Synopsis:
The People Who Paint Rocks is a multi-generational horror epic that transcends the boundaries of its genre. What begins as a period horror/drama in 1910 Santa Fe evolves into a chilling supernatural thriller by 1975, where a pregnant nurse and a detective tormented by spiritual doubt race to stop an evil older than memory. A moody, unsettling, and unrelentingly atmospheric work that grips the reader from the first page and refuses to let go.
The opening act is steeped in Western gothic, introducing us to Albert McCord, a grieving husband and father seeking revenge on the wolf that took his family. But the creature he hunts is no ordinary predator—it is the origin of something far more terrifying. Hansen cleverly seeds this early chapter with themes of loss, legacy, and the illusion of control. Albert’s struggle is both physical and existential, as he fends off his late wife’s scheming family while unknowingly chasing a malevolent force that will haunt generations to come.
Fast-forward to 1975, and the novel pivots into psychological horror, following Charlie, a pregnant nurse caught in a web of ritualistic murders, and Alonzo, a detective whose beliefs are unraveling. This shift is not jarring but deliberate, echoing the disjointed sense of time that defines much of the book’s unsettling tone. The narrative connection between Albert and the events six decades later becomes a dark thread pulling the characters toward an inevitable confrontation.
Favorite Lines:
“You got more balls than brains, son.”
“Some rocks are hard to read. Some are easy.”
“The wolf he’d hunted so determinedly suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the secrets the red rocks had been keeping.”
My Opinion:
I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.
Michael Stewart Hansen’s The People Who Paint Rocks splices a dust-blown 1910 New Mexico western to full-tilt folk-horror and somehow makes the seams feel natural. From page one we’re pitched into camp-fire mist and an injured stranger clutching a dead infant, while a spectral wolf circles just out of the light. What starts as a classic “frontier bad-omen” tale quickly sprawls across decades and states, dragging in an orphan-stuffed mission school, a crooked land grab, and a sanitarium where nuns hiss Latin that would curdle holy water. The mood stays taut because Hansen never lets the supernatural drown the human stakes; every eerie set piece, from a wolf pacing in a carnival cage to a demon-tinged asylum corridor, lands on the backs of characters already bowed by grief or greed.
At the center is Albert McCord, a rancher still raw from losing his family to a “black wolf”—animal, spirit, or both. His dogged hunt stitches the novel’s timelines together: one minute he’s evangelizing dynamite-strong coffee with his ranch hand Earl, the next he’s staring down that same black beast against a blood-red mesa. The wolf’s menace is real enough to draw actual Winchester fire, yet it also feels like whatever evil the locals have been whispering about since the priests of Our Lady of Sorrows were found slaughtered on All Hallows’ Eve. When Albert finally realizes the painted stones dotting his land may be grave markers rather than kids’ crafts, the horror pivots from creature-feature to something far older and sadder.
The large cast could have ballooned into chaos, but Hansen doles out POVs like camp-fire stories—each one lurid, self-contained, and building the overarching mythos. William Ward, the whiskey-soaked heir who wants Albert’s ranch, is more tobacco-spit than moustache-twirl, yet his brand of entitled cruelty fits the book’s grimy view of power. Later chapters jump to a 1970s asylum where Sister Kinney’s bone-snapping transformations crank the horror to Exorcist-level body fear, all while a pregnant nurse and an unnervingly prescient child pass painted rocks like cursed postcards. The tonal gear shifts might jar some readers, but the through-line—wolves, faith, and buried sins—keeps the engine firing.
What really sells the novel is the language: plain-spoken frontier grit bumping against sudden poetry. Hansen can describe a saloon stare-down with the same weight he gives a wolf’s last breath or a nun’s Latin snarl, and the dialogue rings true whether it’s ranch-hand humor or courtroom doom-saying. If there’s a flaw, it’s that the time jumps demand close attention—blink and you’ll miss which decade you’re bleeding in—but the payoff is worth the occasional whiplash. By the time Albert stands ankle-deep in desert soil written over with painted stones, the book has earned every chill.
Summary:
Overall, The People Who Paint Rocks is a gritty, big-hearted mash-up of western, creature feature, and generational ghost story. Come for the demon wolf and six-gun showdowns, stay for the way Hansen turns painted pebbles into the creepiest grave markers this side of Stephen King country. It’s messy, mean, and—when the sun finally comes up over Red Rocks—oddly hopeful. Happy reading!
Check out The People Who Paint Rocks here!