The Tenant by Freida McFadden

It began with a creak.

That kind of sound that slices through the dark, too deliberate to be old pipes, too intimate to dismiss. I remember thinking, “This house is trying to tell me something.” Of course, it wasn’t. Houses don’t speak. They watch. They wait. Or so Freida McFadden would have us believe in The Tenant, where poor Blake doesn’t get off that easy. When your own home starts to feel less like shelter and more like a Venus flytrap, the only sane move is to flee. Blake, naturally, sticks around. Mistake number one. Of many.

I devoured this book in the kind of sweaty, hallucinatory haze you get after bad seafood: queasy disbelief, creeping dread, and—yes—shameful delight. Because The Tenant isn’t just a thriller. It’s a psychological theme park dressed up as a domestic squabble.

(Now you have the opportunity to listen to the audiobook for free by clicking HERE.)

Plot: One House, One Tenant, One Slow Burn to Madness

Blake had it all—or so he liked to believe. The glossy job, the Pinterest-perfect fiancée (Krista, all teeth and curated brunches), and a New York brownstone so aspirational it probably had its own Instagram account. But life has claws, and Blake didn’t see them until they shredded his paychecks. Unemployed and marinating in quiet desperation, Blake and Krista rent out a room.

Enter Whitney.

The dream tenant.

Or the polite apocalypse in yoga pants.

At first, everything feels... fine? Maybe the fruit flies are a bit much. Maybe Blake’s paranoia needs decaf. Maybe snooping through Whitney’s things isn’t exactly ethical. But that smell in the house? That’s not in his head. Right?

McFadden doesn’t serve up your average haunted-house story. She drapes the place in silk curtains while tucking rusted knives beneath the throw pillows. You think you know the blueprint: struggling couple, enigmatic tenant, descent into chaos. But she doesn’t just crank up the gaslighting; she detonates it. The reader doesn’t merely observe Blake’s spiral; they tumble down with him, eyes wide, clutching at shadows that may or may not be there.

And the twist? Oh, sweet reader. It’s not a twist—it’s a wrecking ball to your smug assumptions. Sure, you might sense its silhouette lurking in the fog, but when the floorboards collapse, it still lands like a two-ton brick of narrative cruelty.

Themes: Gaslighting, Domestic Dread, and the Monsters Who Water Your Plants

This is not a book about a bad roommate. The Tenant is an autopsy of trust. It peels back the glossy facade of domestic bliss and shows you the worms writhing underneath.

Gaslighting? McFadden doesn’t just dabble—she straps the reader into it, tight as a velvet noose. Goodreads reviewers were quick to froth: “I was enraged on Blake’s behalf!” And yet... that itchy little voice remains: Maybe he had it coming?

McFadden hammer-hits a brutal truth: the monsters aren’t always lurking in ski masks. Sometimes they’re the ones cooking your dinner. Smiling too wide. Whispering “trust me” in the dark.

And that brownstone? It becomes a pressure cooker. The walls close in, the floorboards groan like arthritic bones. By the time Blake starts unraveling, the reader is gasping for air too, as if the book itself had sucked out the oxygen.

Characters: Cracked Mirrors and Paper Masks

Blake isn’t your classic thriller hero. No grizzled ex-cop. No stoic PI. He’s just... a guy. A guy clinging to his pride like a life raft while the floodwaters rise.

Readers were split. Some delighted in his descent (“I LIVE for watching men lose their minds,” crowed one reviewer). Others sniffed that McFadden’s male POV felt like she was trying on boots two sizes too big. But you know what? That off-kilter feel? It works. Blake isn’t meant to feel authentic. He’s meant to feel warped. Like the story is being told through a mirror already cracked down the middle.

And Whitney? Oh, Whitney. Sweet? Innocent? Manipulative? McFadden plays with archetypes like a cat with a mouse missing its tail. By the time you peel back Krista’s veneer (spoiler: she’s not just the girl next door), your grip on who’s predator and who’s prey is as shaky as Blake’s sanity.

McFadden’s dark gift? Making you root for people you hate and side-eye the ones you think you should trust. It’s cruel. Deliciously cruel.

Conclusion: Read It. Doubt Everything. Maybe Check Under the Bed. Twice.

So, who is The Tenant for?

If you like your thrillers neat, logical, and satisfying as a Swiss watch... maybe look elsewhere.

But if you crave an emotional hurricane wrapped in bingeable prose, a story that makes you side-eye your own reflection in the mirror? This one’s for you.

McFadden isn’t writing the next Great American Novel. She’s writing the book that makes you wonder if the person brushing their teeth next to you is exactly who they say they are. And she nails it.

Messy. Hilarious. Vicious.

Sure, The Tenant has some scuffed edges—predictability here, melodrama there—but isn’t that part of the charm? Like your favorite dive bar: sticky floors, flickering neon... and yet, you keep coming back.

So go on. Invite The Tenant into your TBR pile.

Just maybe... triple-check the locks tonight.

(Now you have the opportunity to listen to the audiobook for free by clicking HERE.)