Don-t Let The Forest In -
If you’ve ever whispered a secret into a dark closet and sworn you heard it whisper back, then Don’t Let the Forest In is the book that’s been waiting for you. This isn’t just a horror novel; it’s a lush, rotting love letter to anyone who has ever mistaken their own trauma for a monster under the bed.
The Premise (Spoiler-Free): At first glance, it’s a classic dark academia setup: two eccentric, artistically gifted siblings—Andrew and Dove—return to their secluded, rain-soaked family estate after a family tragedy. The forest at the edge of their garden isn't just a border; it's a hunger. Andrew is a painter obsessed with capturing the "perfect decay." Dove is a cellist whose music seems to make the ivy grow. The rule is simple: keep the windows shut, burn the fallen leaves, and don't let the forest in.
But the forest doesn’t knock. It whispers. It mimics. It shows you exactly what you want to see.
What Makes It Interesting (The Good Rot): Most horror stories use the woods as a place to get lost. This book uses the woods as a mirror. The monster here isn't a wolf or a witch; it's anthropomorphized melancholy. The forest feeds on unspoken grief, sibling rivalry, and artistic obsession. Every time Andrew tries to paint a memory of his late mother, the canvas starts to bloom with thorns. Every time Dove plays a desperate chord, the roots crack the foundation of the house.
The writing is visceral. You don't read about the smell of wet earth and gasoline; you choke on it. The author does a terrifyingly beautiful thing by blurring the line between creation and consumption. The more beautiful Andrew paints the forest, the more it takes from him. It asks a brutal question: If you turn your pain into art, does the art become a cage for that pain—or a doorway?
The "Don’t Read Before Bed" Factor: There is a specific scene involving a mirror made of polished bark and a second cello that plays itself two rooms away. I won’t spoil it, but I will say I had to sleep with the lights on. The horror is slow, sticky, and intellectual, then suddenly sharp and physical. It’s the kind of dread that makes you nervous to look out a window at dusk.
A Minor Crit (The Overgrowth): The middle third of the book gets dense—and I mean metaphorically tangled. The plot loops like a briar patch. Just when you think Andrew has figured out the rules (don't bleed on the roots, don't eat the fruit that glows), the narrative double-backs into a dream sequence that feels one layer too deep. Some readers will call this "atmospheric." Others will want to grab a machete. I leaned closer to the former, but patience is required.
The Verdict: Don’t Let the Forest In is not for someone who wants a jump scare. It’s for the reader who wants to feel the slow, seductive horror of realizing that the monster outside isn’t trying to break in—it’s trying to convince you that you never really left the wild in the first place.
If you loved The Only Good Indians for its guilt-ridden landscape, or Mexican Gothic for its hostile house, read this. Just don’t blame me when you start sleeping with the curtains drawn closed and the lights burning bright. Don-t Let the Forest In
Rating: ★★★★☆ (4/5 stars – Haunting, original, but occasionally lost in its own canopy.)
Don’t Let the Forest In is a New York Times-bestselling young adult psychological horror novel by C.G. Drews [19, 24]. It is a standalone "horromance" that blends dark academia, gothic folk horror, and botanical body horror [18, 41]. Story Overview
The book follows Andrew, a writer of nightmarish fairy tales, and his best friend Thomas, who illustrates them [2, 13, 17]. Upon returning to Wickwood Academy, Thomas begins acting strangely, arriving with blood on his sleeve while his parents have mysteriously vanished [2, 17]. Andrew eventually discovers Thomas fighting monsters in the nearby forbidden woods—creatures that are Thomas’s macabre drawings brought to life [15, 17]. Key Features
Queer Representation: The story features a queer romance and includes significant asexual representation as Andrew reconciles his identity with his feelings for Thomas [20, 26, 34].
Atmosphere & Tone: Reviewers describe the prose as "horrific poetry" and "devastatingly beautiful" [2, 16, 25, 29].
Themes: It explores intense themes of grief, mental health, codependency, and the dark side of creative collaboration [16, 20, 23, 25].
Narrative Style: The book utilizes an unreliable narrator and ends on a purposefully open-ended, ambiguous note [26, 28, 39]. Product Information Author: C.G. Drews (known online as @paperfury) [2, 19].
Release Date: Originally published October 29, 2024 [30, 36]. If you’ve ever whispered a secret into a
Publisher: Hodder Children's Books / Flatiron Books [17, 22].
Formats: Available as a hardcover, paperback (including editions with sprayed edges), and Kindle eBook [6, 25, 33].
Writing My Way Through the Thorns: A Look at "Don’t Let the Forest In"
If you’ve been following me on Instagram (@paperfury), you know I have a bit of an obsession with sharp things, dark academia, and the kind of forest rot that makes your skin crawl. For the longest time, Don’t Let the Forest In was the "book no one wanted"—rejected by almost every publisher until Feiwel & Friends gave it a home.
Now that it’s out in the world (and even won a Barnes & Noble YA Award!), I wanted to share a bit more about the messy, monstrous heart of this story. A Tale of Ink and Teeth
At its core, this is a story about Andrew and Thomas. Andrew is a writer of nightmarish fairy tales; Thomas is the artist who gives them teeth. They go back to Wickwood Academy thinking they’re safe, only to find that the monsters they created in their journals are starting to claw their way into reality. It’s a book about:
When Love Becomes Monstrous: A Look Into Don’t Let the Forest In
If you’ve ever felt like your emotions were a living thing—something with teeth and claws that could tear you apart from the inside—then C.G. Drews’ YA psychological horror debut, Don’t Let the Forest In, was written for you. Known for their devastating contemporary novels, Drews has pivoted into a world of dark academia and "forest rot" gothic horror, and it is as beautiful as it is poisonous. The Story: Art That Breathes The forest at the edge of their garden
The narrative follows Andrew, an anxious, melancholy teenager who finds solace only in the dark fairy tales he writes. He shares these stories exclusively with his best friend and roommate, Thomas, a volatile artist who brings Andrew's nightmares to life through visceral illustrations.
When they return to Wickwood Academy for their senior year, things have shifted. Thomas’s parents have mysteriously disappeared, and he is appearing at school covered in blood that isn't his own. Soon, Andrew discovers a terrifying truth: their shared creations—the monsters from their stories and drawings—are manifesting in the forbidden woods nearby and beginning to hunt. The Core Themes: Obsession and Asexuality
At its heart, this isn't just a monster story; it's an exploration of a deeply codependent, obsessive relationship. The Typed Writer — Don't Let the Forest In Book Review
There is a specific moment in every fairy tale where the protagonist looks back. They have spent the night in the gingerbread house, danced in the glass slippers, or hidden in the wolf’s den. But as dawn breaks, they hear the creak of the treeline. The roots are creeping toward the cobblestones. The thorns are sealing the gate.
Don’t let the forest in.
It sounds like a warning. It feels like a plea. In folklore, in psychology, and in modern literature, this phrase has transcended its literal meaning to become one of the most potent metaphors for the battle between civilization and chaos, reason and madness, safety and the sublime unknown.
But what does it actually mean to keep the forest at bay? And why, despite the warning, are we so desperately tempted to open the gate?
To understand the phrase, we must first define the forest. In traditional European fairy tales—the Brothers Grimm, Charles Perrault, and the darker Norse sagas—the forest was never a place of picnic blankets and bird songs. It was the Wald, a suffocating, trackless expanse where children were abandoned, wolves wore grandmother’s clothes, and witches baked children into bread.
The forest represented the id. It was the place where societal rules dissolved. In the village, you had laws, fences, and neighbors. In the forest, you had instinct, hunger, and terror.
When elders warned, “Don’t let the forest in,” they weren’t just talking about keeping the deer off the crops. They were talking about the psychological wilderness. They meant: Do not let primal fear take root in your heart. Do not let the darkness outside become the darkness inside.