Dedication
To everyone living in a love that feels like a horror movie, may you find the courage to walk out of the darkness, and learn that peace is not found in silence, but in freedom.
To everyone living in a love that feels like a horror movie, may you find the courage to walk out of the darkness, and learn that peace is not found in silence, but in freedom.
Author’s Note
When I began writing Horror Relationship, I didn’t want to tell a ghost or underworld story. I wanted to write about love — the kind that begins as a promise and ends as a question. The kind that whispers instead of screams. The kind that lingers even after it dies.
Ken and Lilian’s relationship was never meant to frighten you with monsters hiding under the bed. The real horror lives in the things we leave unsaid; the unanswered texts, the locked doors, the nights spent beside someone who feels a thousand miles away. Their silence became its own character, a living thing that devoured them slowly.
Many people live in houses like theirs — not haunted by spirits, but by memories, regrets, and unfinished conversations. This book is a mirror for anyone who has ever loved someone they could not understand, or feared the parts of themselves that surfaced in the name of love.
If Horror Relationship leaves you uneasy, I hope it’s because you recognized something familiar — not in its darkness, but in its truth. Love, when twisted by pain and pride, can become its own kind of ghost story. And yet, even in its wreckage, there is redemption.
Lilian’s final act — forgiveness — is not about Ken. It’s about reclaiming herself. About understanding that closure doesn’t always come from answers, but from acceptance. So if you close this book with a quiet ache in your chest, let it be a reminder: every story we survive teaches us how to write a better one. Thank you for stepping into the silence with me.
David Waithera
Horror Relationship
© 2025
When I began writing Horror Relationship, I didn’t want to tell a ghost or underworld story. I wanted to write about love — the kind that begins as a promise and ends as a question. The kind that whispers instead of screams. The kind that lingers even after it dies.
Ken and Lilian’s relationship was never meant to frighten you with monsters hiding under the bed. The real horror lives in the things we leave unsaid; the unanswered texts, the locked doors, the nights spent beside someone who feels a thousand miles away. Their silence became its own character, a living thing that devoured them slowly.
Many people live in houses like theirs — not haunted by spirits, but by memories, regrets, and unfinished conversations. This book is a mirror for anyone who has ever loved someone they could not understand, or feared the parts of themselves that surfaced in the name of love.
If Horror Relationship leaves you uneasy, I hope it’s because you recognized something familiar — not in its darkness, but in its truth. Love, when twisted by pain and pride, can become its own kind of ghost story. And yet, even in its wreckage, there is redemption.
Lilian’s final act — forgiveness — is not about Ken. It’s about reclaiming herself. About understanding that closure doesn’t always come from answers, but from acceptance. So if you close this book with a quiet ache in your chest, let it be a reminder: every story we survive teaches us how to write a better one. Thank you for stepping into the silence with me.
David Waithera
Horror Relationship
© 2025
