Does 'Helpmeet' Have Any Trigger Warnings For Readers?

I just finished reading 'Helpmeet' last night, and it's definitely more psychological thriller than straight horror. The story messes with your head in the best possible way, playing on fears of intimacy and dependence rather than jump scares or gore. The protagonist's slow unraveling as she questions her husband's bizarre behavior creates this suffocating atmosphere of dread. There are disturbing moments, sure, but they stem from psychological manipulation rather than supernatural threats. The real horror comes from how plausible the situation feels—that gradual realization that someone you love might be dangerous. If you enjoyed 'Gone Girl' or 'The Silent Patient', this will be right up your alley.

I found 'Helpmeet' available on several platforms when I was hunting for it last month. The easiest place is Amazon's Kindle store—just search the title and you can buy the ebook instantly. If you prefer physical copies, Book Depository has worldwide shipping with no extra fees, though delivery takes a week or two. For free options, check if your local library offers Hoopla or Libby; I borrowed it there for a 21-day loan. Some indie bookshops like Powell’s also stock it online, but prices vary. The author’s website sometimes has signed editions, though those sell out fast.

I recently dug into 'Helpmeet' and was fascinated by its origins. The novella was written by Naben Ruthnum, who also publishes crime fiction under the name Nathan Ripley. What struck me about 'Helpmeet' is how Ruthnum drew from classic Gothic horror tropes but twisted them into something entirely fresh. The story follows a caretaker tending to her husband’s grotesque transformation, and the inspiration seems to pull from both medical horror and the unsettling intimacy of marriage. Ruthnum has mentioned his interest in body horror and the works of authors like Shirley Jackson, which shows in the story’s claustrophobic, domestic dread. There’s also a clear nod to Victorian-era medical curiosities and the fear of the unknown—the way illness can warp love into something monstrous. The prose is sharp and unsettling, making it feel like Ruthnum channeled personal fears about dependency and physical decay into the narrative. What’s especially clever is how 'Helpmeet' subverts traditional caretaker stories. Instead of a selfless act, the protagonist’s devotion becomes a slow, terrifying revelation. Ruthnum’s background in crime writing adds a layer of suspense, as the story feels like a mystery where the real horror isn’t just the transformation but the emotional toll it takes. The inspiration feels deeply rooted in exploring how love can curdle under extreme pressure, and it’s a theme that lingers long after the last page.

The central conflict in 'Helpmeet' revolves around the protagonist's struggle with their monstrous transformation while trying to maintain humanity. The story pits bodily autonomy against inevitable change, as the main character fights to control their evolving form that increasingly frightens their loved ones. What makes it gripping is how the transformation isn't just physical—it reshapes their thoughts and desires, creating internal warfare between their original personality and emerging instincts. The spouse becomes both caretaker and prisoner in this relationship, torn between love and survival fear. This isn't your typical werewolf narrative; it's a disturbing exploration of devotion's limits when faced with something that's neither human nor beast but something entirely other.

The novel 'Helpmeet' digs deep into the messy reality of marriage, showing how dependency can both nurture and suffocate. The protagonist's relationship is a constant push-pull—her husband's chronic illness forces her into a caretaker role, blurring the line between love and obligation. What struck me was how the author portrays dependency as a double-edged sword. The wife gains purpose through her devotion, yet her identity slowly erodes as she prioritizes his needs over hers. The physical toll mirrors the emotional one; scenes where she administers medication or cleans wounds become metaphors for how marriage demands daily sacrifices. The book doesn’t romanticize this—it shows the resentment bubbling under the surface, the quiet rage of being needed too much. Yet, in darker moments, she clings to this dependency because it’s the only version of love she knows. The novel’s brilliance lies in its refusal to simplify: marriage here is both chains and sanctuary.