Best Speculative Fiction Novels of 2024

I’m too much a wimp to read horror; that’s what I used to tell myself.

Yet I’m surprised to find, as I sit here composing my annual “Best Spec Fic of the Year” post, that not just some but all of my recommendations for 2024 contain some element of horror, big or small.

This wasn’t planned. Perhaps it’s simply a reflection of the times we live in. Or maybe it’s because of something else all these stories share–a playfulness, a bright counterpoint that shines despite dire circumstances. No, that’s not right. It’s a lightness that’s in response to or even in conversation with that darkness. Because it’s that harmonic dissonance, and all the messy genre blending in between, that I find so compelling.

As always, some of these works are newly published in 2024, but some are just new to me.

Someone You Can Build a Nest In by John Wiswell

Shesheshen is a shapeshifting monster who just wants to two things. One, to evade all those pesky bounty hunters who keep trying to murder her. And two, to one day find the perfect human to lay her eggs in, so her babies can eat them from the inside out.

This is literally the stuff of horror movie franchises. Yet Someone You Can Build a Nest In takes the well-worn monster trope and makes something fresh, funny and heartwarming, all while still remaining delightfully gross. It does this first by telling the tale from the monster’s point of view and then by having her fall in love with a woman named Homily who mistakes her for a human and saves her from drowning.

I loved the way the novel’s viewpoint showcased how monstrous humans can be. I loved Shesheshen’s evolution from someone just trying to survive to someone who wanted more from love than procreation. And, most of all, I was impressed by the unexpectedly deep and nuanced exploration of trauma (both its effect on those who have survived it and those who love the survivors) via Homily and Homily’s screwed up family.  

Gruesome yet sweet, hilarious yet thought-provoking, this novel has been labeled everything from “cozy horror” to “romantic fantasy.” I personally don’t care what you call it. Just go read it—particularly if you’re in need of a nice, big spooky hug.

The Saint of Bright Doors by Vajra Chandrasekera

Heavily influenced by the author’s home of Sri Lanka, The Saint of Bright Doors rejects neat categories or definitions. It’s set in a time that blends the ancient (it’s a fantastical retelling of the story of Rahula, Buddha’s son) and modern (there are cars and cellphones). There are horrors inspired by real headlines and history – cruel dictators, deadly pogroms, Byzantine government bureaucracies, and concentration camps. But there’s also humor and magic – mysterious portals, lurking monsters, and humans with superpowers.

The main character is Fetter, a young man trained since birth to assassinate his own father, the leader of a dangerous cult. He tries to abandon this twisted mission and live a normal life, but ultimately, his father leaves him no choice but to join him or fight back.

When I first started reading The Saint of Bright Doors, I was enamored with how the author so cleverly subverts so many fantasy tropes, particularly that of the Chosen One. By the end, however, I wondered if I was wrong for assuming Chandrasekera was most interested in engaging with these conventions, and if he wasn’t twisting them as a mere side effect of his commentary on sins committed in the name of Buddhism (little known by Westerners like me). Either way, the way these violations overlap with some of the fantasy genre’s worst sins (i.e. romanticizing the past, glossing the horror of war and genocide, insisting on clear sides of “good” and “evil”) left me a lot to ponder.

This may prove a challenging read for those who prefer tidy endings, magic systems with clearly explained rules, and big battles that settle everything. But if you’re in the mood to be dumped into a weird world where you simply must learn to swim, this could be the perfect novel for you.  

Whoever You Are, Honey by Olivia Gatwood

Who doesn’t love a novel about sex robots? Particularly a novel about what it’s like to be a sex robot from the robot’s point of view, only the robot doesn’t know she’s a robot.

This fascinating story jumps back and forth between two perspectives. One is Lena, an intelligent, drop-dead gorgeous android who thinks she’s human but has strange gaps in her memory and a growing suspicion that something isn’t quite right about her relationship with her uber-rich tech-bro boyfriend.

The other perspective is that of her awkward neighbor, Mitty– a shy 20-something with a dead-end job who has been living (read: hiding) with an elderly friend in a crumbling cottage rather than deal with her estranged mother and a horrible mistake she made in her teens.

The two women become unlikely friends and slowly but surely work toward understanding each other’s isolation, pain, and desire. As Lena discovers a truth even darker than she imagined, and as Mitty finally confronts her past, the reader experiences the horror of not knowing oneself, of having our identity defined by others, and of both betraying and being betrayed by those we love.

The ending of the novel is a tad ambiguous (and likely reflects part of why it was marketed as literary fiction vs. science fiction), but I enjoyed it for the way it allowed me to imagine various futures for both women as they seek to escape their literal and figurative programming.

Rose/House by Arkady Martine

Imagine if Shirley Jackson’s haunted Hill House merged with HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. That, in a nutshell, is both the vibe and the antagonist in Martine’s new novella about a sentient house that calls the police to report a dead body inside it. What unfolds from there is three parts detective mystery, four parts gothic fever-dream, and two parts cautionary sci-fi tale.

When the story opens, the AI house has been locked tight for years following the death of the narcissistic genius who designed it. So who’s the (new) dead body? And how did it get inside this vault of marble and glass that looms alone in the desert? The AI house won’t say. In fact, it won’t even let Detective Maritza Smith inside. The only person who’s legally allowed in, according to the dead architect’s will, is his former protégé, Dr. Selene Gisel, a woman desperately trying to escape his very long, very toxic shadow.

The two women end up working together and, after managing to trick the house into letting them both in, they get trapped. As they attempt to solve the mystery and then escape, the novella explores the nature of personhood, free will and how the most powerful people in our society may one day exploit AI technology to control others even from beyond the grave.  

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

How wonderful to find a book that’s 65 years old yet still so surprising. I’ve read many post-apocalyptic tales, yet I’ve never encountered one as epic and bizarre — yet also disturbingly believable – as this work of classic science fiction.

Broken into three sections representing three different historical periods, the novel begins hundreds of years after nuclear war has obliterated most of modern civilization. Rather than try to rebuild, humankind and its mutant children have spiraled into a dark age that blames scientists for the nuclear holocaust and therefore eschews all forms of learning and knowledge. Nearly all books (and those capable of reading them) have been burned.

Enter Brother Francis Gerard, a novice of the Albertian Order of Leibowitz, a strange offshoot of the surviving Catholic Church dedicated to finding and preserving ancient writing. As the story opens, Gerard discovers desert artifacts that might belong to his order’s founder, a Jewish electrical engineer who survived the Flame Deluge. He is also visited by a mysterious wanderer who may be a hallucination, a hermit or, possibly, the ghost of Leibowitz himself. From there, the epic leaps through the centuries and eventually lands in a far-flung future where the Order of Leibowitz still exists alongside space travel and global governments consumed with their own power as the specter of nuclear war once again rears its head.

This is a good place to pause and mention that, like many classics, Canticle contains some problematic portrayals. The “Wandering Jew” is one such example, although I only discovered this toxic myth after reading the novel, while doing research. In my opinion, Miller’s version of the wanderer seemed wise and kind. At one point I even thought he might symbolize God. But if you want to read more about potential shortfalls, check out this article.

What I think makes the novel worth reading despite its limitations and challenging structure is what it has to say about the cyclical nature of history and mankind’s underlying faults. The closest literary comparison I can think of is Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Years of Rice and Salt – both are interested in spiritual traditions, the rise and fall of empire and science over the centuries, and both evoke a sense of inevitability to life—although, granted, Canticle feels like it’s much darker, older cousin.

Canticle made me think hard and deep about mankind’s hubris. Maybe someday we’ll learn from our own folly.

But I’m not holding my breath.