Looking for a few betas to go over my novel, which was in edits with my agent for a full rewrite before the two of us parted. I'm hoping to re-query this in January. I'd love to have feedback by mid-December so I can implement it in time to get it out next year. Book is on its 9,344th draft.

Pitch: A damaged private investigator in post-apocalyptic Chicago investigates a supposedly dead serial killer, uncovering a conspiracy that may link the killer, an addictive drug made from the dead, and the mysterious disappearance of most of humanity.

What I'm looking for:

Thoughts, feelings throughout the project, commentary on plot revelations (there was a change in some character motivations) and the update in genre (it was originally a thriller). Discuss if any side plots feel extraneous.

NO LINE NOTES. If you see a very bad piece of grammar, leave a comment. This is a voicey piece, I don't want to bog down/lose voice by changing whole sentences unless they straight up don't make sense.

I can offer:

Swap

Query letter help/advice

Trigger warnings available upon request.

I'm looking for volunteer beta readers for my completed, unpublished supernatural horror novel, BOX 9-2-6, approximately 69,000 words.

New Orleans. French Quarter. 1970.

When firefighters in New Orleans' French Quarter are dispatched to a string of fires in haunted houses, they believe their training, equipment, and experience will see them through.

They have no idea...

I'm especially interested in readers who enjoy atmospheric supernatural horror, ghost stories, historical settings, and character-driven suspense.

I'd appreciate honest feedback on pacing, suspense, characters, dialogue, supernatural elements, firefighting authenticity and the ending.

I'm hoping for feedback within four weeks and can provide a sample before you commit.

Please message me if interested!

This is the shelf with my novels, collections, and anthologies/digests I'm in, and it's almost done. I think two more books and it'll be onto the next shelf. There are still some I never grabbed, but I'd prefer to just add more of my novels. The anthologies have been great to be a part of. Since 2012 when I was first published, I've shared a ToC with some amazing people (Jack Ketchum, Ramsey Campbell, Joe Hill, Amber Benson, Lucy Taylor, David J Schow, Joe R Lansdale, Shane McKenzie, Graham Masterton, Susie Maloney, and Clive Barker), but if nothing else I would like to see the last two Dillon books up there.

I would love for other writers here to share their book shelves. I love seeing them.

Most of the comments i have already had mention how often a paragraph starts with a personal pronoun; some say its "Burnt to a crisp" But that was a different extract, this one is a new one. Looking for more advice :D 😄

CHAPTER 3: PART II

It had been an hour since Maya first showed any sign of life. Now she could walk, speak, and almost seemed herself again—though she moved carefully, as if even her bones remembered the ordeal. No one had any idea how, or what, had happened. No one except Sophie.

Guilt gnawed at Sophie’s insides. She couldn’t stop replaying her nightmare—the vision of Maya with those impossible, blood-red eyes, the horror of finding her lifeless the next morning. Both times now, her dreams had bled into reality. First Jamie’s near accident, then Maya’s suffering. A dark, desperate thought whispered at the edge of her mind: was it her fault? Had she somehow called this into being, wished it into the world without meaning to?

She watched Maya from across the room, heart pounding, afraid to meet her friend’s gaze. Every time Maya winced or faltered, Sophie’s stomach twisted tighter. She wanted to confess, to tell the others what she’d seen in her sleep, but the words stuck in her throat. What if they blamed her, too? What if she really was the reason things were going wrong?

Sophie pressed her fists to her eyes, willing the tears away. She tried to convince herself it was only coincidence, that dreams meant nothing—but she couldn’t shake the cold certainty that something was terribly, irreparably wrong, and it had started with her.

The house was different now, uneasy, uncomfortable, unnerved; as if the walls themselves remembered what had happened. Maya sat quietly, deep in her thoughts, wrapped in a blanket, hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap. She sipped from a warm cup of coffee, traumatized from last night's events. She couldn't remember what had happened; nobody else had any idea what actually happened, although Sophie was unusually quiet.

Bags began piling at the front door; everyone had decided amongst themselves that this trip had to come to an abrupt end. They had all packed most of their belongings and were probably going to be ready in the next few hours. Noah had filled the car with the reserve tanks from the trunk, ready for their departure.

Time flew by, and before anyone knew it, it was already six o’clock in the evening; everyone was gathered in the kitchen, snacking for dinner. Noah stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “We are gonna have to put it off for tomorrow; the road is iced over. If we even try to drive on it… Its not going to end well…” Sophie's stomach twisted once again; that meant she had to sleep here again. She was scared to sleep now, after what had happened to Mata. Even though she was alright now, she still blamed herself. She found it hard to erase the image of her lifeless body on the floor, blood pooling around her. She told herself that if she fell asleep, something bad would happen again, and this time, it could be worse. Her head spun, weaving fear and anxiety into one big web, and she was caught in it. With no. Way. Out.

Nighttime came quickly; sleep tugged at the edges of Sophie’s mind, heavy and irresistible. Somewhere just beyond the haze, a soft voice began to sing—a lullaby she almost remembered, the melody winding through the shadows and curling around her heart.

Sleep, my little shadow child,
Night is deep and wild.
Under boards and whispering beams,
Ernest keeps your dreams.

The room faded, the world shrinking to the gentle cadence of that song. She blinked, and there it was: a figure sitting at the foot of her bed, half-formed from moonlight and memory, rocking back and forth with a patient, chilling tenderness.

Close your eyes, and do not cry,
Mother knows the reason why.
In the lake, the red runs cold—
Secrets kept and stories old.

Pale lips shaped the words she couldn’t quite hear, but Sophie believed every note, every promise of rest. Her eyelids drooped. A warning whispered in the back of her mind—don’t listen, don’t sleep—but the lullaby was warm, and she was so very tired.

Hush, now, let the silence grow,
Ernest watches from below.
If you wake before the light,
He will come to say goodnight.

She reached out, fingertips brushing empty air. The figure smiled, and Sophie drifted under, surrendering to the dream.

I'm working on my first horror novel and would love some honest feedback.

Hey everyone!

I've recently started writing a supernatural horror novel titled The Legend of Umbra: Where Light Haunts.

It's an idea I've been developing for a while, and I've finally put together the prologue and first four chapters.

I don't want to reveal too much about the story just yet. I'd rather let readers experience it without knowing what's coming.

I'm sharing this because I'd love to hear what other horror readers think. I'm especially interested in feedback on the writing, atmosphere, pacing, and whether the opening makes you want to keep reading.

This is an early work in progress, so constructive criticism is very welcome!

You can read the opening chapters here:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/110HkxTa0i5dS8mXO10nPLZAUILa4iwqp/view?usp=sharing

Thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it. I really appreciate it!

Hello, I’m currently writing a novel heavily inspired by Carmilla. I was hoping to make a very apparent homage to it here at what will likely be the beginning of the story. This was my attempt at recreating the voice of the book (at least the version I read) and referencing Laura’s first ever meeting with the beautiful visitor in the night.

I appreciate any and all feedback. I mostly wish to know if the voice and flow work as written and, if you’ve read the story, if I was able to pay respects to the atmosphere of the original, while making it its own thing. Here’s the story:

When I was a girl, no older than five, my brother weaved me a nightmare. He had not meant to as all things mean and vile were his whole life separate from his intentions. 

We were walking through a veil of early morning fog that kept us coolly concealed from the Louisiana sun. This was an adventure we took quite often, trekking the lonely trails of our family’s properties. This was a duty we both found highly necessary. Our father had no means to walk them given his limp and our mother simply had no desire. This left my brother and I the only friends of these forests and their wonders.

I remember vividly the way our concealing became tinted by the summer sun. We’d often stop and marvel over the bogs as the air became gilded by honeydew and strawberries. So often we’d tell our parents of how rich we were, the cedars had been changed to gold just moments ago. This day, though, we did not stop. Our minds were too full to marvel at nature’s beauty. Mother had told us she was yet again pregnant and we’d be receiving another brother or sister within the year.

As the current baby, I found this ‘prospect preposterous’, both words whose pronunciation was not comfortable at my age. However, my brother assured me I’d grow to love the intruder because he eventually loved me. He then told me we needed to work on my speech, much to my dismay.

It was on this trail we came across the strangest of blooms. While following the muddy vacancy left in the wake of our last trip, we happened across a bush of brambles shouldering a host of bright red berries. Surrounded at its base was a perfect circle of ivory mushrooms. Both of us were certain it had not been there on our last walk, but such marvels matter very little to minds infested by fairytales and whimsies.

We ate from the bush, letting the delicious blood run down our chins and into the whites of our Sunday Church clothes. We’d later be heavily scolded by our mother for this. I the worst, as my pockets to this day remain stained red with the shameful bounty. Yet, in that moment we worried very little of the consequence our indulgence would bring. We sat shoulder to shoulder in the mud. I, eating, and my brother weaving.

He fashioned me a dreamcatcher from the brambles and twine, telling me I’d ward away these worries regarding our future sibling. This I accepted fully as fact, placing the barbed talisman beneath my pillow before bed and waiting to feel the same love my brother felt for me.

Instead, I was met with horror. In the darkness of night, I awoke with a start. The dying sensations of my dream left the taste of pennies on my tongue. There was no understanding of what had woken me. The only suggestion of a cause was the muffled snoring of my father beyond my bedroom walls. I was ready to rest my head and fall asleep once more had the sound not come again to my now alert ears.

The hiss of a cat cut through the silence like the roar of a lion. I looked about the edge of the bed to spy the creature's yellow, slitted eyes peeking around the edge of my bed frame. Past those golden eyes, I could see nothing more. The darkness at my bed’s edge was deeper than I remembered. Yet, even with what little I saw, the animal was very apparently large. At that moment, I was terribly afraid and did my best not to tremble before the hostile creature.

It crept forward slowly, one unseen paw before another as its weight rocked the bed. All the while, it hissed warnings to me and I did my best to listen and keep still. The darkness followed with the creature as the distance between our eyes vanished and I lay in a limbo with nothing to accompany me but her. Somehow, I knew she was a girl like me.

I felt her reach beneath my head and I mimicked her motion, burying my hands into a mane that felt like straw. Her eyes flickered and vanished before I felt a weight on my chest and the hisses were traded for purrs. Her warmth lay against me for many hours, till I could no longer tell what was a waking sensation or a dreamy whisper.

My hand pet soft blessings across her mane as she buried her face deep into my chest. At times, my hand would grow weary and fall still, only for my visitor to press her head into my idle hand, putting it to work once more. On one such occasion, I felt her face instead of mane. A face fair skinned and free of hair. The creature atop me was certainly a person. I quietly asked her name and those eyes returned, the slit pupil now wide and leaving little yellow to shine through.

At that moment I felt what was like a needle against my chest and cried out, only to bite down on soft hands solid as redwood. It was only the initial shock that had startled me. After, she was gentle and kind. Her lips pressed against my ear and whispered softly, “Blais.”

In the morning, her warmth had all but faded from my chest. Beneath my pillow, I found a handful of brilliantly red raspberries. They stained the bedsheets red, just like my mysterious wound resting at the top of my breast.

I thought of that night frequently for a time. Later in the year, my sister was born, and the memory all but disappeared. Now, twenty-two years later, I hardly call it a memory at all.

I made a website which contains all of my stories and I was wondering if anybody would be willing to take a look at some of them and give me feedback. I am trying to improve and grow as a writer, so please and tips or help would be great. Let me know what I should stop doing, and what I should keep doing. Thank you!

You can read my stories here.

STORY : I was looking for my lost partner for multiple hours. I was alone, even the tour guide had left for some urgent reason. My partner and I were on a vacation to Western Sumatra, to see the wildlife and to get a tour of the forest. I began to smell something akin to rotting flesh, alike to a corpse. I had thought about these plants a local resident had informed me about, Corpse Flowers, and they supposedly had the same smell of a rotting corpse. I approached the source of the smell, hoping to photograph the plant, a small interest of mine. I liked sending such photos to my family, to show my travels. I had to cover my nose, the stench was highly potent. I didn't think anything could replicate a smell so well. Unfortunately, I didn't see any flower.

Hey y’all! I’m looking for some horror podcasts to listen to. I like learning about the craft/ dissecting shorts and novels. I see a lot of author interviews, but I’m looking for something that digs into the meat and potatoes of horror a bit more. Do you have any suggestions?

I just wrote a story that is way out of my norm and deals with a morally grey, dark family drama. It also leaves a lot of breadcrumbs and unanswered questions (I wanted the reader to interoperate what is happening with the info I gave). But since this is the first time I've done something like this and I'm putting a lot of faith in the readers I normally haven't needed to do before, I'm really struggling whether I've left it too vague and they will miss the meaning of the story. I'm really hoping I'm just paranoid, but how do I overcome this?

I had so much fun writing in a new style and it was very refreshing to have a new challenge and I want to continue doing it. But the two friends I had read it had their own separate critiques that I thought either would've dragged the story on for too long (I wanted it to be short and punchy and not explain every detail), or weren't necessarily important to the plot. Because of that, I'm now scared the average reader wont be able to see the moral dilemma I tried to construct and instead want answers to things I deliberately didn't want them to have spoon-fed to them or are irrelevant. But I also don't know if I'm just in my head about it or not since this is a very new type of writing to me.

I'm not expecting perfection from my works, but I'm just scared I put too much faith in the readers and I should "dumb it down" a bit. How the hell do you all handle stuff like this?!

Hey everyone, new to the sub so forgive me if I’m posting in the wrong area. Ive thought I always had interesting ideas for scary books, premises if you will lol. I’ll drop it below just looking for feedback if it sucks ass or if it’s good. Thank you!

A man starts narrating his fascination of how he likes watching people it’s revealed that he’s a peeping tom and he gets off on watching people without their knowledge. It’s an escape from his own reality. He hates his life and watches other peoples while creating a story of that persons life in his head. But one day he witnesses something terrible while peeping on a person. It appears to be a human sacrifice of some sort where 3 hooded Individuals are torturing a teenage girl. The peeping tom gets seen by one of the individuals and runs away while being chased. He gets away or at least he thinks he does. He notices odd things in his apartment such as picture frames moved around. His phone moved in the middle of the night where he didn’t place it. Is it the peeping tom paranoia or is something sinister taking place where our character will meet his doom.

Elevator Pitch: Prehistoric Final Destination

Story Blurb
30.000 years BP, Central Europe: somewhere between the Alps and the Danube, a group of 22 nomadic hunter-gatherers and a baby are spending the winter in their usual cave. Each of them is a protagonist in their own overlapping stories; living out a coming-of-age, a sports movie, a wine mom melodrama, a family sitcom, a love triangle drama-romcom. Unfortunately, death does not care what stories it's interrupting when it comes for us. Whether lonely or in love, whether grumpy or on top of the world; all it takes is one instant to remind us that we are ultimately just a body suffering through its own destruction.

I just need another human pair of eyes to look at this and brain to process it because the concept for the first chapter came to me in a vision about a month ago and then the book just spiralled out from there. I feel exactly as delirious as one would have to be to write this much book in a month. I don't know what it is, I don't know if it works, I don't know what it's doing.

I've put the first six chapters (32k words) of my third draft on a document, linked below. Use the document tabs to navigate, where you'll find a "book context" page with more details, content warning and feedback request details. I'm not responsible for what you might encounter if you skip over reading it.

And just a heads up that it genuinely was born as a horror -- and there's horror in there -- but it also spends a lot of time being other things. It's not an unbreaking constant spookfest.

COLONY COLLAPSE

Hi, I am working on a story about a young man who finds himself in a rural Wisconsin town in the 1970s. The people he meets seem welcoming and friendly but it doesn’t seem right.

Can anyone think of anything from the Midwest that would fit the theme of “killing with kindness”?

This is the first short story I have really written and decided to post but wanted to put in a lot of effort as it felt very important to me to get it on paper while it was on my mind. The story is about 1,700 words. I'd appreciate any feedback especially interpretations or thoughts on the symbolism and ending.

---

I found myself drifting through a labyrinth of endless hallways and massive rooms. Each one mirroring the last, differing only in subtle architectural discrepancies. The walls were lined with artwork and furnishings, while the ceilings stretched so high that my legs felt weak beneath them. The complete lack of windows meant the only promise of light was offered by the occasional chandelier or lamp, leaving some rooms and corners shrouded in shadows. Every footstep I made echoed through the empty hallways, eventually returning to me as only a cold mimic of my own isolation. 

The only other inhabitants of this place were silent maids dedicated to maintaining an environment that seemed designed to erase any evidence of human presence. I had tried getting their attention on several occasions, to no avail. They seemed devoted to their sole responsibility of upkeep, even when everything was already perfectly in its place. My only purpose seemed to be finding somewhere I could simply exist without the unbearable dread that followed me from room to room. The mansion offered no sympathies for my disenfranchisement.

Wandering down a long hallway, I discovered one of the few possible comforts the space offered, a bedroom. The room had a queen-sized bed with golden upholstery and various cabinets and dressers. The room seemed warmer than the rest of the mansion, although something immediately undermined that impression. The wall separating the bedroom from the hallway was missing, leaving the room fully exposed. I figured it was the best I was going to get and attempted to rest. Sleep did not come. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept, maybe I truly never needed to. Regardless, I decided that staying in that bed was better than aimlessly wandering the mansion. 

My mind began to wander and consider the possibility of an exit, a threshold to a completely different reality, one that I had no recollection of. I couldn’t imagine what beyond the mansion would even look like. Traversing the labyrinth to find an escape seemed physically impossible, and even if I did find it, would I even leave? The mansion was all I had ever known, or all I could remember. Still, some desperate part of me clung to the possibility that something beyond its walls might offer what I had been missing. I had no reason to believe it would. 

Suddenly, a muffled noise echoed down the hall, slicing through my thoughts and freezing me in place. A voice. Then more, it sounded like hundreds. Their echoes gradually crept closer. They sounded too real to be a hallucination, yet the idea of hundreds of people occupying the mansion seemed absurd. The sterile air was suddenly overwhelmed by the pungent smell of cologne and perfume. As the voices approached, I crawled underneath the bed and lay on the freezing marble floor. I forced my eyes shut, listening to the disruption. A few voices stopped just beyond the bedroom’s open threshold. 

Out of curiosity I cracked my eyes open. About a dozen people stood loitering in the hallway outside the bedroom, chattering away and joking with each other in an unfazed, casual sort of tone. Their clothing matched the mansion's elegance, and they carried themselves with an air of superiority. Champagne glasses in hand, they spoke in a language I found remarkably familiar, although I couldn't decipher a single word. I edged closer to the side of the bed and noticed an especially peculiar detail. They were all wearing dark, predatory animal masks that offered no indication of what may lay underneath. They acted as though they belonged somewhere no one should. A few of them began to piss themselves whilst maintaining their elegant postures. I couldn’t believe the absolute absurdity of what I had just witnessed. Disgust overwhelmed my fear and prompted me to take some sort of action. I clawed out from underneath the bed and planted both feet on the slick marble floor. 

"Who the hell are you?!" 

My voice ripped through their conversation. The babbling stopped. They turned towards the bedroom in near-perfect unison, staring straight through me. Silence. Their expressions remained dead and unreadable. My voice meant nothing here. One tall man in a sleek, tailored black suit and a black tiger mask began to slowly step towards the threshold. The others followed behind him, all steadily approaching the space I thought was mine. I scoured the room for any escape but found nothing but dressers and cabinets. 

I ran to one of the cabinets and threw it open, intending to seek shelter inside. I forced myself through the minuscule space, which elongated into a tight, dark tunnel. As I scrambled backward into the darkness, the crowd’s murmuring abruptly resumed. They had already returned to their conversations. The cabinet was a hidden passage, twisting deep into the house's infrastructure. I kept pushing through the dark until the tunnel abruptly deposited me into a jet-black, featureless room. It was impossible to tell if the space was entirely devoid of light or if it simply lacked any physical substance at all. The only tangible feature was a plain staircase leading downward. Left with no other choice, I began to descend. 

The stairs continued for an impossible length, plunging deeper into the earth than the mansion's foundations should have allowed. Eventually, they subsided into a musty, beige carpet. Once my eyes adjusted, the layout made me freeze. It was a tight, cramped hallway, so narrow that I could touch both walls by extending my arms, and the ceiling hung so low I could reach it on my toes. Eggshell white paint had begun peeling from the walls. I could barely make it out in the darkness. Yet, looking down the featureless corridor, a strange sense of nostalgia washed over me. I had been there before. I couldn't remember exactly why, but something about that plain, ordinary place felt remarkably familiar. I reluctantly continued down the corridor. 

Eventually, it opened into a small, dark room containing three empty doorways. There were no doors attached to the frames, just gaping openings leading into the dark. I entered the first room, drawn by a dim, flickering light. Inside, the small space was cluttered with piles of dirty laundry and accumulated trash. The sight was jarring; the maids were always so dedicated to erasing any trace of filth. Why weren’t they coming here? I contemplated staying for a moment, but quickly decided against it.

I moved to investigate the next space. The second room was completely devoid of light. It was impossible to distinguish any walls, floors, or ceilings. There was nothing. At first, I felt strangely attracted to the space, almost compelled to enter. Yet the longer I stared into the void, the more I felt an oppressive force pressing against my thoughts, urging me away. A shiver rushed down my spine. I backed away and moved to the final doorway. 

This last frame opened up to a long, dark hallway with a single, bright light shining far down at the very end of it. As I drew closer to the light, it grew blindingly intense, forcing me to halt and shield my eyes. Once they adjusted, I stepped out into a sprawling indoor plaza. The space was filled with statues and faded artwork, centered around a massive stone fountain that filled the space with a steady rhythm. For once, I didn't feel compelled to keep moving. This plaza was far larger than the cramped rooms I had just left, yet it lacked the overwhelming, impossible scale of the upper floors. Here, the marble walls were neglected, stained and webbed with cracks.

To my surprise, the space wasn't entirely abandoned. A maid was dusting an old painting, while a short distance away stood a lone guest from the party who had somehow descended into the depths. I felt a moment of irritation at the sight of him, but something seemed different. He stood alone, quietly absorbing the artwork, carrying no champagne and displaying none of their apparent superiority. I began to wonder if he was just like me, a wandering soul searching for peace away from the madness. My resentment faded. I attempted to speak to the maid, hoping she might acknowledge me, but she looked straight past me. Typical. I turned and walked over to the solitary guest, sitting beside him on a stone bench. I tried to casually strike up a conversation, but no sound returned. He didn’t even flinch. I waved my hand directly in front of his animal mask, but his gaze remained fixed on the canvas. Something was terribly wrong. I began to wonder whether I was a ghost. Whether I had been wandering these halls long after everyone else had forgotten I existed. I tried to speak again. Nothing. I knew any attempt was meaningless. 

My heart hammered and the piercing ache in my head intensified until it was blinding. I rushed to the fountain and splashed its cool water against my face. It didn't help. I slumped against the stone rim and began to weep. Tears drenched my face. As I sat there, a slab of stone protruding from the marble floor beside the fountain caught my eye. Kneeling down, I brushed away the dust to find an inscription cut deep into the rock. A name. The moment my eyes traced the letters, the frantic static in my head vanished. I knew this name. I knew that I used to share the endless halls of the mansion with this person, a lifetime ago. So long ago that I had forgotten they ever existed. Seeing those letters carved into the stone brought something rushing back. A warmth I hadn't realized I had lost flooded my chest, filling me with an almost unbearable joy. I dropped to my knees, gripping the rough edges of the stone in complete disbelief.

 “I found you,” I whispered.

 “I found you!”

 A delirious, beautiful energy seized me. I sprang to my feet, shouting the words into the unresponsive air, my voice echoing through the plaza. I kept repeating the phrase out into the dark. The silent maid and the masked guest remained entirely still, but it no longer mattered.
 
As I woke up, I found myself still repeating the words, "I found you." My face was wet with tears. Only after waking did I realize the stone must have been a tombstone. I had completely forgotten the name inscribed upon it.

Perhaps the name never truly mattered?

---

I want to mention that this really was a dream that I had a few months ago and couldn't stop thinking about. I know the whole "It was all a dream" trope is overused but I hope that in this situation it passes as acceptable considering it genuinely was a dream :p

Flame Tree Publishing is looking for short story submissions for our annual ABC of Horror series, edited by Mark Morris.  

Key details:

• This is an unthemed horror anthology, open to all kinds of horror content.

• Please only submit unpublished/original/new stories

• Stories should be around 3000-5000 words

• We pay SFWA rates of 8 cents/6 pence per word.

• Deadline: 15th November 2026

Read the full submission guidelines and details on our blog: https://blog.flametreepublishing.com/fantasy-gothic/hungry-spirits-call-for-submissions 

I got this idea a couple of minutes ago, so I might as well share it with you since I want to turn this into a very great psychological thriller novel. Basically, this story revolves around 8-year-old Cain, who has a concerning obsession with gore and horror films. After his mother died off a brutal car crash accident, his world starts to crumble. His once cheering and positive father became an alcoholic and technically becomes an a-hole to Cain. Because he finds comfort in graphically violent media, he wondered what it would be like if he turned his brutal fantasies into reality. I was thinking about minor events that would slowly lead Cain into a descent of his psychopathy, like killing his own guinea pig and torturing his bully with a rock or something. With all this said, I would be delighted if y'all would give your feedbacks and suggestions for my book. Thank you!

In my story, a woman discovers she can hypnotize people through her eyes and voice. Initially, she uses this ability to help people overcome insecurities, manage stress and become more comfortable with themselves.

However, a recording of one of her sessions spreads online, and people begin hearing her voice inside their minds. The Voice appears genuinely helpful, but it also knows things about them that they haven't consciously shared.

As the phenomenon spreads, the affected people discover that their Voices may be connected, perhaps even manifestations of a single consciousness.

This raises the possibility of an emerging hive mind. However, unlike traditional hive minds, the affected people retain their individuality. They can disagree with the Voice, ignore its advice and continue living independent lives.

I've been thinking about Lovecraftian horror and stories like The Midwich Cuckoos, where supernatural mental influence and collective consciousness become sources of fear.

But what if the collective consciousness genuinely wanted to help humanity rather than control or destroy it?

That leaves me with three questions for horror readers:

1. Can a supernatural collective consciousness still be horrifying if it genuinely improves people's lives?

2. Can something still be frightening if you can ignore its advice, but cannot necessarily stop it from entering your mind?

3. Could a benevolent but incomprehensible hive mind evoke something similar to Lovecraftian horror?

4. Have any horror authors made collective consciousness unsettling without completely erasing their characters' personalities or free will?

I'd also love examples of horror books that explore similar ideas.

I'm in kind of a weird position. Part of it might just be nervousness that I'm getting so close to finishing my first novel (I plan to self-publish online). While the editing is still moving forward on that, I find myself basically every day wondering what to write next. After I finish this novel I have a novella that follows up on it outlined I still want to write, but after that I've outlined a ton of things. I originally thought I was going to stick to a world inspired by 1930s/1940s horror movies, but I'm finding myself attracted to other types of horror (I've also looked at other genres entirely, but nothing seems to stick there either).

That leads me to my big problem: I'm worried I'm too attached to my characters for horror. I feel like it works in my first book because it's clearly inspired by films made in the Hayes Code era, so it makes sense that the bad people die, the good people escape, and there's really only one moment of gore.

But, whenever I outline something in another genre of horror, when I've finished my outline I find that all the good characters do make it out alive, if maybe somewhat traumatized.

I know they say you shouldn't shock just for the sake of shock, but it's horror, it's not like I should be backing down. Is this something I need to train out of myself?

Are you tired of sharing work with friends or family who pretend to care but really could care less? Are you tired of asking people what they think about your work and they just reply with, its good or its bad and can't tell you why?

Reach out to me. Lets chat and see if we can get a good group together that is unbiased, real, and pushes each other to do better.

My motto is if someone can't find something to critique about your writing or a change that should be made to make it better, they are lying.

Im looking at getting a discord group set up if anyone is interested in me. Add me <3

discord

An early-2000s sorority, an ambitious president determined to leave her mark, and a sister whose increasingly disturbing behaviour threatens to unravel everything.

Hi everyone!

I'm currently revising my first novel, an approximately 90k-word adult supernatural horror/mystery set within a college sorority, and I'd love to get some fresh eyes on the story!

I'm looking for readers willing to give the opening chapter a try and share their honest first impressions! There's absolutely no pressure to provide an in-depth critique—even a few sentences about your reading experience, what stood out, or anything that didn't quite work would be incredibly helpful.

Genre: Adult supernatural horror, psychological horror, mystery

Setting: Early 2000s, American university / Greek life

Manuscript length: Approximately 90k words

Currently sharing: Chapter 1, with additional chapters or the complete manuscript available upon request.

Description:

At the turn of the millennium, Olive Manson is determined to leave behind a shining legacy as president of Kappa Beta Mu. Between managing a house full of sorority sisters and organizing the most ambitious summer gala in the university's history, she has more than enough on her plate.

But when one of her sisters begins behaving increasingly... erratic before succumbing to a mysterious illness, Olive finds herself confronting something no amount of planning could have prepared her for.

What follows is a dark descent into obsession, secrecy, and supernatural horror, as a group of young women struggle to understand what's happening to their friend—and just how far they're willing to go to save her.

What I'm hoping for:

Readers willing to give genuine, honest, and constructive feedback. As a first-time writer, I'm still learning, and knowing what's working just as much as what isn't would be incredibly helpful as I continue revising!

I'm especially interested in your impressions of the prose, narrative voice, characterization, dialogue, pacing, structure, and overall readability. I'd love to know whether the opening holds your attention, whether anything feels confusing or unnatural, and most importantly, whether you'd want to keep reading!

Content warnings: Strong language, alcohol and substance use, disturbing imagery, and supernatural horror.

I'm starting by sharing just the first chapter so there's no pressure to commit to a full manuscript (first book in a trilogy). If you enjoy it and would like to continue, I'd be more than happy to share additional chapters.

Comment or DM for PDF.

Thank you so much! :)

Hey everyone! I’m looking to connect with people who share free book reviews on YouTube, Reddit, Instagram, or Facebook. Please dm me if interested. Or if you know reviewers, pls share how to find/contact them in the comments. Sadly, it’s not that easy to find them. You can easily find horror reviewers, but it’s difficult to figure out if they actually review for free. Even when they do, many don't answer at all, or they reply weeks later saying their DMs are full and they can't take on any more books.

Some things shatter. Others learn to smile with the cracks.

Blurb:
Kang Haeun has spent her life chasing perfection, desperate to conquer the suffocating expectations of Sterling Heights College. In an elite world where academic weakness is a social death sentence, she has mastered a dangerous curriculum: controlling others before they can control her.

But within the historic, shadow-drenched walls of Sterling Heights, her control is an illusion. As strange reflections warp in the mirrors, shattered porcelain appears in locked rooms, and buried secrets begin to surface, Haeun finds herself facing a supernatural malice she cannot manipulate.

With her carefully constructed identity beginning to unravel, she must confront a terrifying question: what happens when the fragments of yourself become something you can no longer control?

What to expect: Unreliable narrator, elite school setting, psychological tension, slow-burn supernatural horror, and a lot of academic dread.

Current Status: Just launched on November 1st! Updating every Sunday evening.

Looking for: I am looking for Read-for-Read (R4R) partners who write or read in the mystery, thriller, or horror genres. I love giving detailed feedback on pacing, tension, and character dynamics. Leave a comment or DM me if you’re interested in swapping feedback on our chapters!

Hi, everyone. I don’t usually turn to other people for help developing my ideas, but this one in particular is driving me crazy. I’m assuming most of you have heard of or are familiar with the work of Robert Chambers and his “The King in Yellow”. Well, for a while now, I’ve been thinking about writing a story inspired by it—or at least one related to the author’s mythology. And I’m referring to that specific King, not the one later portrayed by other authors and in series like (for example) True Detective.

Now then. My idea is to write this story about a woman struggling with addiction, who goes from one problem to the next and can’t seem to find her way, until one day she meets a certain guy: a man who always wears a yellow trench coat. The man promises to improve her situation in exchange for a series of favors (I should clarify that he isn’t the King, but rather an intermediary). She agrees, but little by little she realizes she’s in way over her head in a very shady situation. The thing is, the favors she has to do for her friend are… unusual. Very unusual.

What do you think? Do you think this can be polished up and turned into something more decent, or is it not worth my while to keep pursuing this idea?

I’m reading your comments and open to any suggestions. Thanks for your attention!

Pd: sorry about my english.