About

I grew up in a house that made sounds at night. Not the settling-wood kind — the kind you couldn't explain in the morning. That's where the writing started. Not with monsters or blood, but with the particular dread of not knowing.

My work lives in the space between what you see and what you suspect. Psychological horror, slow-burn and intimate — the kind that doesn't announce itself. It just accumulates, quietly, until you realize you've been holding your breath for three chapters.

My work has been described as "deeply unsettling in the most literary way possible," which is exactly what I was going for. I write for readers who want to be disturbed thoughtfully — who believe that the best horror leaves a mark that doesn't fade when the book closes.

When I'm not writing, I'm reading everything I can find about the psychology of fear, the architecture of dread, and the strange ways human beings convince themselves that everything is fine.

It never is. That's the point.