Rivers Solomon has a knack for making people uncomfortable. If you’ve read An Unkindness of Ghosts or Sorrowland, you already know the vibe. But with Model Home Rivers Solomon has pivoted into something that feels dangerously close to the real world—and it’s messing with everyone's head. People keep calling it a "haunted house" book. They aren’t exactly wrong, but they’re definitely missing the point.
The story follows the Maxwell siblings. Ezri, Eve, and Emanuelle. They grew up as the only Black family in a gated community outside Dallas. Think lily-white, manicured lawns, and the kind of "polite" neighbors who make your skin crawl. They fled that house as soon as they could. Eighteen years later, they’re forced back because their parents are dead.
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It looks like a murder-suicide. The police certainly think so. But the siblings? They remember the "Nightmare Mother."
The Gated Community Trap
Most horror novels use the "spooky old mansion" trope. You know the one. Creaky floorboards, Victorian wallpaper, maybe a Victorian doll with eyes that follow you. Solomon tosses that in the trash. The horror here is a model home. It’s sterile. It’s expensive. It’s brand new and suburban.
That’s what makes Model Home Rivers Solomon so biting. The terror isn't just a ghost in the attic; it’s the crushing weight of trying to achieve the "American Dream" in a space that was never designed for you. Ezri’s parents, Sybil and Pop, were obsessed with upward mobility. They stayed in that house despite the weirdness—the acid water, the disappearing friends, the dead pets. Why? Because they refused to let the neighborhood win.
Honestly, it’s a brutal look at class. We see the Maxwells as paragons of "Black Excellence," but that title is a cage. To keep the house, they had to ignore the haunting. Or maybe, as the book suggests, the house and the neighborhood are the same monster.
Is It Actually Ghosts?
This is where readers get tripped up. Ezri is neurodivergent and nonbinary. They have a host of psychiatric diagnoses that shift depending on which doctor they see. Throughout the book, you’re forced to wonder: Is Ezri an unreliable narrator?
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- The "Nightmare Mother" might be a literal spirit.
- It might be a manifestation of Sybil’s own coldness.
- It could be the collective trauma of segregation.
Solomon doesn't give you the "Scooby-Doo" ending where the mask comes off and everything makes sense. Instead, they lean into the "elliptical" structure. The timeline jumps. One second you're in the present dealing with funeral arrangements, the next you're back in the 90s watching a child deal with something inexplicable.
Why the Ending is Controversial
I won't spoil the specific "gut punch," but let’s just say the resolution isn't exactly supernatural. It’s worse. It’s human. Some critics, like those at BookBrowse, found the plot's "neat lining up" a bit hard to swallow. But for others, the ending is where the true horror lies. It shifts from a spooky ghost story into a gritty psychological thriller about predation and the ways families fail to protect their own.
It's a heavy read. We're talking child abuse, grooming, and intense systemic racism. Solomon doesn't hold your hand. They don't try to make the racists "complex" characters worth empathizing with. They focus entirely on the victims—on the messy, tense love between siblings who are trying to heal while their world is literally and figuratively falling apart.
The Maxwell Siblings Dynamics
The interaction between Ezri, Eve, and Emanuelle is probably the best part of the book. It’s not a "we’re in this together" Disney moment. They tear strips off each other. They disagree about what happened in that house. Eve is demanding. Emanuelle is different. Ezri is struggling to be a parent to their own daughter, Elijah, while still feeling like a haunted child.
It’s real. Families in crisis don't always act heroic. They snap. They bring up old grudges. Solomon captures that pressure-cooker environment perfectly.
Key Takeaways for Readers
If you’re planning to pick up Model Home Rivers Solomon, you need to adjust your expectations. This isn't a popcorn thriller.
- Check the content warnings. Seriously. This book deals with Child Sexual Abuse (CSA) and intense trauma. It’s not for the faint of heart.
- Pay attention to the house as a character. The address—677 Acacia Drive—is as much a villain as any ghost.
- Don't expect a traditional haunting. The "supernatural" elements are often metaphors for the "earthbound" horrors of being Black and queer in a hostile environment.
- Read it for the prose. Even when the plot gets bleak, Solomon’s writing is lyrical. Sometimes it’s so poetic it’s almost distracting, but it fits the "fever dream" vibe of the story.
How to Approach the Story
Don't go in looking for a mystery to solve. You’ll get answers, but they might not be the ones you wanted. Instead, treat it as a character study of a family that refused to run from pain until it was too late.
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If you've already finished it, the best thing to do is look back at the letters Sybil wrote. There's a whole layer of the story buried in her correspondence with literary icons like Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry. It shows her desperation to belong to a world that saw her as an intruder. It's heart-breaking.
The next step for any fan of this kind of "literary horror" is to look into the works of Tananarive Due or Victor LaValle. They operate in a similar space where the "monsters" are inextricably linked to American history. You might also want to re-read the flashbacks specifically focusing on the "Nightmare Mother" once you know the ending—it changes the context of every single "haunting" in the first half of the book.