Most people don’t think of Florida when they think of gothic stories.

They picture crumbling castles, fog-covered moors, old cemeteries buried beneath dead leaves. They think of cold places. Quiet places. Places where the dark feels obvious.

But Florida? Florida hides it differently.

The darkness here lives beneath neon signs and thunderstorms. Beneath tourist beaches and crowded highways. It lingers in the humidity thick enough to cling to your skin, in roads that disappear into cypress trees, in the strange stillness that settles right before a storm breaks open over the Gulf.

There’s something unsettling about a place that looks alive all the time. And I think that’s why I keep writing it. Because Florida doesn’t feel dead. It feels hungry.

There's a certain kind of story that doesn't knock politely. It lingers.

It shows up when the house is quiet, when you're trying to relax, when you should be doing something else, and instead, it's just...there. Sitting in the back of your mind, refusing to leave.

Thos are the stories I write.

Not the easy ones. Not the light, quick reads that pass through and don't leave much behind. I write the ones that stay a little too long. The ones that feel heavy in your chest. The ones that ask questions you don't always have answers to.

I write in the dark. But not because I'm drawn to darkness for the sake of it. I write in the dark because that's where the truth tends to show up.