The Devil’s Pocketbook by Ross Jeffery
CLASH Books (August 18, 2026)
Reviewed by Abby Wolf
Some horror novels terrify through spectacle. Others rely on relentless violence and shocking twists. The Devil’s Pocketbook distinguishes itself because it recognizes that grief can be more horrifying than any monster. Ross Jeffery has crafted a novel where supernatural horror grows organically from emotional devastation and is as heartbreaking as it is unsettling.
After their daughter’s death, Erik and Lara escape to the Cornish fishing village of Polperro. Their child was declared “incompatible with life” at birth, leaving behind not only unimaginable loss but also a marriage strained under the immense weight of mourning. Jeffery immediately establishes that this is not simply a story about healing from tragedy. It is about the dangerous desire to rewrite that darkness.
When the couple discovers a mysterious Devil’s Pocketbook washed ashore, containing a child, hope returns in a form neither Erik nor Lara can fully understand. They begin to believe this may be the child they feared they would never have. But horror has always thrived on impossible bargains, and Jeffery slowly reveals that miracles often demand unbearable costs.
What distinguishes The Devil’s Pocketbook from many contemporary folk horror novels is its emotional foundation. The supernatural elements never overshadow the humanity at the story’s center. Instead, every eerie encounter and every mounting act of manipulation serves to deepen the emotional wounds the characters already carry.
Jeffery writes grief with remarkable control and compassion. Rather than reducing bereavement to dramatic breakdowns, he captures its quieter, more persistent realities. The routines that become rituals of survival, the conversations left unsaid, the guilt that settles into every smile, and the exhausting effort required to continue existing. The Devil’s Pocketbook acknowledges that grief is rarely experienced in unison, even when the people involved are mourning the same loss.
This difference in mourning becomes the emotional engine driving the novel. Lara’s grief manifests as a desperate hope. Faced with what appears to be a second chance at motherhood, her desire to nurture eclipses her ability to question what exactly has entered their lives. Erik, meanwhile, cannot separate hope from fear. While he longs for healing just as deeply, he recognizes that something about their newfound daughter, Scylla, feels profoundly unnatural. Jeffery never paints either response as right or wrong. Instead, he explores how grief isolates people, even those who love one another, until they find themselves standing on opposite sides of the same devastation.
The result is a relationship that slowly fractures under the weight of impossible choices. The horror doesn’t stem solely from the growing supernatural threat but from watching two people desperately trying to save each other while becoming unrecognizable as partners. That emotional deterioration is so painful.
Polperro itself becomes an essential backdrop within the story. Jeffery evokes the Cornish coastline with vivid, immersive prose, transforming crashing waves, narrow streets, and ancient maritime folklore into something absolutely menacing. There is a timeless quality to the setting, as though the sea has witnessed countless tragedies before Erik and Lara ever arrived. The inclusion of local folklore feels fundamental rather than ornamental, placing the supernatural elements on a foundational landscape steeped in forgotten stories and old superstitions.
Scylla is equally compelling. Jeffery wisely avoids presenting her as a conventional monster. Instead, she embodies temptation itself. She offers the irresistible promise that unbearable pain can be undone. Her presence constantly shifts between innocence and menace, making every one of her actions increasingly uncomfortable. She rarely needs violence to inspire fear. Her greatest weapon is understanding exactly what her new grieving parents most desperately want to hear.
Jeffery demonstrates confidence in his storytelling by refusing to overwhelm the story with excessive gore. While the moments of horror certainly leave a mark, The Devil’s Pocketbook derives its greatest power from psychological tension and emotional unease. Every supernatural development feels significant because it grows directly from the characters’ emotional vulnerabilities rather than existing simply to shock.
This novel refuses to offer any easy answers. It does not suggest that love alone can heal, nor does it portray grief as linear. Instead, Jeffery presents mourning as something capable of reshaping identity and our perception of reality. That emotional honesty makes the novel’s frightening turns all the more devastating.
The Devil’s Pocketbook is a haunting work of folk horror that never loses sight of the human heart beating beneath its haunting premise. Beautifully written and quietly devastating, it is a novel that exploits painfully recognizable human emotion and is a reminder that horror is often at its most unforgettable when it asks us what we would sacrifice for one impossible chance to undo our deepest pain.
