Tartt’s best-selling debut novel had recently come out in paperback, and it was my “vacation read” — more like “vacation immersion.” The eerie atmosphere of that novel so affected my mood that, forevermore, California redwoods have been conflated in my mind with the dark forest surrounding a small Vermont college where a fictional murder occurred.

This summer, I once again felt that all-too-rare sense of being completely possessed by a story as I read “The God of the Woods,” by Liz Moore. There are some superficial similarities between the two novels: Both are intricate narratives featuring young people isolated in enclosed worlds — in Tartt’s story, a small cohort of classics students at the aforementioned college (modeled on Bennington); in Moore’s, a summer camp within a vast forest in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. A sense of predetermined doom also pervades both books. But the most vital connection for me is the beguiling force of these two literary suspense novels. For those susceptible to its pull, “The God of the Woods,” like “The Secret History,” transports readers so deeply into its richly peopled, ominous world that, for hours, everything else falls away.

There’s more than a touch of Gothic excess about “The God of The Woods,” beginning with the premise that not one, but two children from the wealthy Van Laar family have disappeared 14 years apart. When the novel opens in August 1975, an Emerson Camp counselor discovers that 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar is missing from her bunk. Barbara was conceived after the disappearance of her brother in 1961. Peter “Bear” Van Laar, a boy as playful and adventurous as his nickname, was 8 when he vanished from “Self-Reliance,” the Van Laar’s summer house that adjoins the camp. (The cosseted Van Laar family clearly has a weakness for referencing — if not internalizing — the do-it-yourself gospel of transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson.) The surrounding woods and nearby Lake Joan were searched exhaustively, but no trace of the beloved Bear was ever found. Coincidentally, at the time of both disappearances, a convicted serial killer was spotted traipsing around the area. This fiend, named Jacob Sluiter, informally known as “Slitter,” belongs to an old family who once owned the land holdings that became the Van Laar Preserve.

To summarize the plot of “The God of the Woods,” thusly, risks making this nuanced literary suspense novel sound like a campfire tale generated by AI. (A serial killer! Terrified campers lost in the woods!) Rather than a straightforward sensational yarn, Moore’s story jumps around non-sequentially from the 1950s through the 1970s and is crowded with characters: campers, counselors, the Van Laars and their tony houseguests, townspeople and local police. Throughout, Moore’s language is unflaggingly precise. Here’s her omniscient narrator describing a girl named Tracy, Barbara’s bunkmate, who suffers from low self-esteem. And, little wonder why:

“[Tracy’s] father once told her casually that she was built like a plum on toothpicks, and the phrase was at once so cruel and so poetic that it clicked into place around her like a harness.”

As wise as it is about the vulnerability of adolescence, “The God of the Woods” is also chillingly astute about the invisible boundaries demarcating social class. Take, for instance, the character of Judyta “Judy” Luptack, a 26-year-old woman from a working-class Polish American family who’s been newly promoted to “junior investigator” on the otherwise all-male police team searching for Barbara. Stationed inside the Van Laar mansion, Judy has the increasingly urgent need “to pee”:

“She’s not certain what procedure is. Nowhere in her training did she come across this exact scenario: What do you do if you’re in someone’s private home for hours and hours with no access to the outside world? Rich people especially. She doesn’t want to ask these people for anything. If she were a man, she’d [go] in the woods.”

Moore’s superb 2020 crime novel, “Long Bright River,” went deep into issues of addiction and entrenched poverty while exploring the opioid crisis in Philadelphia; “The God of the Woods” heads off into different territory — weird and uncanny — and yet, it too offers strong social criticism. As it unfolds, “The God of the Woods” becomes more and more focused on how its female characters break free — or don’t — of the constraints of their time and social class. Whatever the case, breaking free of the spell Moore casts is close to impossible.

Maureen Corrigan, who is the book critic for the NPR program “Fresh Air,” teaches literature at Georgetown University.