The Haunting of William Thorn is the first horror novel by Ben Alderson, a BookTok creator and the author of twenty-one fantasy books. He is best known for his self-published queer Beauty and the Beast retelling, Lord of Eternal Night (2021). [1] The Haunting of William Thorn, meanwhile is marketed as a “split timeline queer twisted love story” comparable to The Haunting of Hill House (1959), How to Sell a Haunted House (2023), and The Notebook (1996). That is, it blends a gothic sensibility with a haunting mystery and a doomed romance. What this marketing omits, however, is the humour: Its lighthearted banter and a tongue-in-cheek narrative voice often lean closer to romcom than ghost story, dominating the novel in between moments of drama and dread.

Most of the action takes place in 2024 on a haunted English manor, with a claustrophobic, almost theatrical focus on one setting and two characters. William, a young author on the verge of alcoholism, spends a week in the ghost-infested property he has inherited from his cheating boyfriend (and tragic car accident victim), Archie. Edward, a mysterious, unwanted guest, introduces himself as the manor’s gardener, but is soon to become its second inhabitant—and a source of much unresolved sexual tension. The past intrudes briefly through the prologue and the journal of Robert Thomas, a previous resident of the manor, who describes the love he shared with Teddy (or Edward Jones, also a gardener) in 1939. That romance ended with Teddy’s death on the front lines, and Robert hanging himself in the attic. In the present day, when things begin to go bump in the night, and Edward’s identity comes into question, William’s own grief turns to horror.

What is the nature of the titular haunting? Can William survive the mansion and the loss of his boyfriend? Who, really, is Edward—and is history repeating itself? Promising emotional depth, gothic intensity, and “spiders on page,” the novel works hard to entice the reader with its premise, its horror, and its mysteries. Whether it delivers is a complex question, and one that reveals as much about the current state of publishing as it does about the book itself.

The novel’s central, if unintentional, mystery becomes apparent as early as the first page: How does a book riddled with grammatical mistakes, repetitions, and inconsistencies end up traditionally published and rated 4.0 on Goodreads via mostly raving user reviews (based on more than five hundred ratings within four days of release)? Selecting a few (amongst many) examples of the book’s issues was highly entertaining, and perhaps hints at an answer. For readers who don’t find botched prose grating, there is plenty of so-bad-it’s-good charm, such as: “There was no escaping the truth of what had happened here, even if it was not entirely clear what happened in the first place” (p. 18). Other sentences are overwritten or confused almost to the point of incoherence: “He’d studied the floorplan of so many times since he’d been transferred ownership of it, and was transfixed on just how big it was” (p. 30). Repetition abounds, including the moment when William ends up “landing on the second floor landing” (p. 177). Some phrases are impressively convoluted: “Even more so thanks to the lack of a smile that the man didn’t offer him” (p. 138). And sometimes the language is so exaggerated it’s difficult to distinguish a joke from a mistake: “Mike reeled back, brow furrowing so hard the lines across his forehead were deep enough to camp inside” (p. 145). The physicality turns surreal when heat burns “somewhere north of William’s chest,” or when sympathy “swam in every vessel” in his body (p. 210, 423). Some Goodreads reviews claim that early ARCs had extra issues, which were solved by the time of the publication. But many remained, suggesting the editing and rewriting process had been simply abandoned at some stage.

The novel is likely to resonate most with younger readers. It’s written in a teenage emotional register that manifests through its particular approach to characterization (heightened reactions, impassioned, and an all-or-nothing attitude). William is angsty, immature, and not fully fleshed out. Beyond Edward, he seems to have almost no living attachments, no passions beyond self-destruction when calm and survival when threatened. Even the description of William as a “bestselling children’s author” is a label rather than an identity. He’s at his best when his bitterness slips into humor. Trying to fix the decaying mansion’s electrics, for example, he decides to work faster as “otherwise it would be a romantic night for one with candles and no heating and the faint smell of mould” (p. 40). His despair over carpeted bathrooms is relatable, especially to UK-based readers. And he appears most like himself when relishing the prospect that a haunting might discourage house guests, or telling the taxi driver that he needs the property to host his “drug-fuelled parties” (pp. 40, 31).

William’s aggression, impatience, distrust, and irritability, mixed with a desperate need for connection and peace, ring true as expressions of exhaustion and grief; but they appear situational, rather than rooted in fuller personal history. Still, as is also the case with Alderson’s protagonists in his other works, this blend of vulnerability and spikiness—though off-putting to some—can be endearing and captivating. The constant push and pull between yearning and fear of attachment makes it genuinely satisfying when William settles into moments of comfort amidst heartbreak. His emotional complexity, although inconsistently rendered and occasionally marked by jarring changeability, is admirable in its ambition. Most importantly, William remains loveable—and loved—despite being guarded and deeply imperfect. There is something comforting, even generous, in that portrayal.

The novel’s heightened emotion is anchored firmly in characters’ bodies and rendered through vivid, sensory-rich prose that sometimes achieves real gothic intensity, thus enhancing the horror set-pieces, but at other times tips into parody. When the need to evoke terror collides with awkward phrasing, moments of comedy ensue: “As if in answer, the noise came again. The screech of wood. A creak. His mind conjured an image of a chair being dragged across the floor. No rat was big enough to do that, no spider capable” (p. 175). Extreme reactions are the norm, even when the context doesn’t fully justify them. William trembles at the sight of a Ouija board, his blood “turning into ice”: “His jaw clenched, stopping the torrent of words building in his throat” (p. 186). His overreaction is never fully explained, despite Edward questioning it outright. The discovery of Robert Thomas’s grave, too, unfolds with relentless drama: William recognises the sight in a series of repetitive realisations—a stone slab, the etched words, a grave, a burial site—before his “entire body” pauses—“his breathing, his heartbeat, his mind” (p. 201). At its most effective, the intensity of the scene resonates with the emotional beats, becoming haunting. The sequence in which Robert’s painting comes alive and reaches for William, for instance, is horrifying and full of well-written, evocative descriptions. With a threat to his life evident enough to cause his mounting panic, exaggeration meets appropriate stakes to build a moment of true horror.

Another aspect of the novel’s heightened emotion lies in its blend of sincerity with purple prose, creating moments that somehow feel both clichéd and genuinely romantic. Robert’s diary entries, in which he declares his feelings for Teddy and wrestles with religious guilt, overflow with youthful naïveté and the exuberance of first love which are so exaggerated that they appear authentic: “My yearning for Teddy is so potent I want nothing more than to scream it across oceans and forests, demand the sky to listen and the stars to paint our faces upon the blanket of night” (p. 194). He compares love to being haunted, echoing William’s earlier yearning to believe in ghosts because that would prove the existence of a true romantic connection: “after all, what was a ghost except the love of a soul clinging onto what they didn’t wish to leave behind?” (p. 27). At its best, this style captures the earnestness of adolescent longing; at its worst, it slips into unabashed melodrama. During an argument, William wants to “split the wound in his heart and bleed out all the pain until he was empty of it,” while Edward urges him to “use him,” “offload on him,” finally saying: “Unleash all that darkness inside of you simply because I won’t judge you” (p. 237). At one point, “Edward had tears in his eyes, clinging to those beautifully dark lashes, making the brown of his stare glisten like raw gems” (p. 240). Whether this intensity soars or collapses varies from scene to scene, but Alderson’s commitment to the style is never in doubt.

The way in which the text expresses and inhabits a certain kind of youthfulness extends beyond its characters and style. Its worldbuilding and internal logic feel rooted less in historical understanding than in an imagined idea of what living on the cusp of the Second World War might have felt like—what a “note of death” would say, or how people would react to conscription. Each time, emotional impact and symbolic significance outweigh authenticity. One might argue that this period in history is, in itself, dramatic and meaningful enough; perhaps it is too weighty to align with a novel in which tragedy functions as a gothic flourish, rather than a reflection of lived experience. Still, even at its most gruesome and disjointed, the story remains just detached enough not to disturb the reader, and well-constructed enough for the setting and plot to cohere on an intuitive level. Ultimately, The Haunting of William Thorn lives and dies on its nebulous “vibes,” clinging to minimal plausibility by the skin of its teeth. Yet some of Alderson’s strongest instincts—as a plotter and structural craftsman—still shine through. Most chapter endings pose clear questions that compel continued reading; emotionally heightened set pieces are thoughtfully positioned; multiple reveals and twists punctuate the narrative; and moments of genuine surprise demonstrate how well Alderson understands audience engagement, even if this novel is not the most successful showcase of his skills.

At the time when we are undergoing the daily grind of following our own slow slide towards authoritarianism, there’s something deeply soothing about Alderson’s softened history and matter-of-fact liberal outlook. In The Haunting of William Thorn, love is love, and prejudice belongs firmly to the past—dead and buried, regarded with horror from our modern, enlightened perspective, a ghost to be exorcised by uniting the star-crossed lovers. The novel is pacifistic, suspicious of authority, and unwavering in its defense of personal freedom and happiness; fittingly, its villain is a corrupt policeman. William critiques social conventions, praising his parents for letting him play with dolls as a child. Edward voices his disillusionment with theology and Robert’s journal captures the psychological toll of religious guilt and homophobia. These themes are not explored in depth, yet they shape the novel’s emotional core, building to an ending that is a cry against institutional cruelty and a celebration of love. The central couple—though one might argue that threatening someone with a poker crosses a line—treat one another with respect. Alderson is adamant about writing relationships of equality, often in direct opposition to common tropes in romantic fiction. For example, William, despite craving rescue, refuses the damsel-in-distress role, snapping at Edward: “Maybe you’ve got some weird knight in shining armour complex, but I’m not going to be the one to feed into your kink, okay?” (p. 237). Similarly, despite occasionally rigid moral framing, Alderson gestures toward nuance and self-forgiveness: After wrestling with guilt, William concludes that “there wasn’t a single person who was solely to blame,” acknowledging the humanity and fallibility of all involved (p. 419). No matter how brutal the fate of his characters, there’s comfort in knowing that Alderson’s heart is in the right place.

On Goodreads, Alderson rated The Haunting of William Thorn five stars and wrote: “Tehe. This is my favourite book I’ve written, and low key I think it is my best!” As charming as that is, it’s hard to agree. Many of his fantasy novels are much stronger. Despite consistently producing overwritten novels in need of much developmental and line-level editing, Alderson has a gift for addictive storytelling with high stakes, touching romance, shocking twists, intriguing moral dilemmas, and great entertainment value. In his fantasy novels, characters undergo brutal trials with real, harrowing consequences. His fantasies blend classic fairy-tale darkness with the warmth of true emotional connection. Their threats are visceral, and have a clear psychological cost, keeping the narrative compelling even when the set-up is comically devoid of subtlety. In Prince of Endless Tides (2024), Prince Ernest must choose between giving himself up to a death cult or allowing them to murder children as offerings to vampiric mermaids attacking the kingdom. A child does die in a dramatic public execution despite the heroes’ best attempts to save him—a scene so over-the-top it verges on parody, yet one which is also infused with enough sincerity to evoke genuine sadness amidst the so-bad-it’s-good spectacle. In Heir to Frost and Storm (2023), Maximus falls in love with the dragon-rider Simion, but is tormented by “marriage magic” that injures him whenever he grows close to anyone except his murderous, phoenix-possessed husband, Camron. Believing Camron’s death has broken this bond, he accepts a moment of intimacy with Simion, knowing he will soon have to abandon the dragon-rider to save his mother’s life. The curse renders him unconscious, and he wakes to realise that his husband must still be alive. This unhinged, anything-can-happen, high-stakes intensity—where true love collides with complete collapse—is what Alderson does best.

The Haunting of William Thorn appears lukewarm in comparison, often pulling its narrative punches when they could have landed the hardest. Ultimately, the reader’s enjoyment of the novel—and Alderson’s writing more broadly—depends on one’s willingness to treat his prose as the literary equivalent of a Magic Eye poster: Squint hard enough, and an image eventually emerges from the noise. In this way, the sentence-level chaos becomes a microcosm of the novel: Whether a reader leaves satisfied may hinge on whether a line like “William shook the branch, which was beginning to ache the minimal muscles in his arms” provokes understanding, indulgent amusement, or despair over the state of modern publishing (p. 160). Perhaps the trick is to focus on intention rather than execution: Once memories blend, details fade, and literal events dissolve into a wider metaphor about moving on from an unsuccessful relationship, dealing with emotional baggage, or re-learning to believe in love, the emotional throughline of the text becomes clearer. The novel’s tone, in turn, evokes the duck-rabbit illusion: It might resonate with some, appearing vivid and romantic, and alienate others, turning trite and overwrought. Those who squint just right are rewarded with a bittersweet emotional punch at the novel’s end which (almost) redeems the novel’s many flaws. The question remains, however: How did the task of making the reading experience enjoyable get outsourced to the reader?

Alderson lists "Amazon #1 bestselling author" as his leading credential. With 153.3 K followers on TikTok, 81.8 K on Instagram, and 43.2 K on YouTube, and multiple publishing deals, he demonstrates formidable business acumen. He claims to read over a hundred fantasy novels a year, tracks trends, crafts engaging premises, optimises his covers and blurbs, cultivates relationships with other authors, maintains a personable online presence, and writes at a breakneck pace. In striving to master nearly every aspect of internet-age authorship, he has compromised on one thing: the craft. His career mirrors the fast-fashion logic that has swept through the book world: quantity over quality, disposable algorithm-driven storytelling that prioritises tropes over themes, recognisability over innovation, and sex over substance, with strong emotions oozing from every page. The result is fiction designed for instant comprehension and broad appeal, heavy on telling over showing, with direct exposition and frequent repetition to accommodate distracted, superficial reading. In fairness, Alderson’s novels always reach higher, only to be brought down by the production pace and market demands. Existing in this hybrid space—half rushed industrial product, half imaginative, passion-driven creation—he reveals as much about the evolution of contemporary publishing as he does about his own ambitions.

In The Haunting of William Thorn, William calls himself a best-selling children’s author. When Edward asks him about his studies, he replies: “I went to master the art of English Literature, but left with a big ego after I got my first book deal, with a well-to-do publisher in my first year. The advance was healthy, so I left one dream to pursue another” (p. 216). Education and commercial success are presented as incompatible, with a knowing touch of anti-intellectualism. This raises a broader question: Do high literary standards hinder popularity? As of this year, the online original fiction community Wattpad reports around 160 million monthly active users. [2] The British Library holds approximately 150 million items [3] to Wattpad’s 665 million story uploads. [4] According to one study by the social scientists Federico Pianzola, Simone Rebora, and Gerhard Lauer, Wattpad is “the biggest database of user-generated fiction,” surpassing popular fanfiction sites, and populated by writers who often aspire to become professional authors, yet follow an explicitly non-elitist model privileging engagement and community over literary refinement. [5] Pianzola et al. claim that the idea that reading declines after childhood is a misconception; rather, digital social reading has replaced traditional publishing as the dominant form of literary engagement for younger audiences. [6] This means that platforms hosting user-generated stories “educate” new generations on fiction published with no gatekeepers. They treasure parasocial connections and grow up on amateur writing that privileges immediacy and emotional excess, becoming accustomed to that “style,” explaining perhaps the scarcity of complaints about Alderson’s unedited novel.

This opens up further questions about how digital content production is reshaping traditional publishing—there is a throughline from Wattpad and fanfiction writers crossing into print to the structure and style of writing itself transforming under technological influence. When Wattpad launched its own publishing division, Wattpad Books, in 2019, an article in Independent Publisher observed that the platform’s new model “blends the human and the machine.” [7] The platform’s AI technology, Story DNA, trawls the uploaded texts, analysing statistics, reader interaction, and line-level writing, to select the most “effective” stories with the strongest engagement metrics, reducing the role of traditional gatekeepers. The model aims to transcend the biases and market speculation of agents and editors, allowing data rather than taste to identify the most appealing stories. Yet the article warns that the “other” factors in the traditional agenting process—artistry, subtlety, and craft—may be lost, pushing literature further toward “the capitalist bottom line.” The only thing we risk by pushing literature in that direction is—well—literature.

Education, then, becomes crucial—not only to sustain writing craft and protect artistic merit, but to understand why they matter. Who really benefits when writers flatten their artistry and unlearn respect for quality and substance, or when readers lower their standards and take on the work of deciphering unedited texts? At a time when corporate systems erode creative autonomy and critical thinking, the least we can do is refuse to disempower ourselves.

Before receiving my review copy of this novel, I found myself wading through all of Alderson’s works searching for The One—the polished work that realises his potential as an author. Perhaps never finding it, but catching vivid glimpses of what could be, is a part of the appeal. Alderson—still unbridled by an effective editor, writing three books at once, and maintaining the same unwavering enthusiasm—risks never producing a fully finished novel. That would be a loss, and a waste of talent, not explainable by market whims alone. I had hoped The Haunting of William Thorn would be that book. It isn’t. None of them are. But there is an excellent novel inside Ben Alderson. I’d be thrilled to read it one day. For now, it lies scattered across twenty-three of them. 

Endnotes

[1] See full list of books by Ben Alderson here: https://share.google/y8MDmJdF7vENeH3WD) [return]

[2] According to Wattpad’s own reporting: https://company.wattpad.com/press [return]

[3] Official number, reported by the UK Government: https://www.gov.uk/government/organisations/british-library [return]

[4] As of 2021, number not confirmed: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wattpad#cite_note-Wattpad-10. The article I quote later analysed a sample of 31 million Wattpad stories. [return]

[5] See Federico Pianzola, Simone Rebora, and Gerhard Lauer, “Wattpad as a resource for literary studies. Quantitative and qualitative examples of the importance of digital social reading and readers’ comments in the margins”, PLoS ONE (2020), 15(1): e0226708.https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0226708 [return]

[6] As above. [return]

[7]  See Craig Manning, “From the Tech Desk: What Does Wattpad’s New Publishing Division Mean for the Future of Books?”, Independent Publisher (2019) https://independentpublisher.com/article.php?page=2369&utm [return]