Unhinged Smiles

Dear reader,

I am afraid of this novel. Afraid of what it demanded of me, afraid of what it revealed, afraid of what it left behind in me. Writing it was not a choice—it was a compulsion, a descent I could not resist. Each word felt like a wound reopening, each page like a step deeper into a place I should not go. This is not simply a story. It is a dive into my nightmares, into the darkest sides of me that I would rather keep hidden.

This novel is of a nightmare-ish nature, shaped by the Smiling Owl. The Smiling Owl is not merely a creature of folklore here—it is a presence, a hunger, a mask that grins even as it devours. It is the shadow that has followed me for years, whispering in the dark, waiting for me to give it form. And now, two years after the events of Wendigo, it has found its way back into the life of the one person who survived that summer: Charlie.

Charlie is no longer the trembling girl you once met. Two years have hardened her, reshaped her, carved her into someone who carries her trauma like a second spine. She has tried to rebuild a life—quiet routines, small comforts, the illusion of safety—but the past has a way of clawing through the walls she builds. The nightmares never left her. The cold never fully thawed. And now, something older, hungrier, and far more cunning has begun to circle her again.

Understand this, dear reader: these novels are not meant to frighten you with tricks or jolts. They are not entertainment in the ordinary sense. They are maps of my subconscious, stitched together from symbols, scars, and silences. They are invitations to walk with me through corridors I fear to enter myself. I confess, I am terrified of what you will find there—because I already know what waits.

If you choose to read, you will notice echoes of my earlier work—familiar rhythms, recurring motifs. But here, one element will not let you rest: the violence. It is not spectacle. It is not gore for its own sake. It is violence as dream, violence as metaphor, violence as the language of nightmares that refuse to be softened. And I admit, I am frightened by how much of that violence came from me.

The nightmare has begun. But is it real?

Nightmares are not simply stories told by the unconscious mind. They are truths disguised in grotesque masks. They are the body’s way of speaking when words fail. They are the soul’s way of reminding us of what we fear, what we desire, and what we cannot bear to face in daylight. This novel is stitched together from such truths. Each scream is one I have heard. Each silence is one I have carried. And each word has cost me something I may never get back.

The Smiling Owl, in this telling, is not only a monster of the forest. It is hunger incarnate. It is the embodiment of what happens when desire devours restraint, when survival erases morality. It is the shadow that follows us when we pretend we are civilized. And in Charlie’s life—two years after she escaped the Wendigo—it becomes something far more personal. It is the reminder that trauma does not fade. It evolves. It waits. It returns wearing a new face.

Writing this novel drained me. It was not invention, but recollection. Each page demanded that I relive the nightmare, that I surrender to it, that I let the violence unfold again and again until it was captured in words. There were nights when I woke shaking, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, and I wondered whether the act of writing was a form of possession. Was I recording the nightmare, or was the nightmare recording me? I still do not know. I only know I am afraid.

You may think of this novel as a rabbit hole, a descent into a world where logic bends and morality fractures. But unlike Alice’s whimsical descent into Wonderland, this rabbit hole is carved from bone and shadow. It is lined with whispers, with echoes of hunger, with the scent of decay. To step into it is to risk losing yourself. Charlie has already lost pieces of herself in its depths—and now, two years later, she is being pulled back in.

I urge you, dear reader, to tread carefully. Do not rush. Do not skim. Let the weight of each word press against you. Let the silence chill you. Let the screams tremble in your bones. The deeper you go, the more the novel will demand of you. It will ask you to confront your own fears, your own hungers, your own shadows. And when you reach the bottom, you may find that the rabbit hole does not end—it simply opens into another corridor, another nightmare, another truth. I fear that truth even as I write it.

Violence in this novel is not spectacle. It is language. It is the way nightmares speak when they cannot be softened. It is the way trauma manifests when it refuses to be silenced. Each violent act is a scar carved into the flesh of the dream. And each scar has carved itself into me.

You may recoil. You may wish to turn away. But I ask you to look closer. Ask yourself what the violence means. Ask yourself what it reveals about Charlie—about the woman she has become after two years of trying to outrun her past. Ask yourself what it reveals about the Smiling Owl, about the human soul. Ask yourself whether the violence is external or internal, whether it is inflicted by the monster or by the dreamer herself. I have asked myself these questions, and I am afraid of the answers.

The nightmare has begun. But is it real? That is the question that will haunt you as you read. Is Charlie dreaming, or is she awake? Is the Smiling Owl a creature of folklore, or is it a manifestation of grief, hunger, and despair? Is the violence happening in the forest, or in the mind? I cannot tell you. I am too afraid to.

So, dear reader, I invite you to step into the nightmare. Hold a lantern in your hand, though its light may falter. Listen to the whispers, though they may lie. Walk beside Charlie—two years older, two years stronger, two years more haunted—though she may not lead you to safety.

This is not a story of comfort. It is not a story of resolution. It is a story of descent, of hunger, of silence. It is a story that asks you to confront the Smiling Owl within yourself. And I confess, I am terrified of what you may find.

The nightmare has begun. But is it real? Or is it simply the echo of my own darkest dreams, waiting to awaken in you?