If the Elk-Headed Woman’s intrusion into reservation life and the way Lewis’s home becomes a hunting ground grabbed you, you’ll love how The Changeling makes old-world fairy lore stalk a very real New York. Like the fallout from that ill-fated elk hunt, Apollo Kagwa’s domestic happiness curdles into terror after a shocking act shatters his family, sending him on a surreal, street-level quest through parks, islands, and hidden communities. LaValle blends myth and smartphone-age reality with the same unnerving creep you felt in the gym showdown with Denorah, turning fatherhood and folklore into razor-edged suspense.

If you liked how The Only Good Indians kept changing angles—moving from Ricky’s doomed night in the bar parking lot to Lewis’s unraveling at home, then to Gabe, Cass, and finally Denorah’s desperate stand—Tremblay’s nerve-fraying home-invasion tale is a perfect fit. The narrative hops between captors and captives inside a single cabin, ratcheting dread the way the sweat lodge scene tightened around Gabe and Cass. The result is claustrophobic, destabilizing horror where every point of view might be right—and wrong—at the same time.

If the novel’s brutal tone—Ricky’s sudden, senseless death; Lewis’s spiral and Peta’s fate; the merciless hunt by the Elk-Headed Woman—hooked you, Iglesias delivers that same ferocity. Mario accepts a cartel job that becomes a blood-soaked odyssey, where saints, curses, and visions brush up against bullets and betrayal. Like the way old sins from that illegal elk hunt won’t stay buried, every step Mario takes drags more darkness into the light. It’s grim, propulsive, and unflinching, with splashes of the uncanny that hit like antlers in the dark.

If the book’s psychological pressure—the guilt the men carry from the elk slaughter, Lewis’s paranoid trying-to-make-it-right, and the crushing inevitability stalking Gabe and Cass—stayed with you, The Fisherman channels that same ache. Two widowers find a cursed upstate New York river and a legend promising reunions with the dead. As the story deepens, grief and obsession tangle until reality feels as thin as the gym’s final standoff with Denorah. Langan pairs cosmic dread with intimate sorrow to create horror that lives in your head long after the last page.

If the Elk-Headed Woman’s vengeance—born from a broken boundary during that illicit hunt—resonated, White Horse taps a similar vein of cultural memory and reckoning. When Kari inherits a mysterious bracelet tied to her missing mother, visions and an insistent spirit start prying at family secrets she’d rather leave buried. Like the way the past keeps tracking Gabe and Denorah right onto the basketball court, Wurth’s ghosts don’t just scare—they demand answers. It’s sharp, contemporary horror grounded in Indigenous voices, where every revelation cuts both ways.