If Sarah Crowe’s journal in The Red Tree hooked you with its confessional voice and the way the Rhode Island farmhouse and that old oak seemed to twist her perception, you’ll love this slim shocker. A screenwriter retreats with his family to an Alpine rental and keeps a work notebook—only the house’s angles don’t add up, time slips, and the diary itself starts undermining him. Like Sarah’s entries, the voice is intimate, prickly, and unreliable, and you’re left parsing whether the monster is the house, the pages, or the mind writing them.

You liked how Sarah’s diary and the found manuscript about the red oak talk past each other, letting you triangulate a truth the narrator might be dodging. Here, a cocky journalist “documents” his debunking of the supernatural after a viral exorcism video—only for editor’s notes, transcripts, and a brother’s commentary to contradict him at every turn. The fun is in the margins: like the red tree’s folklore notes, the addenda and footnotes become the real horror as they chip away at the narrator’s version of events.

If the isolated farmhouse, the woods around the red oak, and the patient escalation of unease worked for you, this novel’s desolate English coastline will feel chillingly familiar. A pilgrimage to a remote shrine becomes a decades-long knot of superstition, community secrets, and dangerous faith. Like The Red Tree, the fear accrues in small observations and half-told histories rather than jump scares—you’ll feel the ground giving way long before anyone admits it.

Sarah’s isolation, creative block, and self-lacerating diary—plus that house that seems to know where she’s vulnerable—are mirrored here by a couple who flee for a fresh start and find walls that bruise, stains that spread, and hidden rooms that won’t stay found. The horror isn’t just in the architecture; it’s in how the characters explain it away. If you were compelled by The Red Tree’s inner weather—how private damage colors what’s ‘real’—this digs into the same wound.

You were drawn to Sarah finding a previous tenant’s writing and how that nested narrative reframed the red oak’s legends. In this cult classic, a young man edits an old scholar’s manuscript about a documentary—the Navidson Record—detailing a house with impossible spaces. Footnotes, appendices, and competing voices tangle until the act of reading feels like descending the house’s lightless hallway. If you loved sifting lore and marginalia in The Red Tree, this is the maximal, abyssal version.