Where Can I Buy 'This Thing Between Us'?

Gus Moreno is the brilliant mind behind 'This Thing Between Us'. I stumbled upon this novel during a late-night bookstore run, and the cover immediately grabbed me. Moreno crafts horror with emotional depth, blending grief with supernatural elements in a way that feels raw and real. His writing style is sharp yet poetic, making every page drip with tension. Before this, he wrote short stories that got critical praise, but 'This Thing Between Us' put him on the map as a novelist to watch. If you're into horror that lingers long after you finish reading, check out his work alongside Paul Tremblay or Stephen Graham Jones.

The ending of 'This Thing Between Us' hits like a freight train of emotions. After battling the malevolent presence haunting their relationship, the protagonist makes a heartbreaking choice to sever the supernatural bond, even if it means losing their partner forever. The final scenes show them sitting alone in their now-quiet apartment, sunlight streaming through windows that used to be covered in occult symbols. There's this brilliant ambiguity - was the entity truly destroyed, or did it just transfer to someone else? The last paragraph describes the protagonist hearing faint whispers from their phone when it rings, leaving readers with chills about whether the cycle continues. It's not a clean happy ending, but it feels right for the story's tone of cosmic horror mixed with deep personal loss.

'This Thing Between Us' absolutely drips with horror, but it's not just about jump scares. The novel weaves grief and the supernatural into something far more unsettling. The protagonist's struggle with loss blurs the line between psychological torment and actual paranormal invasion. Ghostly whispers through smart devices, objects moving on their own—it's modern horror rooted in emotional chaos. What sets it apart is how it weaponizes everyday technology. Your Alexa turning sinister? That's nightmare fuel. The horror creeps in slowly, playing with your sense of reality until you're questioning every sound in your house. It's a chilling reminder that terror doesn't need monsters—just the right push into the uncanny.

I'd call 'This Thing Between Us' a genre-bender that sits at the crossroads of horror and psychological thriller with a dash of supernatural mystery. The way it blends domestic drama with creeping dread reminds me of 'The Babadook'—where everyday relationships become the backdrop for something far more sinister. The haunted technology angle gives it a modern twist, making the horror feel uncomfortably close to our daily lives. There's also this lingering exploration of grief that threads through the narrative, pushing it into literary horror territory. It's not just about scares; it's about how loss can distort reality and make us vulnerable to forces we don't understand.

I've read 'This Thing Between Us' and dug into its background. No, it's not based on a true story, but it cleverly plays with real-life fears that make it feel chillingly plausible. The author has mentioned drawing inspiration from personal experiences with grief and modern technology dependence, which gives the haunting elements an authentic weight. The way smart home devices turn sinister mirrors our growing unease about privacy invasion and AI autonomy. While no actual supernatural events occurred, the novel taps into universal anxieties about losing loved ones and not being able to let go. The cultural details about Korean shamanism add another layer of realism, even though the central ghost story is fictional.

One of the most illegal things to do is hacking into someone's personal accounts or computers. It's not just risky; it can seriously harm someone's life and invade their privacy. Just a few clicks can lead to a lot of trouble, and it's not worth it for a quick thrill. Respecting people's boundaries is crucial, and keeping things legal ensures that everyone gets to enjoy their space safely.

"Do your thing, cuz!" is one of the most cringiest, vomit inducing, but also slightly funny, line from a mainstream horror franchise.

Watching the 1951 'The Thing from Another World' and then jumping into Carpenter's 1982 'The Thing' feels like stepping into two different nightmares. The earlier film treats the alien almost like a giant plant-animal in a lab: it's confrontational, something to be found, contained, and shot. There's a tidy, almost patriotic pacing to it—scientists and a military unit solve the problem with bravery and logic. The monster is a clear enemy you can point a gun at, and the film's lighting and tone reflect that 1950s studio sci-fi confidence. By contrast, 'The Thing' that Carpenter made is all about suspicion and mutation. The creature isn't a single body you can defeat; it's a microbial mimic that takes over people, creating paranoia among a small, isolated group. The horror is interior and social as much as physical — you can't trust your friends because they might literally be them. Rob Bottin's practical effects and Ennio Morricone's eerie score amplify the viscera and dread. The endings say a lot too: the 1951 film closes with a sense of victory, whereas Carpenter leaves you with cold ambiguity and a feeling that the infection might continue. For me, the two films show how a single idea can be remade to reflect different cultural fears and filmmaking languages, and I always end up preferring Carpenter's chilly, mistrustful version when I want my horror to linger long after the credits roll.