A thoughtful and gripping exposé of the “troubled teen” industry, this supernatural thriller explores how a haunted past collides with a traumatized present to reveal truths that were meant to stay hidden.

Welcome to The Farm.

Hazel Perez thinks her school project on the abandoned Oakwell Farms School for Girls, otherwise known as The Farm, will be just another assignment she’ll ace. But after a late-night research trip ends with her falling unconscious, she awakens with a desire for revenge that isn’t her own.

…or is it?

Desperate to free herself from sudden violent urges and haunting visions of an unknown girl, Hazel begins to investigate the school’s dark history. The deeper she digs into Oakwell Farms’ past, the more she uncovers the harrowing experiences of the girls who once lived under the watch of sinister men—and the spirits who still linger there. With the help of some unlikely allies, Hazel must navigate a treacherous path of corruption, history, and the supernatural to bring peace to the restless spirits and learn the truth about her family’s involvement.

My Take

I’m going to be honest: I didn’t read this one at night. That’s right, and that should tell you something—because I don’t spook easily. But the early part of The Silenced had me hesitant to turn the page after dark. There’s this chilling recurring phrase—“my little playmate”—that creeped me out and lingered. So, I told myself, you know what? I don’t need any nightmares tonight.

But the atmosphere? The tension? The way Wallach crafts a sense of dread with precision and purpose? Chef’s kiss.

Once you get past those early goosebumps, the story digs its nails into something even more terrifying than ghosts—the real-life horror of institutional abuse. Because at its core, The Silenced isn’t just about spirits haunting a school—it’s about the societal systems that haunt us long after the doors close. It’s about parents sending their daughters away to “fix” them because they didn’t fit the mold of what a good girl is supposed to be.

Yes, it’s fiction—but the author did her research. The afterword makes it clear she pulled from real, chilling cases in the so-called “troubled teen” industry. And that layer of reality gives the book a moral weight that lingers far beyond its supernatural thrills.

What truly hooked me, though, was how the novel blends espiritismo and cultural spirituality with the rigid Catholic backdrop that often tries to suppress it. The two belief systems coexist uneasily in the story, creating a nuanced exploration of faith, family, and identity.

And can we talk about the grandmother handing down a book of rituals?
Why yes, please! That moment felt like a love letter to ancestral wisdom—one generation whispering strength to the next.

The tension between tradition and individuality, the coming-of-age ache of realizing, “I will not be silent anymore,”—it’s all here. It’s eerie, it’s emotional, and it hits hard.

If you’re in the mood for a book that haunts you while making you think, The Silenced is a must-read. It’s spooky, yes, but it’s much more than that. It’s a sharp commentary on identity, silence, legacy, and the power of speaking your truth—even when the world tries to bury it.

For me, this story will stay with me for a long time.