If you smiled at the bleak little jingles of Oyster Boy’s fate and the rueful punchlines of pieces like “Voodoo Girl” and “Staring Girl,” you’ll love Gorey’s alphabet of doom. Each letter dispatches a child with deadpan rhyme and drier-than-dry wit—very much the same morbid nursery-rhyme energy that makes pieces like “Mummy Boy” stick in your head.

You enjoyed how Burton’s tiny stories—like the bittersweet end of Oyster Boy or the sly reversal in “Junk Girl”—deliver a complete emotional arc in a page or two. In Sum, each micro-story imagines a different afterlife, ending with a stinger that re-frames everything. It scratches that same itch for compact, wickedly clever parables.

If the off-kilter charm of characters like “The Girl with Many Eyes” or the sad, sticky absurdity of Oyster Boy’s seaside origins drew you in, Jackson’s surreal anatomies will feel like a kindred echo. These stories turn organs, fluids, and flesh into weird, lyrical fables—equal parts unsettling and oddly affectionate, just like Burton’s strangest creations.

Burton’s pieces hint at whole worlds with a few lines—parents who consider serving their oyster child with lemon, a boy sewn into gauze, a girl who can’t stop staring—and the magic simply is. The Tiny Wife uses the same minimalist, fairy-tale logic: after a robbery by a magical thief, people develop impossible curses (one woman literally shrinking), told with tender, deadpan strangeness.

If the combination of Burton’s sketchy ink art and bleak lullabies—like the parental horror-comedy around Oyster Boy or the lonely pathos of “Robot Boy”—hooked you, Gaiman and McKean’s Mr. Punch amplifies that vibe. Photographs, drawings, and typography collide to tell a dark, carnivalesque tale of childhood, puppets, and family misdeeds with a sinister nursery feel.