The format of the text very nearly stopped me from reading at all.

Doe, a contemporary young-adult horror novel by Rebecca Barrow, came to me in a box of new releases that were widely divergent. And, slowly but surely, I tackled them all. Some were really good, some just so-so. Doe, for no particular reason, ended up on the bottom of the pile. By the time I got to it, I was ready for something different, and I considered skipping it entirely so I could move on to a different genre. Although the cover was intriguing, the plot -- involving an ancient force of nature and a gaggle of high school cheerleaders in a dead-end town -- didn't appeal all that much. Still, it deserved a chance to grab my attention, so I settled in on a recent evening to give it a try.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the book to page one and discovered, rather than the prose format of the usual novel, a story set in free verse. Or, as the dustjacket describes it, propulsive verse.

What is propulsive verse, you ask? Well, Google wasn't much help, constantly trying to redirect me to projective verse instead. Propulsive verse, according to Google's AI assistant -- and for the record, I hate using AI for anything, and I wish that wasn't the default result -- is "poetry that features a fast-paced, driving rhythm that pulls the reader forward with high energy and momentum" in a form that feels "urgent, kinetic, and compelling."

OK, let's see how it works.

Initially, it was an unsettling experience. The format is hard to get used to, and it gives the text a breathless, frantic tone that doesn't always suit the narrative. But I gave it some time, and the rhythm started to make sense. The narrative, which is told through multiple points of view and two divergent timelines, started to flow. And the story sucked me in.

The protagonist is Maris Larsen, captain of the cheerleading squad and leader of her pack of loyal classmates for whom cheerleading is their only outlet, their only salvation in a town without hope or prospects. She's a bit of a Mean Girl, really, but it's more of a survival tool than actual animosity. At the end of the day, she does what it takes to take care of her squad.

But then Genevieve Ray moves to town and usurps Maris's place on the team. Their coach suddenly has eyes for no one but Genevieve, and Maris and her girls pay a price. In most towns, it might end there, or it might turn to violence, or through some silly turn of events Maris and Genevieve might become best friends.

But not at West Eaton High, where decades before a group of outcast young woman -- witches, the townspeople called them -- bound an immortal spirit in the form of a deer and used its power to their benefit. They called it Doe, and they cared for it even as Doe cared for them ... until an act of revenge led to massive, devastating consequences. Doe was left alone, still bound and without guidance or companionship.

Until, in the present, she meets Maris, who is descended from one of those young women, and who has her own need for vengeance. And Maris, who doesn't see Doe's rotting reality, perceives the spirit as a means to eliminate her problems once and for all.

The book, at 351 pages, doesn't turn into a horror story until around page 250. That's when Maris invites Genevieve on a hike to mend fences ... or at least that's what she claims. And things turn dark very quickly ... for both girls.

While Doe is not horror of the slash-and-gore variety, one character in particular suffers a deep, visceral terror that those around her never sense. Somehow, that makes it worse.

I can't honestly say that I enjoyed reading Doe, but it was definitely a different sort of reading experience. The poetic style took some getting used to, but it certainly ramped up the tension, and I admire the ambition and execution nonetheless.

But don't expect to put the book down feeling happy or content with the ending.