News I Am Frankelda I Am Frankelda Trailer Takes Us to a Stop-Animated Underworld The land feeds on nightmares, naturally By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on May 28, 2026 Credit: Netflix Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: Netflix It’s hard to be a writer, especially if you’re a woman in the nineteenth century. Frances, who lives in Mexico, is one of those writers when she gets swooped up by an otherworldly prince with a face like a fox. (And I mean a literal fox, like the animal. Or maybe he looks more like an owl and/or a tree? You decide.) That’s the premise of the stop-motion animated feature I Am Frankelda from writer-directors Roy Ambriz and Arturo Ambriz. The streamer put out a trailer today, and the video appears to give a play-by-play of the film’s plot (almost the antithesis, in fact, of the initial trailers for Disclosure Day). Here’s the official synopsis, which spells things out as well: In 19th-century Mexico, Frankelda is a gifted writer whose dark tales are ignored and dismissed. Forced to suppress her voice, she refuses to give up, even as many try to silence her. But when she is thrust into her subconscious, the very monsters she created come to life. Guided by Herneval, a tormented prince trapped between dreams and nightmares, she must restore balance between fiction and reality before both realms collapse. Meanwhile, the sinister writer Procustes and his conspirators plot to seize control. As Frankelda and Herneval grow closer, their bond becomes both a strength and a curse. To rewrite their fate, she must confront a love that defies existence and reclaim her power as a storyteller—before dark forces consume her imagination and reveal horrors beyond her creation. What neither this synopsis nor the trailer make clear, however, is that I Am Frankelda is also a musical! What songs will Frankelda and Herneval sing? We’ll have to wait until June 12, 2026, to find out, when the movie premieres on Netflix and also reportedly in select theaters (the latter so it can qualify for the Oscars, most likely). In the meantime, check out today’s trailer below. [end-mark] The post <i>I Am Frankelda</i> Trailer Takes Us to a Stop-Animated Underworld appeared first on Reactor.

News Sugar Sugar Season 2 Trailer: Colin Farrell Finds Romance (and Conspiracy) on a Missing Persons Case The genre-bending Apple TV show takes us to some out-of-this-world places By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on May 28, 2026 Credit: Apple TV Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: Apple TV The second season of Apple TV’s Sugar is almost here. The show, starring Colin Farrell as the titular Sugar, a private detective who (and here’s a BIG spoiler!) is an alien from outer space disguised as a human, is on another case. He also, as today’s trailer makes clear, becomes romantically entangled with a woman named Charlotte (the spider, not the web!) played by Laura Donnelly. Here’s the full synopsis for the upcoming episodes: Season two ushers in the return of Los Angeles’ iconic private detective and film connoisseur John Sugar, who stayed on earth in hopes of finding his sister as he takes on a new missing persons case—searching for the older brother of an up-and-coming local boxer. As the investigation expands into a sinister, city-wide conspiracy, Sugar must reckon with himself to answer the question—how far will he go to do what’s right? It looks like a web of a conspiracy, to bring in another callback to E.B. White. The trailer also leans heavily into the neo-noir vibe of the series; how much the show’s science fiction aspects will pop up remains to be seen. We do know, however, that season two will also introduce us to some new characters. In addition to Donnelly, Jin Ha, Raymond Lee, Tony Dalton, and Sasha Calle have joined the cast, as well as Shea Whigham in a guest star role. Sam Catlin (Preacher, Breaking Bad) is also back as showrunner. The second season of Sugar premieres on Apple TV on June 19, 2026. Its eight episodes will drop weekly, with the season finale on August 7, 2026. Check out the trailer below. [end-mark] The post <i>Sugar</i> Season 2 Trailer: Colin Farrell Finds Romance (and Conspiracy) on a Missing Persons Case appeared first on Reactor.

Books book reviews Ghosts and Shared Histories: The Girl with a Thousand Faces by Sunyi Dean Mahvesh Murad reviews an ambitious novel about women—and ghosts— affected by war in East Asia across several decades. By Mahvesh Murad | Published on May 28, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share Sunyi Dean’s second novel, The Girl with a Thousand Faces, is the story of Mercy Chan, a woman living in Hong Kong in 1975 who can talk to ghosts. It is also the story of young Siu Yin, who escapes Hong Kong before the Japanese Occupation in the 1940s. And it is the story of a woman and her two young daughters living in a little village on a remote island in the 1920s. Set against the backdrop of the Second World War and its repercussions on East Asia in the decades that follow, the novel explores the lives of these women and those of the communities they live in, both corporeal and spirit.  Kowloon Walled City, Hong Kong, 1975. Mercy works as an exorcist, a ghost-talker, because her innate ability allows her to empathise with the dead and offer suggestions as to how they can rest in peace, rather than simply banishing them against their will. This does sometimes mean the ghosts she is hired to deal with wreak revenge on those who did them wrong, be they family members or otherwise, but that’s acceptable justice, according to Mercy, and there are a lot of ghosts wandering around Kowloon looking for that. In particular, there are “many kinds of waiting-women ghosts, from wives pining for dead or unfaithful husbands to mothers wasting away as they hoped for the return of a child, to young girls with broken hearts, and so on. She felt sorry for them, but also annoyed by them. Bad enough to spend your life waiting on other people; even worse to spend the afterlife doing it, too.” Mercy isn’t the most patient 50-something aunty, but she is the only one who can do what she does.  However, she cannot recall anything that happened before 1942, when she washed up on Japanese Occupied Hong Kong’s shores. Right away, “the corpses are the first thing she sees here. Corpses in the streets and alleys, corpses on the boardwalks and slumping against doorframes. Corpses piled on corpses in wagons, in great stinking mounds of flesh. War has lefts its mark. Oddly, the sight of death doesn’t bother her, and she isn’t sure if that’s a bad thing or not.” She hides out in Kowloon Walled City, a densely packed area that exists outside of the law. Unofficially run by crime syndicates, Kowloon is “the city of darkness”, “left to rot while China and Britain uncomfortably dodged the responsibility for its poverty and spirit infestations, refusing to deal with any of it.” Mercy first joins the resistance during the war, then works with a local crime gang as a ghost talker. She knows right away what almost all the ghosts want and need, be it justice or revenge or acknowledgment and accountability. Mercy shows no mercy though, to those who have wronged the dead. Her own sense of justice is strong, and rather than banish or coerce or convince the ghosts to leave the living be, she is quite happy to let them have their revenge so they can rest in peace, even if it means they have to kill someone else for it.  But why is her empathy for vengeful ghosts so strong? Who even is she? How can she do what she does? Where are her family? Mercy does not know, but she is certain that the woman she has frequent visions of has the answers she needs: a “monstrous, ocean-drenched young woman, wearing the same ragged clothes” who keeps demanding that Mercy remember “the island”. This same ghost, Sea Sister, is more powerful than any Mercy has encountered before, easily and frequently killing people and drowning innocents. Buy the Book The Girl with a Thousand Faces Sunyi Dean Buy Book The Girl with a Thousand Faces Sunyi Dean Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget A remote island off the coast of Hong Kong, thirty three years earlier. Young Siu Yin and her mother have escaped the Japanese invasion, and are hiding out on her mother’s ancestral home island, a beautiful but remote place filled with ghosts. The original village was wiped out by a storm decades ago; everyone who died in it still haunts the island, visible to both Siu Yin and her mother. The ghosts are generally harmless, except there is someone—or something—in the waters surrounding the island who calls to Siu Yin, who may not be entirely benevolent. It is a call she cannot resist.  A remote island village off the coast of Hong Kong, the 1920s. A woman and her two young daughters are hounded by villagers who think one of the little girls is bad luck for them all. A terrible accident occurs, and the little girl falls into a cave which was once home to an ancient temple. The other girl goes on to move away to Hong Kong, and have a daughter of her own.  Each of these narratives is whole and detailed. Jumping between them isn’t always easy, though they do come together well. Mercy’s story remains the most arresting, entertaining one, but even so, when the big plot twist arrives, we are not sure who the protagonist or the antagonist really is, or whether it should even matter. No one is truly at fault, no one is a true villain, because Dean makes it clear that every character is a product of their environment, of their lived experience, of what was done to them, of what they carried forward from those who came before them. Even the ghosts who cause havoc cannot be blamed—a cultural aspect of death and spirituality that Dean explores well. When Siu Yi does not understand this, her mother tells her, “you are thinking like a Westerner, like one of the white nuns at your school. To them, ghosts are just a pest, a villain, a monster to kill. British people… they do not love their ghosts, as they do not love their ancestors. When their dead return, they are banished, When their souls cling, they are forced onwards… Ghosts are driven by hurt, and cannot help themselves. Do you think a storm is evil, because it pours rain on your head?” Our dead ancestors are as natural as the rain, as important and as vital, too. They make us all who we are, and without an understanding or empathy for our shared histories, we would not be able to appreciate the future.  Dean does not pick a side, and does not allow her readers to, either. If there is a villain in this story, it is not one of the characters, but rather the war itself, because “war does not finish… It is not a game that stops when enough players quit. It is a wound, sinking into flesh, leaving scars and rot that cause pain for a long time.” The horrors of the war, the atrocities of the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong, the generation trauma called by what is left behind is the macrocosm of this story. When the bomb falls in Hiroshima happens, Mercy feels it… “she feels it, oh so clearly. Every ghost and shaman from here to China to Russia, to Guam and all the places in between—they feel the spiritual energy of a hundred thousand souls being blasted from flesh into spirit. “It is like a portal to hell has opened.” It is impossible for the ghosts to ignore what is happening in the corporeal world, because “humankind’s destructive power can impact even the spirit world.” Dean gives us a unique perspective of ghosts being involved in the resistance, ghosts who may have been created by the war, who have been embraced by those who needed to fight the invaders. She makes it clear that everything is affected by war: all our histories, every aspect of our culture, legacy, stories.  The Girl with a Thousand Faces is complex, not just in plot and story, but also because Dean makes some interesting choices with narrative structure and voice, taking risks that often pay off, though sometimes the dialogue can feel a little stilted, with most characters speaking in the same tone. There are frequent switches between perspectives, third and second person POV, timelines and spaces, and readers are required to sink into and through each of these. It’s an ambitious narrative, one that also asks us to consider the endless cycle of trauma and grief:  Where does it end? How can it end? Only by making a choice to let it go, by choosing peace instead of seeking justice, can we possibly stop the pain from continuing to be passed down. Forgiveness comes perhaps from living with your demons, accepting them, knowing they are as much a part of you as you are them. The Girl with a Thousand Faces can feel bleak at times, but there are many moments of grace and love, friendship and sisterhood, and ultimately of forgiveness.[end-mark] The Girl with a Thousand Faces is published by Tor Books. The post Ghosts and Shared Histories: <i>The Girl with a Thousand Faces</i> by Sunyi Dean appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From Where You’ll Find Us by Jen St. Jude A trans teen finds a home where queer kids from all different decades have found refuge from hatred-and from time. By Jen St. Jude | Published on May 28, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Where You’ll Find Us, a new young adult fantasy novel by Jen St. Jude, out from Bloomsbury YA on June 2nd. Calla Quick has no future. At least, that’s how it feels. Her parents disowned her via text message, and now she can’t afford to go to an all-women’s college with her girlfriend Ramona like they planned. But Calla wonders if maybe that’s for the best-because even though Calla told Ramona her parents disowned her because they found out she’s gay, the truth is, Calla has been questioning whether she’s a girl at all.Calla wishes she had more time to figure everything out, and one night, her wish is seemingly granted. When Calla and Ramona stumble upon a mysterious farmhouse the woods, they meet five teens who claim they’ve lived there for decades. The land, which they call Amaranth, acts as a safe haven for queer kids throughout history—a place free of hate, free of violence, free of time itself. Here, Calla can be Cal, and they feel instantly accepted. They don’t have to worry about the future because at Amaranth, it will never come—until one night when the clock strikes twelve. Now under a literal ticking clock, the housemates must find a way to stop time again or face going back to their harsh realities, but as Cal learns everyone’s story, they begin to wonder what queer people lose when their history is lost to time. Lost The storm obscures what little was left of the setting sun’s light. We do our best to navigate the dark and the downpour, but we hit a patch of slick mud and literally skid to a stop, gripping onto each other to keep from falling over. When we find our balance, I realize we’re standing at a fork in the road. “I don’t remember there being a split,” Ramona says. “Me neither.” I try to think back to a moment when we might have veered more left or right, but I was more focused on trying to save my relationship than where we were walking. I pat my sides looking for pockets, for my phone, but of course nothing is there. “Shit, I left my phone in your purse,” I say. “Shit, I left my purse in the ballroom.” Shit, shit, shit. “It’s OK,” I say. “We can’t be too far either way.” We stare into the thickly knitted trees and try to make out something familiar, something different.  “I think it’s the right one,” Ramona says, and of course I trust her, the girl with the answers. Thunder cracks overhead, making both of us jump. “And even if it’s not, it’s better to figure it out sooner than later.” But we barely take five steps before lightning strikes, and all around us turns a hot, white, angry blue. It cracks like gunshots, like fireworks, so close we stumble forward and hit the forest floor. Then there’s crashing, ripping, rushing, and we spin around to see a huge tree fall behind us. We both flinch when it strikes the ground, instinctually shielding our eyes with our arms. When we look again, smoke rises from a small fire where the tree was struck, but it’s quickly extinguished by the rain. Still, the scent of char is everywhere, sharp and suffocating. We’re both too stunned to scream. That lightning almost hit us. The tree came even closer. And now its wreckage is blocking the path entirely. “Ramona,” is all I can manage to say. “I’m right here,” she says as we reach for each other. “We need to find shelter. This storm…” As if on cue, a new, crueler wind picks up around us. It’s raw and loud and relentless. We get up and run forward because we have no other choice. We hold onto each other as if our lives depend on it. Our teeth are chattering, my skin burning, feet cramping. With each step we take, it’s harder to stand, and it feels more and more possible that we might not make it out alive, and God, that would be my fault. All of this is my fault. “I think I see a light!” Ramona says, voice almost carried away by the wind. My heart unclenches at the thought of finally seeing the lanterns around the country club, but instead, we come to a clearing. Buy the Book Where You’ll Find Us Jen St. Jude Buy Book Where You'll Find Us Jen St. Jude Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget The sky above it is impossibly cloudless, though the rain keeps falling. There are more stars than I’ve ever seen. They feel so close. They light the world before us: A field dripping with feathery, blood-red flowers. A white, weather-worn house with a door that same bold, unforgettable crimson color. Rocking chairs on the front porch. Every window aglow. The chimney smoking. Ripples blooming across a small pond with every strike of a raindrop, and on its edge, a weeping willow tree. Chickens run around next to a coop, unbothered by the storm. “Someone’s home,” I say, desperately, gratefully. “Someone’s home,” Ramona echoes. I’m so relieved I could fall to my knees. Instead, I squeeze Ramona’s hand, and we run. Home or Something Like It When we knock on the door, nobody answers. I pull away to knock again, this time louder, this time harder. Silence, still. In my desperation, I turn and try the silver handle, and the door opens gently into the house. “Wait,” Ramona says. She takes a step back and looks around us, like someone might emerge from the woods to help us. “We can’t just go in.” “But—” “Shouldn’t we wait until someone opens the door? It’s not polite to just—” “Ramona,” I say, my voice pleading. My words are cut into pieces by my chattering teeth. “We can’t stay out in this storm. We’re wet and freezing and—” Lightning strikes another tree nearby. Ramona jumps and the sound stays on my skin. “Fine,” she says, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “But if there’s an ax murderer in here, I expect you to protect me.” “Obviously. Done.” We quickly step inside. Warmth wraps itself around us, and the scent of maple sugar hangs in the air. I’d think I was dead or dreaming if my wrist didn’t hurt so badly.  “Hello?” I call. “Anybody home?” Directly in front of us, a wooden staircase leads to a second floor. To our right, a huge kitchen is clean white, wood, and teal. To our left, in the living room, a record spins on its player while a fire blazes in the hearth. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. “Is this “Prove It on Me Blues?” Ramona asks. I shrug and my teeth chatter harder as if in relief, and we immediately sit right in front of the fire. I expect my freezing skin to burn but the heat is perfect and strange and soft. Along one wall sits an old piano. Along another, a bookshelf filled with colorful, leather-bound books, gold etchings down their spines. Beyond a huge, green velvet couch, a big window overlooks the pond and the willow tree, and despite the storm, the view feels peaceful. They must have hosted a party recently, because streamers twist across the doorways, and a confusing balloon bouquet sways in the corner. “Trick or Treat, Happy St. Patrick’s Day, Grand Opening?” Ramona reads. My eyebrows furrow as I take it in, then I realize we’ve tracked mud across the floor. I start to say something about it when thunder booms outside, shaking the whole house. Ramona grabs my hand, and we clutch each other as if that will save us. We startle at the sound of scraping on the hardwood, and soon a bear-sized German Shepard bounds down the stairs. He falls down the last few steps, but scrambles to pick himself up before running right towards us. I brace for him to rip my throat out as any good guard dog would upon finding strangers in his home, but he just snuggles his huge body up against us. Nuzzles his head into Ramona’s lap, the fur around his snout a distinguished gray. “Hey, baby,” she says, scratching his ears. His tail thumps against a little table with the record player, and the scratchy, defiant, blues track skips on the beat. “Signs of life,” I say. “Hey big buddy. My dog at home is smaller than your head.” He pulls away from us, leaving behind a coating of fur on our dresses. Then he wiggles his butt, psyching himself up to jump on the couch. It takes him two tries, but he gets it, and the cushions sag under his weight. “There you go, old boy,” Ramona says. “Are you home alone?” I ask as if the dog will answer. He only gives a self-satisfied sigh as he settles onto the couch. Whoever lives here wouldn’t be that mad we came in to seek shelter, right? The art and the record, the dog and the maple scent; all signs of someone kind. Cultured. Gentle. Still, when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, I imagine it all—a serial killer, a gun-slinging homophobe, a bigger German Shepard—but to my even deeper relief, it’s a girl around our age. She pauses half-way down the stairs and leans on the railing to study us. She’s white, has long, curly black hair and is wearing a bedazzled jean jacket over a vintage Sarah McLachlan tour t-shirt. I let myself breathe again. Her smile is immediate and amused. “Fresh blood!” she calls. Ramona and I must look horrified because she quickly adds, “Not literally. Chillax.” “Yay! Welcome! Hi!” says a warmer voice from the other end of the room. We turn to see a Black boy in a blue, white, and maroon geometric sweater that looks like it was ripped from Saved by the Bell. His hair is shaved on the sides and big up top, and his fingers are covered in something pink. He waves at us with jazz hands. “Please accept my most elaborate apologies. I didn’t hear you come in. I was in the pantry.” “No, no. We’re sorry for barging in,” I say. “We got caught in the storm and dragged in all this mud—” But when I look back at the carpet, it seems perfectly clean. “No one cares,” the girl cuts me off with her thick New York accent. “Tell us, what year is it?” Ramona and I look at each other, confused by the question. “You mean, on earth?” I say stupidly. “Yeahyeahyeah,” she urges me on.  “It’s 2026,” Ramona says warily. “2026! Everyone’s gonna freak. When was our last houseguest from, 2011?” she asks the boy. “Yes, it’s been so long since we’ve had anyone new. Nobody since Tyler and it felt like he only stayed for a minute. God, I wish he’d stayed. Love of my many lives.”  Ramona and I exchange a look. Fifteen years since their last visitor? These people hardly look old enough to drive, let alone run some kind of hotel in the middle of the woods. “Sorry,” Ramona says, “but do you have a phone we could borrow? We left ours at the country club and need to call an Uber.” The two—friends? Lovers? Siblings?—exchange wide-eyed, amused stares. “What’s an Uber?” Geometric Sweater asks. “Is it a robot? Oh my God, wait, no. Is it a flying car? Finally.” “Um, no. It’s a car share service? Like a taxi?” Ramona says. “You download an app and order a ride and… You’ve really never heard of it?” “We’re a bit behind the times,” the girl says, and the boy snorts out a laugh. Looking closer, she’s not wrong. These kids seem like they’re crazy about vintage, both of their outfits thrift finds of a lifetime. Together, they look like they’re living in the 1990s. The girl even has blue eyeshadow, for fuck’s sake. “OK,” Ramona says slowly, “but you must have a—” “I have to know,” Bedazzled interrupts her, still leaning on the banister, batting her eyelashes at us. “How’s Whitney? Mariah? Sophie B.? Celine? Alanis? My girl Sarah?” she pulls at her t-shirt. “Ambrosia, diva, darling,” the boy says, “let them settle in a little.” “Ugh, fine. OK, but one question: Who was president after Obama? Seems like y’all were finally making progress, huh?” Something hardens in me, and even sweet, polite Ramona glares at her. They’re messing with us. They are completely messing with us. And maybe I’d find it funny any other day but not today. God, not right now. Rage lights up my chest. “What’s your problem?” I bark, and Ramona puts her arm in front of me as if I’m going to charge up the stairs and tackle the girl. I wasn’t going to, but Ramona’s right that I want to. Bedazzled just smirks and cracks her gum, then blows a bubble the size of her face. “I’m just curious, is all.” “Are you… like… MAGA?” I ask. “My name’s Ambrosia,” she says. Ramona interrupts before I can scream. “I’m Ramona. This is Calla,” she says. “We’re students at Miss Stone’s, and we’re lost, and soon our teachers are going to realize we’re missing and panic. We might get in huge trouble. Can you lend us a phone or not?” “Sorry, love,” Geometric Sweater says. “I wish I could, but there are no phones here.” “No phones?” I ask dryly. “No phones.” “IPad, laptop, anything?” “Nope,” Ambrosia says as she finally comes all the way down the stairs. Ramona and I look at each other in disbelief, as she sits in the tiny slice of couch not taken up by the massive dog. “You can send off some smoke signals in the backyard if you want to. It won’t get you very far, but knock yourselves out.”  I want to bite her head off but Ramona presses her arm into my chest as a warning, so I shut up. “OK, so, how do you get in touch with people?” she asks gently, trying to keep her voice measured. “We don’t,” they say together. “So, what? Are you Luddites? Or living off the grid or hiding from—” “Blondie, take a chill pill,” Ambrosia says, the dog’s head now firmly planted in her lap. “Her name is Ramona,” I remind her. “I’m Lionel,” Sweater says. “See, the thing is, things work different in this house.” When neither Ramona nor I respond, he continues. “Time doesn’t exist here. Like, imagine this house is an island. Imagine time is a stream going by, and each year is a boat. Or maybe each lifetime is a boat? Or is it every instant? Anyway, it’s like each of us docked here at this house and time has been passing us by since. But if we ever return to the stream of time, we’ll be pulled back to the very moment we left. Right back to that same boat. Make sense?” Ambrosia claps her hands together and guffaws. “Lion, wow. Jesus, wow. That cleared things up, huh?” He rolls his eyes and waves her away. “At least I’m trying to explain. You just want them to flounder.” “No. Well, yes. But mostly I’ve just learned to let Sunny do her thing.” Ramona and I share a look that says, Are these people high? While they don’t seem violent, something clearly isn’t right, and part of me wants to get the hell out of here.  Ambrosia leans forward and gives a smile that’s almost sympathetic. Almost.  “Look, ladies, it’ll all make sense soon enough. You’re not in any danger, and for now, Lionel is making dessert—” Lionel waves his frosting hands again— “and I’m going to take you upstairs to get some dry clothes, OK?” I bristle at ‘ladies,’ even though I look like one, I know. I must admit—however foolish, however unfair—I’m disappointed Ramona doesn’t correct her. But why would she? We need their hospitality, their shelter, their clothes. Another violent crack of thunder reminds me of that. Lightning strikes, too, bright as daylight. We can’t leave yet.  “Like I said, I’m Ambrosia,” she calls back over her shoulder as Ramona and I reluctantly follow her up the stairs. “Just Ambrosia. No last name, you hear me? Have you ever heard of Madonna or Cher?” “Uh, sure,” Ramona says, turning around to shoot me a bemused grin. “Who hasn’t?” “Right, so, like that.” All along the walls, up the stairs and on the second floor, are striking framed portraits. There are five of them, all of people around our age, seemingly from different time periods. There’s one of Lionel, and it so captures his warm smile, the gap in his front teeth, his big brown eyes. There’s one of Ambrosia too, and she looks larger than life—high glam makeup, hair pinned up with butterfly clips, a choker necklace with a star charm at the center. Her tongue between her lips, playful. One portrait in particular stops me: An androgynous person with light brown hair slicked back; one strand out of place. Heavyset and handsome. A button up shirt that looks like it belongs to a cowboy. Freckles sprayed across a long face. And a stare that holds me there in the hallway for at least a minute. For too long. I feel so much gender envy I could melt into the floor. “Coming?” Ambrosia calls from the top, and I take three stairs at a time to catch up. Excerpted from Where You’ll Find Us, copyright © 2026 by Jen St. Jude. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Where You’ll Find Us</i> by Jen St. Jude appeared first on Reactor.

Movies & TV The Terror: Devil in Silver The Terror: Devil in Silver Leads Us to Loss in “A Number in the System” We also learn much more about Miss Chris and Dorry… By Alex Brown | Published on May 28, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share The screws on the New Hyde patients are turning. This week Pepper confronts his past, Dorry opens a door, and Coffee, my poor, sweet Coffee *bursts into tears* The cold open with Dorry and Dr. Walter is exactly what I suspected happened to her for real when she was abandoned by her husband at New Hyde decades ago. Her story about crying too much for her husband’s liking, women have been dumped in mental hospitals by men for less. Dr. Anand talks about noncompliance from the perspective of an overworked administrator that needs fewer hassles and more funding, but it is rooted in the obedience and submission of those deemed lesser. Patients are expected to adhere to “years of regimen,” in the words of the sinister Dr. Walter, even though no one is capable of that kind of extreme rigidity and denial of “moments of pleasure” without being forced to. Miss Chris snapping over the patients enjoying a home cooked meal is on the same spectrum as Walter lobotomizing Dorry, even if Miss Chris would object to the comparison.  Dorry’s situation is compounded by her later conversation with Loochie. I bet Dorry was a firecracker in her youth, just like I bet that same vim and vigor that drew her husband in was what drew him away. I bet he wanted her to be like that all the time and couldn’t tolerate her any other way. Dorry points out the reason “he” doesn’t have to “fuck with” Loochie is the same reason he doesn’t fuck with Dorry: because “he doesn’t have to.” Loochie is a lifer. “No meds, no rules,” but never leaving. Neither of them have anything tethering them to the outside world. All they have is New Hyde, an incredibly dispiriting thing to realize.  The disconnect is striking between what Miss Chris tells her daughter she believes—“How can I leave a man like that?” “They need me.”—and what she does—leaving that “delusional” old man in solitary confinement for decades, breaking the bones of dead men, drugging up her patients. She says she doesn’t want to retire because she doesn’t want to babysit and clean all day, but here she is getting paid to treat adults like children and pick up trash. She’s probably correct that when she retires things will get worse on Northwest 2. I doubt the hospital would replace her, or if they did it would be someone young and inexperienced who they could pay a hell of a lot less to do even more (i.e. another Josephine). But it’s also true that what she’s doing now is a far cry from actual help.  We already know from past episodes that the hospital/Dr. Walter/the old man/the devil doesn’t hurt people who try to leave or try to get help, so it’s telling that Miss Chris says she’s never been harmed by him/it. People working in corrupt systems tend to fall into one of three categories: they directly benefit from the system operating as is and therefore resist any attempts at improvement, try to make small changes until they get so miserable they quit, or try to make small changes in order to convince themselves they’re making a difference. Anand is the first, Scotch Tape is the second, Josephine is too new to have chosen a side but my guess is she’ll end up as the second, and Miss Chris is the third.  Take Miss Chris’ relationship with Coffee. Most of the time she scolds him like a parent does a fussy child (not dissimilarly to how she speaks to her grown daughter). His breakdown at the payphone is the first time we’ve seen her be caring toward him. But it’s worth noting this act of kindness happens only after the impending arrival of Dr. Cleave from the review board is announced. Also, Coffee appears to be around the same age as her daughter, and both Miss Chris and he are in the Black immigrant diaspora. She can relate to him in a way she can’t with anyone else on the ward, but that feeling isn’t mutual. Coffee says, “You demand honesty, but you are not honest. None of you are.” That word “demand” is key. She thinks she’s asking, he feels like she’s ordering. Instead of trying to understand why he thinks the man behind the silver door is the devil or acknowledging the physical and psychological pain he has caused the patients, she scoffs and dismisses Coffee’s concerns as nonsense. The staff hear the patients speak, but they never listen. Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC To put it another way, there’s a difference between being kind and being nice. Miss Chris is mostly nice and sometimes kind. She makes sure the patients get their three squares and a bed and that they remain compliant. Josephine is kind. She brings in homemade food made by her mother with real utensils, and does their laundry. Scotch Tape is a little of both. He’s tough and does what he’s told; he even stands like an enforcer or a prison guard. Yet he also treats Loochie like a kid sibling and offers to give Pepper a free back adjustment. I hope we get to see some of his home life like we did Miss Chris. I’d love to know what inspired his attentiveness to the elderly. He seems to have an affinity for them. He should go into elder care, if he survives the season. (Now I can’t stop thinking about Scotch Tape and Dr. Mohan from The Pitt meeting up at their new elder care jobs. Someone get me that fic stat!) I think Dorry and Miss Chris have more in common than either realize. Both women have sacrificed their personal happiness for the patients at New Hyde, even when ensuring their safety goes against the wishes of those same patients. They think of themselves as maternal figures, but their love is smothering. They have decided the best way to protect their people is through compliance. In their minds they are the only things keeping the New Hyde ship from sinking when really they’re just arranging deck chairs on the Titanic. After Loochie, Coffee, and Pepper lose the last of their hope, Dorry offers a way out. She guides Pepper through a hole in the wall behind her dresser and delivers him to Walter. Walter thrusts Pepper back into a memory where he had the chance to be a good father to Anthony, but as per usual he chooses instant personal relief over helping someone else. He doesn’t do it maliciously, but intent doesn’t negate impact. There’s something to be said about Walter offering a frictionless existence at the expense of one’s humanity in this age of generative AI. Just lie back and let me take everything from you and offer you nothing of value in return. Everything is shiny and happy and nothing matters. Walter is a solution in search of a problem. Dorry had no choice but to surrender to him. I bet she fought when she first came to New Hyde. Pepper thinks of himself as the great hero who fights evil, but when fighting means confronting the damage in his wake, well, maybe surrendering isn’t so bad.  Loochie and Coffee, meanwhile, are desperately trying to rescue Pepper. Dorry takes them into the abandoned hallway where she met with Walter in the beginning, which is when Coffee discovers they’re on the other side of the silver door. Something monstrous stalks them after they rescue Pepper. But it’s what is done to Coffee that is the real horror show. Anand plays to the cops’ fear of the patients hoping to get them to do something about the man behind the silver door, but instead they gun Coffee down when he’s trying to get help. We’ve seen time and time again how the police kill people suffering a mental health crisis. This was an entirely avoidable and also not unexpected end to Coffee’s life. Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Loochie, Coffee, and Pepper turn on Dorry when she tells them she’s friends with “him.” They think she means the man behind the silver door, who they keep referring to as “it,” but she means Walter. Dorry has said there are three entities terrorizing Northwest; we only know of two so far, and the other patients think of the Holy Trinity as more like one being. Yet the conversation about Walter wanting Pepper to break him out of New Hyde makes it seem like the devil is literal. “But like Coffee says, did the devil come here because of what Dr. Walter did? Or did Dr. Walter do it because the devil told him to?” What I’m saying is I have no idea what the hell is going on at New Hyde. I mean, I know what the book says happens there, but is the show going to stick to that ending or do something new? Couldn’t even hazard a guess at this point. I haven’t decided if The Terror: Devil in Silver is building to a point, if the point has already been made and they’re hammering it over and over again, or if there is no point at all. With only two episodes left, the show has a lot of work left to do. Quotes “This is chaos.” No ma’am. It’s lumpia! “He can even be your friend if you do what he tells you.” Nope, not creepy at all. “I am done calling for help. I used to think this system was broken and people out there just didn’t know. But now I realize nothing is broken. The system is working perfectly. That’s why they never fix it.” “It hurts the most the first time, but you get used to it.” Lord have mercy. Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Final Thoughts Lol that the only thing shutting Pepper up from reliving his glorious battle at the pizza parlor is lumpia. I feel you, brother. Few things in this life better than homemade lumpia. I also think there’s a little in Miss Chris’ attitude toward the lumpia party about being confronted with the fact that she isn’t as indispensable as she thought. Everyone has more fun without her. She isn’t the glue holding the place together. Is anyone else confused as to why a physical therapist is doing chiropractic adjustments? Here’s hoping Scotch Tape saying “as soon as I finish my residency, finally walk out that door, I’m never coming back” doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. Pepper, did you learn nothing from Widow’s Bay? Never go into the mysterious crawlspace! A bunch of new patients on the wing this week. The dark haired woman in the dining room, a man in a dark shirt next to a woman in a pink cardigan smoking on the basketball court, a white guy in the pill line behind Loochie and Coffee and a redheaded woman in front of them.  Jesus. Anand, you fucking coward. You could have stopped them! Unless things change pretty quickly, it looks like the show might have cut out another important character from the book besides the rat, Pepper’s… how to say this without spoilers…closest ally.  This week’s song: “The Number of the Beast” by Iron Maiden[end-mark] The post <i>The Terror: Devil in Silver</i> Leads Us to Loss in “A Number in the System” appeared first on Reactor.