While many readers might be surprised by the lukewarm Goodreads rating for The Invisible Hotel, Ham’s debut novel is a deep exploration of trauma, memory, and the lingering scars of war. Reminiscent of Han Kang’s immersive prose, the book explores Yewon’s life, a young woman living in the South Korean village of Dalbit. 

Yewon’s world is one of loss. Her father had died in a fire abroad, her sister grapples with divorce and grief, and her brother serves in the ever-escalating conflict with North Korea. Her mother, stoic and resilient, embodies the weight of history. Yet, the most unsettling element of Dalbit lies within the homes themselves: bathtubs filled with the bones of ancestors, a constant reminder of the past’s cost. Yewon’s mother washes the bones every day, caring for them and for the people they represent. When she picks up a bone, she calls it “he” or “she”, depending on whom it belonged to. The act of washing the bones is a central ritual, both grotesque and poignant. It might represent the villagers’ attempt to both honour their dead and cleanse themselves of the past’s horror. Yewon, who participated in the ritual as a child, is not repulsed by them, their rotten smell that is pervasive in the entire house and her clothes. She sees the bathtub as a place of death, but it is also a place where new life emerges, as the women in Dalbit also give birth in the bathtub, on top of the bones. I found the metaphor of the bones fascinating, and, as you read, you grasp the meaning of the ritual: the bones symbolize the generational war trauma passed down, a burden Yewon will have to choose to accept or reject. The bathtub is where the people that died lay, safe in death. Yewon fights the burden of carrying her ancestors’ trauma, but, as she learns the purpose of the ritual, she gets to understand that the bones are hers to carry, hold, cherish and pass over. 

Back to the plot, having just lost her job, Yewon agrees to drive Ms Han, a North Korean refugee to Yeoju, where she would visit her brother in prison (a few hours away from Dalbit). Their trip to the prison is also symbolic, I believe. She tries, fails, and tries again to connect with Ms Han, who is traumatised by her past and ravaged by panic attacks. Their relationship shows that trauma doesn't know borders and people in both North and South Korea suffer the same. Yeown doesn’t distinguish between her family and Ms Han’s pain, and she takes it upon herself to recognise it and pass it on to the next generation. Loss transcends national borders, we learn. The trauma of war is a universal language, forcing Yewon to confront the suffering on both sides of the divide. This shared burden becomes a crucial element in the novel's message.

There is no real plot apart from Yewon's struggle to come to terms with her father’s death, rebuild her idea of the future, that she put on hold (she was supposed to go to college), and figure out who she is and what she should do next. She is lost and grapples with multiple complex threats at the same time: her grief, her sister’s pain, her brother’s uncertain future, and her mother’s suffering that she hides in cleaning the bone. Yewon’s internal struggle manifests in a recurring dream - a labyrinthine hotel with infinite rooms, devoid of windows and escape. This unsettling space, reminiscent of Kafka’s castle nightmare, becomes a powerful metaphor for the burdens she carries. The old man who haunts the dream - but also the village of Dalbit when awake, ostracised by the villagers but tolerated for the doors and windows he carries to build something he lost in his past, further reinforces the themes of entrapment and yearning for freedom. There might be freedom, as Yewon learns, as the hotel has a window. Will she find it, though? 

While lacking a traditional plot, The Invisible Hotel offers a deeply atmospheric, immersive experience. The short, sharp sentences build tension, drawing the reader into Yewon’s oppressive reality. The book’s horror lies not in jump scares, but in the exploration of psychological torment and the weight of history. It feels almost claustrophobic at times, there seems to be no escape from the hotel, no space to breathe, and no hope. 

This book is not for the faint of heart. It is a dark and unsettling novel, demanding an engaged and patient reader. However, for those seeking a literary experience that analyses the complexities of grief, memory, and the enduring legacy of war, this debut from Ham is a rewarding exploration. Don’t be discouraged by the online ratings. If you enjoy atmospheric horror steeped in metaphor and are willing to tackle difficult themes, The Invisible Hotel offers an immersive and haunting reading experience.