What Waits Beneath Us All
About
In a forgotten farmhouse surrounded by an orchard that blooms out of season, memory is more than something you carry—it’s something that carries you.
When Lena Hearst discovers a single rusted nail on her living room floor, it marks the beginning of a slow unraveling. The house isn’t falling apart. It’s unbuilding itself. Room by room, root by root, memory by memory. As the past resurfaces through glyphs etched in bark and dreams that speak in soil, Lena must confront a legacy planted long before her time—a buried presence that remembers everything, and asks to be remembered in return.
Aided by a mysterious girl, a grieving archivist, and a book that bleeds ink and grief, Lena finds herself at the center of a ritual that has shaped generations of her family—and may yet shape the land itself. But when remembering becomes a choice, and forgetting becomes a weapon, Lena must decide whether to seal the past… or let it bloom.
Praise for this book
This book is less about jump scares and more about the quiet, creeping kind of horror that blooms from memory, grief, and inheritance. The writing is lyrical, the characters are heartbreakingly real, and the house feels like its own character. I closed the final page and just sat there, stunned. A masterpiece of atmosphere and slow-burning dread.
The orchard. The glyphs. The tree. It’s all so weird and beautiful and sad. If you like your horror poetic and deeply emotional, this is for you. Every symbol meant something, and I’m still thinking about what I would’ve done with that final seed.
This isn’t your typical horror novel—it’s more like a meditation on what we carry through generations, and how grief can shape the land we live on. Lena is one of the most grounded female protagonists I’ve read in a long time. I’d recommend this for readers who like layered, literary fiction with supernatural themes.
From the very first page, I knew this was going to be different. The language is absolutely stunning—lush and eerie, like poetry growing out of a grave. It never rushes. It pulls you down, root by root, memory by memory, until you’re part of the story yourself.
Every chapter felt like planting something and watching it bloom—into grief, into myth, into something I didn’t expect. The writing is elegant and rich, the story timeless. I’d read anything this author writes next.