If the way Sara Harrison Shea’s journal entries drip-fed you the truth — guiding Ruthie and Katherine through West Hall’s secrets — had you riveted, you’ll love how The Silent Companions uses 17th‑century diaries and household ledgers to peel back a country estate’s history. As Elsie explores a locked room and discovers both painted wooden "companions" and damning pages from the past, the evidence builds with the same chilling, paper‑trail intimacy that made Sara’s writings so irresistible.

If you liked how The Winter People toggles between Sara in 1908 and the present-day hunt for Alice, The Sun Down Motel mirrors that rhythm. In 1982, Viv vanishes while working the night shift; in 2017, her niece Carly takes the same job to chase the truth. The dual narratives lock together clue by clue — much like Ruthie’s search echoing Sara’s — as ghostly phenomena and small-town rot converge into one satisfying reveal.

If Ruthie’s investigation into Alice’s disappearance and the sinister lore around West Hall’s stone circle hooked you, The Night Strangers delivers that same unraveling dread. After a pilot survives a crash and relocates with his family to a creaky Victorian in New Hampshire, strange neighbors — and a basement door sealed with 39 bolts — set off a slow-burn inquiry into the town’s macabre customs and the house’s past, culminating in revelations as startling as the "sleepers" ritual.

If the stone ring in the forest and the whispered promise of "bringing them back" in The Winter People gave you chills, Pet Sematary is the harrowing next step. When Louis Creed learns what lies beyond the deadfall — and what comes home after burial — the story digs into the same irresistible, folklore‑steeped temptation that animates the "sleepers," then pushes it to a devastating conclusion.

If the grim, wintry atmosphere of West Hall — the farmhouse, the locked rooms, the sense that grief itself might be haunting the living — lingered with you, The Little Stranger amplifies that mood. As Dr. Faraday is drawn into the crumbling Hundreds Hall, inexplicable burns, bells, and writing on walls accumulate with the same stark, skin‑prickling inevitability that shadowed Sara’s house, blurring the line between psychological scars and something truly malignant.