Jennifer McMahon has this weird, almost cruel talent for making you look at an old closet door and wonder if the wood is actually breathing. Honestly, when I first picked up The Winter People book, I expected a standard ghost story. You know the type. Cold wind, rattling windows, maybe a Victorian lady crying in a mirror. But what I got was something way more visceral. It’s a story about the terrifying lengths people go to when they can't say goodbye to the people they love. It’s about "Sleepers." And if you’ve read it, you know exactly why that word makes my skin crawl.
West Hall, Vermont, is the kind of place that feels haunted even in the middle of a sunny July afternoon. It’s isolated. It’s rugged. In the world of Jennifer McMahon, the landscape isn't just a setting; it's a character that wants something from you. The book weaves together two timelines—one starting in 1908 with Sara Harrison Shea and another in the present day with a girl named Ruthie.
The Legend of Sara Harrison Shea
Let’s talk about Sara. Her story is the heart of the book. In 1908, she’s found dead in a field, just months after her daughter Gertrude died in a tragic accident. People in town whispered. They said Sara knew things. Dark things. She had a "Book of Shadows" (not the cheesy kind, the scary kind) that detailed how to bring the dead back for seven days.
These creatures are called Sleepers.
The mechanics of it are horrifyingly simple. You follow a ritual. You bring them back. They look like the person you lost, but they aren't. Not really. They’re cold. They’re vacant. They’re hungry. McMahon does a brilliant job of exploring the grief that would drive a mother to do something so fundamentally against the laws of nature. It’s not about evil; it’s about a broken heart that refuses to heal.
Sara’s diary entries are scattered throughout the narrative. They feel raw. Real. You can almost feel the scratch of the pen on the parchment as she descends into a very specific kind of madness. It’s the kind of writing that makes you want to turn on every light in the house.
Ruthie and the Mystery of the Farmhouse
Fast forward to the present. Ruthie lives in Sara’s old house with her mother, Alice, and her younger sister, Fawn. Alice is one of those "off the grid" types. No cell phones. No internet. Just the woods and the secrets. When Alice disappears one morning, Ruthie finds a secret compartment under the floorboards.
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Inside? Sara Harrison Shea’s diary.
This is where the two timelines start to bleed into each other. Ruthie isn’t just looking for her mom; she’s uncovering a century of local disappearances and urban legends that turn out to be terrifyingly true. The pacing here is wild. One minute you’re reading a slow-burn mystery, and the next, you’re sprinting through the woods with Ruthie, convinced that something is watching from the shadows of the "Devil’s Hand" rock formation.
The book manages to avoid the typical tropes. There are no jump scares in prose—just a mounting sense of dread. It asks a heavy question: How much of our history are we willing to ignore to feel safe in the present?
Why the Sleepers Are Different
In most horror novels, the "monster" is something external. A demon. A slasher. A vampire. But in The Winter People book, the threat is your own family. It’s your daughter. Your husband.
The Sleepers don’t have souls. They have memories, sure, but they’re like distorted recordings. Imagine sitting across the dinner table from someone who looks exactly like your dead child, but their eyes are flat, and they don't remember how to be human. That’s the horror McMahon taps into. It’s domestic. It’s intimate.
The lore suggests that after seven days, you’re supposed to let them go. But who could do that? Who has the strength to kill their child a second time? The tragedy of West Hall is that nobody had that strength. So, the Sleepers stayed. They hid in the crawlspaces. They waited in the woods.
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They became part of the ecosystem.
Atmospheric Horror vs. Jump Scares
If you're looking for a fast-paced gorefest, this isn't it. McMahon writes with a lyrical quality that reminds me of Shirley Jackson or even a bit of early Stephen King. She understands that the idea of a hand reaching out from under a bed is much scarier than actually seeing the monster.
The setting of West Hall is vital. Vermont winters are brutal. The "winter people" of the title refers to both the Sleepers and the hardy, secretive folks who live in these hills. There’s a specific kind of silence that comes with a heavy snowfall—a silence that feels like it’s burying you alive. McMahon uses that silence to build tension until it’s almost unbearable.
Interestingly, the book also deals with the concept of "The Hidden Art." This is the folk magic Sara used. It’s not flashy. It’s grounded in the earth, using things like bone, hair, and dirt. It feels like something that could actually exist in the deep, dark pockets of New England.
Common Misconceptions About the Plot
People often get confused about the ending or the "rules" of the Sleepers. Here's the deal:
- The Sleepers don't age.
- They aren't zombies in the Walking Dead sense; they don't want to eat your brains, but they do need "sustenance" of a different kind.
- You can't just "fix" them. Once the ritual is done, the person they were is gone.
Some readers find the dual-timeline structure a bit jarring at first. Honestly, you just have to lean into it. The payoff comes when the names from 1908 start appearing in the modern-day police reports. That’s when the scale of the tragedy really hits you. It’s not just one grieving mother; it’s a whole town built on a foundation of ghosts.
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The Real-World Inspiration
While West Hall isn't a real town, Jennifer McMahon lives in Vermont and draws heavily from local folklore. New England has a long, documented history of "vampire" scares—most notably the Mercy Brown case in Rhode Island—where families would exhume their dead relatives because they believed they were "feeding" on the living.
McMahon takes that historical reality and twists it. She replaces the superstition with a supernatural certainty. It makes the story feel anchored in something tangible. You can go to Vermont. You can find those old stone walls in the middle of the woods that lead to nowhere. That’s what makes the book stay with you long after you’ve closed the cover.
How to Approach The Winter People
If you’re planning on diving into this one, do yourself a favor: don't read it in a cabin in the woods.
Pay close attention to the minor characters. Someone like Auntie, who seems like a background figure, holds the keys to the entire mystery. The clues are there from chapter one, hidden in the descriptions of the house and the way Alice acts around the "closet in the floor."
The Winter People book isn't just a ghost story. It’s a meditation on the heavy, suffocating weight of the past. It’s about the fact that sometimes, the things we lose are meant to stay lost. And if we try to claw them back, we might just end up losing ourselves in the process.
Actionable Steps for Readers and Writers
- For Readers: If you enjoyed the atmospheric dread of this book, check out The Broken Girls by Simone St. James or The Sun Down Motel. They share that "dual timeline mystery" DNA that makes for a perfect weekend binge.
- For Writers: Study how McMahon uses sensory details. Notice how she describes the smell of the Sleepers—like damp earth and old milk. It’s disgusting, but it’s effective because it’s specific. Avoid generic "scary" descriptions.
- For the Brave: Research the real-life "Vampire Folk Belief" of 19th-century New England. It provides a fascinating, and chilling, context for why characters like Sara Harrison Shea would believe in the Sleepers.
- The Golden Rule: Never, under any circumstances, try to bring something back that the earth has already claimed. Some doors are meant to stay locked.