The Letters from Providence

Arthur Armitage has just been replaced by a machine. Then the dead man starts writing to him.

Fired from his technical-writing job by an AI platform he helped document, Arthur is drifting through a Boston winter when an envelope arrives — cream paper, archaic hand, postmarked Providence. The letter is signed H. P. Lovecraft. It reads like him. It smells like 1927. And in the margin, in the same ink, the same pen pressure: to be posted, February, 2025.

A forgery, obviously. Except Elise Marsh, the manuscripts specialist at a crumbling Allston bookshop, can't find the seam. The paper is right. The ink is right. Everything about the letter says it was written a century ago by a man who somehow knew where to send it — and knew Arthur would open it.

As the letters keep coming, each one mailed on schedule by an unseen hand, Arthur and Elise trace them toward something older than the machine that took his job and richer than the man who built it. Lovecraft wrote his horrors as fiction. Someone, somewhere, is treating them as instructions.

The Letters from Providence is a cosmic-horror novel about prophecy, obsession, and the one thing in a determined universe that might still be free.