The Change

The exclusive, gated community of Culling Pointe is a symbol of corrupt patriarchal power and moral rot that has been concealed beneath a veneer of extreme wealth and civility. As a physical space, it is a fortress designed to separate its powerful male inhabitants from the consequences of their actions, enabling the Systemic Exploitation of Women. Harriett describes it as a “parallel universe” that “doesn’t belong to our world” (148), for its residents are so insulated by privilege that they are fundamentally changed. The manicured perfection of its lawns and mansions is a façade that hides the “slaughterhouse” where young, vulnerable women are systematically abused (and sometimes murdered) with impunity. The name itself, with its violent connotations of “culling” and a historical backstory involving a witch hunt, reinforces its symbolic role as a place of brutal, selective destruction. It shows a world built by and for powerful men, where the lives of women—particularly poor women and women of color—are deemed disposable.

The community also collectively functions as the novel’s central antagonist: A self-contained ecosystem of male privilege where business deals, sexual exploitation, and murder are intertwined. The secrecy of the “men only” roof deck at Jackson Dunn’s party exemplifies the enclave’s culture of exclusion and conspiracy, and the ultimate destruction of Culling Pointe by fire thus becomes a symbolic necessity, a cleansing inferno that purges the corrupted landscape. This climactic event is the physical manifestation of the novel’s argument that such entrenched structures of patriarchal violence must be completely burned down before anything new can be built.

The recurring motif of the ghosts of Faith, Mandy, Mei, and the other murdered girls and women serves as the novel’s moral and narrative catalyst, representing the silenced casualties of the Systemic Exploitation of Women. In a society that renders poor, non-white, and marginalized girls invisible, their spectral presence is a refusal to be forgotten. They are the literal embodiment of the truth that the powerful men of Culling Pointe and the complicit police force work so hard to conceal. Nessa’s ability to hear and see them is also a key aspect of Menopause as a Source of Empowerment; her power awakens precisely when the world expects her to become invisible, giving a voice to the voiceless. Faith’s ghost leads Nessa to the other murdered girls and remains with her until the full scope of the conspiracy comes to light, functioning as a persistent moral compass and a demand for accountability.

This motif transforms the abstract horror of serial murder into an intimate and personal haunting. By giving the murdered girls a collective presence and agency after death, the novel insists on their humanity, refusing to let them become mere statistics or plot devices in a male killer’s story. As Nessa tells Jo and Harriett, her duty is to find the girls “so their spirits can rest in peace” (225), and the women’s investigation becomes a sacred obligation that elevates their quest beyond mere vengeance. The ghosts ensure that the narrative remains centered on the victims, forcing the protagonists to bear witness to the human cost of patriarchal violence.