BWAF Score: 7/10
TL;DR: He’s the Devil is flatshare horror as a cursed little artifact: voice-first, sweaty, bodily, and uncomfortably funny, with dread built from obsession and proximity until the walls feel complicit. It’s not flawless or tidy, but it’s fearless. If you like your horror queer, transgressive, and fucked up, this slaps.
This book opens like a confession you weren’t meant to overhear. The voice comes in hot, close, and nosy, pressing its face to the wall between rooms, savoring sounds you should not be savoring. It’s funny in a slightly sick way, too. Not “jokes,” exactly, more like the brain’s defensive little tap dance when it realizes the night is leaning in.
Here’s the basic setup, in human terms. Simon is a service-industry do-gooder with weaponized tidiness and a desperate need to be liked. His best friend and flatmate Josh moves out, and instead of a gentle transition, Simon gets handed a replacement roommate like an organ donor cooler dumped on the doorstep. That roommate is Massimo: magnetic, sexual, strange, and immediately destabilizing, the kind of person who turns a shared kitchen into a stage where everyone else forgets their lines. Simon becomes convinced something is wrong with Massimo. Not “bad vibes,” but capital-S Something. The book spends the rest of its time tightening that suspicion into obsession, then into a full-body problem.
The writing is the main event. First-person, present-tense intimacy that feels like being trapped in an elevator with someone who is simultaneously charming, panicking, and narrating their own undoing in real time. Coventry’s sentences have this greasy shimmer to them, a mix of precision and delirium. Simon notices everything: textures, smells, the social micro-violences of politeness, the way a room changes when a person enters it. That attention reads as anxious comedy at first, then flips into dread once you realize the narrator’s fixation is not just a personality quirk. And, crucially, it’s not fully reliable. Simon’s certainty is always doing too much, which makes every “I swear this happened” feel like both a promise and a threat.
The novel is a a steady escalation ladder with some intentional wobble. The early chapters lock you into the flat, the walls, the routine, the itch of cohabitation, then start opening doors that do not feel metaphorical anymore. Coventry is good at reveal timing: you get enough to feel the supernatural (or the psychosexual) creeping in, but not enough to file it neatly. Mid-book, the story takes a few sideways steps into social orbit, new connections, new rooms, new air, and that shift works because it changes the pressure rather than releasing it. If anything, the broader the world gets, the more claustrophobic Simon feels, like the curse is portable.
Character work is mean and tender in the same breath. Simon is not a “likeable protagonist” in the bland marketing sense, but he’s compelling as hell: needy, performative, sharp-eyed, self-disgusted, yearning. His contradictions are the point. He wants intimacy and control. He wants to be good and also wants to be seen doing goodness, which is a different hunger. Massimo, meanwhile, is drawn as an orbiting object rather than a fully explained man, and that choice is smart. He’s sexy, yes, but also unnervingly opaque. The dialogue between them is rarely direct communication. It’s people negotiating power, attention, fear, desire, and self-image through mundane talk about food, plans, schedules, the weather, the usual bullshit we use to avoid saying “I am becoming unwell about you.”
You can smell the damp building, the streets, the restaurant work, the cheap wine, the bleach. The flat becomes a literal stage for recurring motifs: doors, walls, listening, cleanliness, rot, hunger, the body as both temple and landfill. Coventry’s sensory detail does a lot of horror work before anything explicitly horrific even happens. The dread mechanics are mostly proximity and attention: Simon listening through walls, monitoring movement, reading meaning into small shifts, spiraling into bodily awareness until the body starts answering back. When the horror turns physical, it’s not just “gross stuff happens,” it’s aftermath-aware. It lingers. It stains. It changes how a room feels.
This is Tobi Coventry’s debut novel, and it’s been positioned from the start as a “flatshare literary horror,” which is honestly the perfect container for the book’s blend of intimacy, paranoia, and social performance. Coventry’s day job context is unusually relevant: he has worked for years as a book scout focused on film and television adaptation, which makes the novel’s refusal to become a tidy “package” feel intentional rather than sloppy. Taken together, the career arc reads like someone steeped in story structure and market logic choosing, on purpose, to write something that feels more like a cursed little artifact than a pitch-perfect adaptation unit. If Coventry’s future work keeps this level of voice-commitment while sharpening the mid-book torque, that’s going to be a fun problem for all of us.
Underneath the blood-and-breath surface, this is a novel about loneliness as appetite, masculinity as performance, and “goodness” as a kind of self-harm when it’s done for approval instead of connection. It’s about the terror of wanting someone who might ruin you, and the even worse terror that you might be the ruin. It’s also about shared space, and what happens when your home stops being a refuge and becomes a witness.
There are moments where the intensity of the voice risks flattening other registers, and a couple of sequences feel like they’re luxuriating in the spiral a beat longer than they need to. Some readers will call that indulgent. I call it part of the aesthetic, but it’s still where the book comes closest to sagging. If you love voice-first novels that are intimate, queer, nasty, and funny, and you do not need every plot beat to click into a clean diagram, you’re going to have a great time. If you want your horror to behave, explain itself, and wrap up with a neat bow, you will want to throw Simon out a window by page fifty.
The book is uncomfortably strange in that specific way where you can’t tell if you’re aroused, horrified, or just impressed that the author committed to the bit with both hands.
Read if you want a voice that grabs you by the collar and whispers, “We’re doing this, babe,” while your brain screams for HR.
Skip if you want your horror “spooky but comforting,” like a scented candle that says Haunted Library.