A licensed funeral home on Indianapolis's Eastside. A grief counselor named Linda. A prep room technician who has seen everything and filed most of it. And running beneath the legitimate operation, quiet as a lateral drain, something else entirely. Jimmy Landon built the arrangement to survive. The building absorbed it. Now the federal inquiry is open, the hum runs through every wall, and the dead keep arriving — some of them with histories Jimmy was not meant to read.

LOST HOPE began as an exploration of inherited trauma — the way violence, addiction, and self-hatred pass from generation to generation like genetic code. Gage's living room is a cage, self-constructed, its bars invisible but iron-strong. The air itself feels heavy, thick with stale beer and the phantom scent of blood. And somewhere in the static, something is watching. Something that wears his father's voice.

The evil is born. His name is Dante. He is charming, precise, and predatory — a man who has learned that terror and arousal live next door to each other, and he has a key to both. Written from inside the mind of a killer who sees himself as an artist, THE DEVIL YOU LOVE TO HATE offers no safe distance, no redemptive arc, no comfortable horror.

Jack was raised in isolation, locked rooms, and religious punishment — a childhood designed to produce something that should not exist. Now he has built his own room. His own subject. His own child. THE EXPERIMENT follows three acts: the making of a deviant god, the birth of a life forged from rot, and the spectacle that follows when the camera starts rolling.

Rob Void, a horror writer with a fentanyl habit and a manuscript called PostalWorkerKnocksTwice_draft6, arrives in Seattle on a Greyhound at 04:17. A USPS truck is already waiting. Shane T. — carrier, no returns — delivers more than mail. Room 303 at The Dripping Letter. A red envelope that breathes. A Polaroid of himself already at the desk. A severed tongue in a priority mailer. Channel 66.6. Something is building itself out of murder, and it needs a writer to get the words right.

Frank Void is a fentanyl-addicted horror writer in a Chicago loft surrounded by permanent hallucinations — a skull-glass, a clean blade, a notebook that is simultaneously a confession, a theory, and a last will. The void speaks through visions of a man named Rico. The line between author and story dissolves. Hieronymus Bosch meets noir. A deeply literary, meta-horror novel where the body becomes the text and the text becomes the wound.

Rex was raised in a fire-and-brimstone Indiana church where every death was God's will and every sin was punishable by the pen in his mother's hand. Now he's in Seattle — gang-affiliated, fentanyl-adjacent, performing blood rituals on rain-slicked rooftops above a city that runs on entropy. A figure in white keeps appearing at the edge of the circle. Not an angel. Not a demon. Something that burns worse than either: truth. Blacklight Prophet is a novel of gang warfare embedded in spiritual warfare, of a man who escaped one kind of god only to be found by something older.