I write quiet horror shaped by folklore, distance, and the kind of places where sound carries strangely. Woods, hollers, roads that disappear into fog — places that feel like they’re paying attention.

I’m drawn to what lingers. Echoes. Half-remembered rules. The sense that something has been watching longer than you have, and knows when you’re listening. My work isn’t interested in spectacle or shock. It lives in the moments after, when the noise has faded and something still remains.

These stories sit somewhere between memory and myth. They borrow from old warnings, from inherited silences, from the way certain places teach you how to behave if you stay long enough. Nothing is explained outright. Not everything wants to be understood.

If you’ve ever hesitated before answering a voice you couldn’t quite place — you’re in the right place.