a shadowy deal with the Filipino warrior LapuLapu in 1521. Confronting Death, her former master, she learns her pact defied his will, earning a punishment as cruel as it is clever: She must endure mortality, trapped in the girl’s existence as a Berkeley freshman. Lecture halls, dorm rivalries, and tentative romances become her battleground, each human interaction a fresh wound for a being unaccustomed to vulnerability. Supernatural encounters, like the aswang, shapeshifting women from Filipino folklore who feast on viscera, punctuate her journey, hinting at her past sins. The narrative tracks her struggle to reclaim agency, navigate toxic relationships, and unravel her punishment’s mystery, all under Death’s cold gaze. The plot stands alone, accessible without knowledge of The Girl, whilst permitting returning readers to catch echoes of the girl’s abusive family, as well as her warm relationship with her grandmother, which anchors the demon's chaos.
Witherkeigh, a Filipino/Philippine Islands author from Los Angeles, builds on her debut’s foundation. The Girl, a finalist for the 2020 Killer Nashville Claymore Award and third-place winner for YA Thriller in the 2023 BookFest Awards, followed a Filipino American teen haunted by demonic forces and cultural alienation in 1990s Los Angeles. Some critics praised its coming-of-age arc but noted its supernatural elements felt underutilized. The Demon responds by centering the titular entity’s perspective and amplifying Filipino mythology, such as LapuLapu and aswang, while retaining the human struggles that defined its predecessor. This shift aligns with works like Rin Chupeco’s The Bone Witch (2017), which weaves Southeast Asian folklore into modern fantasy, and Tracy Deonn’s Legendborn (2020), which explores African American cultural identity through a magical lens. Like Legendborn, The Demon grounds its fantasy in the protagonist’s struggle with heritage and systemic prejudice, though its demon narrator and focus on Filipino colonial legacies offer a distinct perspective. The Berkeley setting, vibrant with academic ambition and cultural friction, evokes the grounded yet fantastical tone of Holly Black’s The Folk of the Air series (2018–2020), but its exploration of colonial legacies through LapuLapu’s pact sets it apart as a culturally specific critique.
The demon is a riveting protagonist, her voice a jagged blend of sardonic wit and raw vulnerability. Once a creature who scoffed at human weakness, she now drowns in it: “She’d mocked mortals’ fleeting loves, their petty grudges, but now they coiled around her, inescapable” (p. 47). Her interactions, awkward flirtations with classmates, and tense exchanges with a manipulative roommate feel painfully authentic, grounding her otherworldly nature in the universal ache of young adulthood. The grandmother, a continuing character from The Girl, is a quiet strength, her lessons on Filipino traditions like respect for elders providing a centre of gravity amid the supernatural pandemonium. Classmates, including a charming but toxic love interest, challenge her understanding of trust, while Death’s rare appearances carry mythic weight, his gaze “a blade honed by centuries” (p. 201). The aswang, glimpsed in a funeral scene as “women in black, their eyes glinting with hunger” (p. 132), are chilling but fleeting, a missed opportunity to deepen the horror. These supporting characters enrich the narrative, but their limited depth can make the story feel overly centered on the demon, a minor crack in an otherwise compelling cast.
The novel’s soul lies in its interrogation of identity. The demon’s punishment forces her to question whether she can transcend her nature: “This body, this heart, it betrays me with every beat, yet I cannot stop it” (p. 189). This moment, raw with the pain of romantic betrayal, invites readers to see a monster as achingly human, mirroring the identity struggles of young adults, especially those navigating cultural duality. Redemption weaves through her arc, as she grapples with toxic cycles (both human and supernatural) while confronting the legacy of colonialism in the shape of both LapuLapu’s pact and the modern racism of Berkeley. These themes may resonate deeply with, for example, first-generation readers, offering a narrative that validates often multiplicitous senses of self. Yet the balance tips heavily toward human struggles, and the aswang’s brief appearances leave horror fans like me, who are hungry for the visceral terror promised by Filipino folklore, slightly unsatisfied, a sentiment echoed in those critiques of The Girl.
Nevertheless, the integration of Filipino mythology is the novel’s beating heart, setting it apart in a genre often tethered to Western tropes. LapuLapu and aswang are not decorative but foundational, grounding the demon’s past in a pre-colonial narrative that challenges colonial erasure. The Berkeley setting amplifies this, its cultural diversity a mirror for the demon’s fractured identity. Witherkeigh’s mission to reach “those who are immigrants, orphans, lonely and seeking refuge” shines through, offering a story that feels like a lifeline for marginalized readers. It resonates with contemporary YA trends emphasizing diverse voices, carving a unique niche for itself.
The Demon is not without flaws. The supporting cast, while functional, lacks the depth to match the demon’s complexity, and the restrained supernatural elements, particularly the underused aswang, dampen the horror promised by the genre label. A subplot involving a classmate’s betrayal feels rushed, its resolution leaning on predictable tropes rather than the novel’s earlier nuance. Yet these stumbles are overshadowed by Witherkeigh’s ambition. The demon’s perspective is a daring gamble that pays off, offering a lens on humanity that is both alien and achingly familiar.
Witherkeigh’s prose in particular is a triumph, blending lyrical intensity with biting clarity. The demon’s alienation sings in lines like: “The lecture hall buzzed, a swarm of mortal ambition she could neither join nor escape” (p. 23). The rhythm of this sentence, sharp yet evocative, mirrors the novel’s emotional pulse. Introspective moments can slow the pace, particularly in the midsection, where romantic entanglements overshadow supernatural stakes. The narrative structure is disciplined, moving from disorientation to tentative growth, with flashbacks to 1521 weaving seamlessly into the present. The climax, centered on personal resolution rather than a supernatural showdown, ties back to the novel’s focus on identity but lacks the visceral punch some might crave. Still, the pacing remains taut, each scene a stepping stone towards the demon’s transformation, ensuring the conclusion reflects the opening’s existential weight.
After reading The Demon, I paused to reflect on a moment from that morning, scrolling through social media posts about cultural festivals in Los Angeles. Young people were sharing their struggles to honor their roots while fitting into a fast-moving world. One post stood out: “I carry my family’s stories, but they feel like weights I don’t know how to hold.” That raw confession echoed the demon’s struggle, her sense of being trapped between worlds. Witherkeigh doesn’t offer easy answers; her protagonist doesn’t escape her punishment but learns to carry it. This refusal of closure is what makes The Demon linger. It’s a story for anyone who’s felt like a stranger in their own skin—a reminder that identity, like a demon, is both a burden and a strange, stubborn gift.