A Feminist Book Review of Slewfoot: Witches, Patriarchy, and a Sexy Goat Demon?

Before We Begin: A Warning for the Faint of Heart (and Those Who Like to Be Emotionally Prepared)

This review contains major spoilers for Slewfoot by Brom. If you haven’t read it yet, do yourself a favor—close this tab, go buy the book, and let it consume your soul before coming back. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. (And no, I don't get paid for the links on my blog.)

That said, Slewfoot is not a gentle book. It’s dark, brutal, and drenched in blood—so before we dive into feminist rage, horned demons, and Puritan nightmares, here’s your content warning buffet:

Trigger Warnings for Slewfoot

Misogyny & Gender-Based Oppression – Welcome to Puritan New England, where women aren’t exactly thriving.
Religious Abuse & Fanaticism – The church is less about salvation and more about controlling women and outlawing joy.
Witch Hunts & Violence Against Women – It’s as bad as you’d expect. Possibly worse.
Sexual Coercion & Assault – Implied and threatening, never gratuitous, but ever-present.
Domestic Abuse & Psychological Manipulation – Power dynamics are grotesquely imbalanced.
Animal Death & Cruelty – Disturbing, brutal, and sadly unavoidable.
Blood, Gore, & Body Horror – Visceral, graphic, and not for the squeamish.
Death & Murder – A high body count, emotionally and physically.
Supernatural Horror & Occult Themes – If you fear the devil, wait until you meet what’s in the woods.

If any of that feels like too much, I understand—stay and let me suffer on your behalf. Otherwise, let’s talk about why Slewfoot is the feminist horror masterpiece we didn’t know we needed.

A Beautiful, Bloody Reclamation of Power

Brom’s Slewfoot is the kind of book that slaps you with gorgeous prose and then whispers dark poetry about female rage into your ear. It’s sensual, unsettling, and unapologetically blasphemous—everything you want in a feminist retelling of the witch-hunt narrative.

At its heart, Slewfoot is about survival—both spiritual and literal. It follows Abitha, an Englishwoman trapped in a colonial society that demands silence and obedience from women. She’s independent, sharp-tongued, and exactly the kind of woman the Puritan patriarchy loves to destroy.

When her defiance puts her in the crosshairs of her community, she finds an unlikely ally in the woods: a horned demon who may or may not be Satan himself. But Slewfoot isn’t about being saved by a monster—it’s about discovering the monster inside yourself.

Slewfoot: The Hot, Feral Feminist Ally We Deserve

Let’s talk about him. The horned one. The beast. The demon. The goat-headed god of my nightmares and possibly my fantasies.

Slewfoot is not the seductive devil of Christian dogma. He isn’t there to tempt Abitha into evil. He’s trying to remember who he is—fragmented, half-feral, and possibly once divine before Christianity rebranded him as Satan. (Classic church behavior.)

What makes his relationship with Abitha so compelling is that he doesn’t grant her power—he reminds her she already has it. He doesn’t tame her or demand submission. Instead, he awakens something in her that has been buried by fear, grief, and systemic misogyny.

It’s not a romance in the traditional sense. It’s a reckoning. A reclamation. A ritual of transformation by fire.

Feminism, But Make It Fun (and a Little Murderous)

This isn’t a sanitized, girlboss-friendly empowerment story. Slewfoot is messy, morally gray, and gloriously blood-soaked. Abitha’s evolution from grieving widow to vengeful witch is deeply satisfying—not because it’s clean or “earned” by modern standards, but because it feels necessary.

She doesn’t ascend. She descends. She doesn’t transcend her anger—she wields it like a blade.

It’s what makes this book sing: feminist horror that is unhinged in all the right ways.

Sarah Carter: The Tragic, Perfectly-Written Product of Patriarchy

Now let’s talk about Sarah Carter.

Sarah isn’t a villain. She’s not cruel. She’s just… trapped. A good wife. A dutiful woman. She plays by the rules because she believes it’s the only way to survive. And in a way, she’s right—until the rules turn on her too.

Her choices are driven by fear, not malice. She knows siding with Abitha means death. She knows her piety won’t protect her forever. And yet she clings to the illusion that conformity equals safety. Watching her betray Abitha is agonizing—not because she wants to, but because she thinks she has no other option.

The heartbreak of Sarah’s arc isn’t in her villainy. It’s in how deeply understandable her betrayal is.

She is the other side of the feminist rebellion. She is what happens when you don’t fight back. When you can’t.

Goody Dibble: The System in Petticoats

If Sarah is the woman who suffers under patriarchy, Goody Dibble is the woman who thrives in it.

She is the morality police. The first to sniff out nonconformity. The loudest voice shouting “witch!” with holy glee.

Goody Dibble doesn’t want freedom—she wants control. She’s not protecting virtue; she’s enjoying power. Every ounce of her self-righteous cruelty is rooted in repressed autonomy and institutional spite.

If Puritan New England had a Nextdoor app, Goody Dibble would be in the comments every day, reporting ‘suspicious’ women in the woods.

And you know what? She’s kind of iconic for it. I hate her, but I love hating her. No notes.

A Missed Opportunity for Sisterhood

One of the most devastating threads in Slewfoot is the missed opportunity between Sarah and Abitha. They could’ve been allies. They could’ve survived together. But fear is powerful. And in the end, Sarah chooses safety over solidarity.

But here’s the gut punch: it doesn’t save her.

That’s the final truth of Slewfoot: in this world, even complicity isn’t protection. The system eats everyone. And the women who uphold it are often just delaying their own demise.

Why This Is Feminist Horror at Its Best

Slewfoot* doesn’t hand you simple binaries of good and evil, empowered and oppressed, feminist and antifeminist. It gives you messy women. Women who survive. Women who break. Women who lose themselves. Women who fight back. Women who don’t.

It’s horror not because of the monster in the woods—but because of the monsters in power. It’s feminist because it refuses to pretend that survival under patriarchy is ever clean or easy.

It gives us Abitha. It gives us Sarah. It gives us Goody Dibble. And in doing so, it gives us the whole truth.

A Final Word (and a Shameless Plug)

Look, I’m not saying Slewfoot spiritually wrecked me and made me rethink every sentence I’ve ever written… but I’m not not saying that either.

If I can someday write something half as compelling, unsettling, and gloriously feminist, I’ll count it as a win. Until then, I’ll be over here, trying to channel that chaotic witch energy into my own work.

Which brings me to this: If you love dark, supernatural stories with morally complex characters, messy gender feelings, and a dash of murder, pre-order my book, Valley of Wolves. It dropped March 13, 2025. No sexy goat demons (yet), but plenty of angst, suspense, and unhinged werewolf drama.

Support indie authors. Buy the book. Fuel my descent into gothic horror obsession.

That’s just like, the rules of feminism.

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