MONSTERS LOOK LIKE US
We build our monsters out of fear, ego, loneliness, and need — not claws and fangs. They walk beside us, shake our hands, share our beds, and speak in the language of empathy. The true horror isn’t in the graveyards or the shadows — it’s in the reflection. Every book I write holds a mirror up to the human condition and asks a single question: what if the real threat was always us?
At the grocery store, the line moves slow and the small talk turns sharp. A tired cashier smiles through clenched teeth, and a customer’s impatience blooms into cruelty. No one notices when kindness leaves first — only when the silence takes its place.
At the gas station, you meet eyes with the stranger on the next pump — the one who stares too long, who lingers after the nozzle clicks. Maybe he’s just lonely. Or maybe he’s looking for something to burn besides fuel.
Driving home from work, the traffic hums like a heartbeat. Horns rise, tempers flare, and one wrong glance in the rearview turns human frustration into a spark that catches. Monsters don’t need road rage — they just need a reason.
When you’re walking the dog, every sound feels harmless until it isn’t — the rustle behind the hedge, the second set of footsteps too close behind. You tell yourself it’s nothing, because that’s what the victims always tell themselves before they become the story.
And over a cup of coffee, they sit across from you — polite, charming, disarming. You trade stories about the weather and your weekend plans, not realizing they’re already mapping your habits, your weaknesses, your pulse.
Take a minute and look around — and remember. Wherever you are, day or night. Monsters look like us.
Bereft Reality
Ambition. Self-doubt. The need to belong. Those are the real killers in Bereft Reality. No creature stalks the victims here — just a system built to prey on desperation. The program that promises empowerment becomes a cult of control, transforming confidence into currency. The horror is corporate, psychological, and disturbingly familiar: people turning people into products. The monster isn’t hiding — it’s leading the seminar.
Picking Murphys
The ghosts in Picking Murphys aren’t confined to the afterlife; they live inside guilt, denial, and inheritance. The father running from failure. The mother left behind in silence. The spirit that festers in the cracks between love and resentment. The story isn’t about hauntings — it’s about legacy, and the monsters we pass down without ever meaning to.
First Responder
In First Responder, the monster wears calm eyes and clinical compassion.
Dr. Stevens spends his nights helping patients hold their lives together — until the sirens call him somewhere darker. At accident scenes he arrives first, not to save the dying but to feed on them.
He isn’t a creature of legend; he’s what happens when empathy bends under hunger. His vampirism is just the metaphor — for how much we take from one another when survival demands the worst parts of us.
Site 123
Site 123 strips away the supernatural and forces the reader to face obsession, control, and human fragility. There are no cursed relics here — only people unraveling under pressure, losing their humanity one decision at a time. Scott’s descent isn’t fueled by darkness from the outside, but from within — the primal need to own, to keep, to be seen. The campground becomes a hunting ground because that’s what fear makes of us.
They Heinous
They Heinous doesn’t ask who the killer is — it asks who gets to decide who deserves to live. The therapist believes he’s bringing balance; the reporter thinks she’s uncovering truth. Both become consumed by the same disease: moral certainty. Here, justice and judgment blur until they’re the same monster in different clothes. We don’t root for either — because at some level, we understand both.
Take a minute and look around.
Look around at the monsters that look like us.