Pavlov’s Bell is not a novel that rushes at you with cheap scares. It circles. It watches. It waits. And then, slowly, it tightens its grip.

At its heart is Eve Wilson, a woman grieving the death of her husband and clinging to the fragile idea that love might be stronger than death itself. When signs begin to appear—messages, patterns, small impossibilities—her hope feels understandable, even tender. Who wouldn’t want to believe that the person they loved most is still reaching out?

But what makes this story unsettling is not just what happens to Eve, but how convincingly it happens.

Terry Kerr blurs the line between grief and delusion with remarkable care. As a reader, you’re never entirely sure whether you are witnessing supernatural contact, psychological collapse, or something far more sinister. That uncertainty becomes its own form of tension. You lean forward not because you want answers, but because you’re afraid of what the answers might be.

The novel excels in atmosphere. Scenes feel claustrophobic, heavy with implication. Ordinary details—sounds, memories, half-familiar phrases—take on a disturbing weight. The horror doesn’t always announce itself. Often, it whispers.

What stayed with me most was the emotional cruelty of the journey. The way love is used as a leash. The way hope becomes a tool for manipulation. The way grief can be shaped into a weapon.

Pavlov’s Bell is not an easy read, nor is it meant to be. It is thoughtful, disturbing, and deeply psychological. It trusts its reader to sit with discomfort, to question what is real, and to recognise how thin the boundary can be between devotion and destruction.

If you enjoy horror that lingers in the mind rather than fading when the lights come on, this is a story worth answering when it rings.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Read the Goodreads review.