If the disorienting collage of voices in Pedro Páramo pulled you in—the way Juan Preciado’s journey to Comala keeps fracturing into other people’s memories and whispers—you’ll love how Faulkner lets Benjy, Quentin, and Jason Compson each splinter time and truth. Like listening to Comala’s dead contradict one another, the Compsons’ overlapping monologues force you to piece together a family’s ruin from broken timelines and unreliable vantage points.

If wandering through Comala felt like drifting inside a fever—voices bleeding through walls, the dead as present as the living—Donoso’s nightmare mansion will feel chillingly familiar. As with Pedro’s shadow over Susana San Juan and the town, Don Jerónimo’s household becomes a trap of murmurs and masks, where identities blur and reality contorts until you’re never sure who’s speaking or whether the house itself is dreaming you.

If you liked how Dolores’s stories send Juan to Comala and the town’s testimonies then take over—so the tale is told through those who watched Pedro Páramo from the margins—Brontë’s nested narration will resonate. Lockwood hears Nelly Dean’s account the way you “hear” Father Rentería or Abundio: a chorus of witnesses circling a tyrannical love and the land it ruins, with ghosts pressing in from storm-beaten hills.

If Pedro’s iron grip on Comala—and the way his sins echo through Susana, Dolores, and every whispering grave—hooked you, Fuentes’s dying tycoon will hit the same nerve. Like listening to Comala judge Pedro, you move through Artemio Cruz’s fractured memories to watch power curdle into rot, the Revolution’s promises curdle into self-dealing, and a nation bear the weight of one man’s bargains.

If Father Rentería’s faltering absolutions and Comala’s purgatorial hush stayed with you, O’Connor’s tale of Hazel Motes will, too. As Juan Preciado stumbles through a town trapped between confession and silence, Hazel stalks a Southern city declaring a “church without Christ,” only to find sin, grace, and punishment dogging his heels. It’s the same relentless pull of faith and dread—where salvation and doom feel a breath apart.