“A Monster Is Just a Man Trying On His Daddy’s Skin.”

That opening quote from Say Uncle is a goddamn warning shot. Ryan C. Bradley’s latest horror novel doesn’t mess around with creaky floorboards or jump-scare ghosts. Nope, this is an indictment to the toxic masculinity that slinks through family trees like a venereal disease. It’s about the kind of uncle who rolls in with a six-pack, a shit-eating grin, and a vibe that screams, “I’m fun, but also, I might ruin your life.” Think Uncle Buck if John Candy was secretly summoning demons in the guest room.

This book is a family photo album where the guy front and center—the one teaching you how to throw a punch or talk to girls—is the villain in everyone’s story. And yet, the bastard makes killer pancakes and hooks you up with your first date. Say Uncle is a gut-punch of a novel, equal parts coming-of-age cringe, cosmic horror dread, and a scathing autopsy of what it means to “be a man” in a world that keeps handing out the wrong playbook.

Ryan C. Bradley, the twisted mind behind Saint’s Blood and the gloriously named Dumb Bullshit for Brilliant Idiots, isn’t here to hold your hand. He’s more like the older cousin who slips you a beer and a firecracker, then laughs when you blow your fingers off. His prose is sneaky—chatty and conversational, like a late-night AIM chat, but laced with emotional shrapnel that’ll leave you bleeding when you least expect it. Bradley grew up on John Hughes movies, but he’s the guy who figured out that Ferris Bueller was probably a sociopath and the Breakfast Club kids were doomed to repeat their parents’ mistakes.

This is Bradley’s most ambitious swing yet. Unlike his earlier work, which leaned harder into grotesque shocks, Say Uncle is a surgical strike on the American male psyche. It’s got the pacing of a thriller, the creep factor of a cursed family heirloom, and the emotional weight of realizing your role model is a walking red flag. If punk rock had a horror novel, this would be it—snarling, raw, and pissed off at the right people.

Meet Braden, a fifteen-year-old kid stuck in a house that’s less “home sweet home” and more “dysfunction junction.” His older brother Sam is a knuckle-dragging bully who’d rather punch than talk. His parents are too busy playing referee to notice the cracks in the foundation. And then there’s Uncle Pauly, the human equivalent of a Molotov cocktail wrapped in a Hawaiian shirt. Fresh off a divorce and some shady business, Pauly crashes into Braden’s life for the summer, taking over his bedroom and his sense of reality.

Pauly’s the cool uncle every kid thinks they want—charismatic, crude, and always ready with a life lesson. He’s got a handshake that could crush walnuts and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. But as Braden falls under his spell, the cracks start showing. There’s a weird-ass book in Pauly’s duffel, filled with diagrams that look like IKEA instructions for human sacrifice. There’s a mossy stench that follows him like around. And there’s the way he talks about “being a man”—like it’s a blood oath you sign with someone else’s soul.

The story follows Braden’s summer as he navigates Pauly’s mentorship, which ranges from “how to scam a date” to “how to ignore the screams in your nightmares.” It’s a slow burn that builds to a climax that’ll make you want to shower with bleach. This isn’t about ghosts or goblins—it’s about the monsters we inherit and the ones we risk becoming.

Say Uncle is about rot—family rot, brain rot, cultural rot. Bradley takes a flamethrower to the myth of “boys will be boys,” exposing it as a toxic hand-me-down that turns men into predators and boys into pawns. Uncle Pauly is the poster child for this shitshow: the guy who teaches you how to charm a girl while slipping you a playbook for control, entitlement, and cruelty. He’s a walking indictment of every dude who ever thought “alpha male” was a personality trait.

The knife Pauly wields, with its creepy-ass skull handle is the physical manifestation of generational violence, sharp and ready to carve up the next kid in line. That freaky book he keeps hidden? It’s not just a Necronomicon knockoff; it’s the secret knowledge men pass down under the guise of wisdom, designed to break the world while calling it love. The Bryophyto, the mossy monstrosity that lurks in the shadows, is masculinity itself—faceless, insatiable, and built from the tangled roots of every bad decision your dad and his dad made.

Bradley’s horror isn’t cheap thrills. It’s the kind that makes you question who taught you to be you. It’s the dread of realizing the men who raised you thought they were gods, and you were just the altar they practiced on.

Bradley’s prose is like a dive bar conversation—casual, sharp, and hiding a switchblade. The chapters are peppered with AIM away messages, planting you firmly in the mid-2000s, when MySpace was king and your dial-up modem sounded like a dying fax machine. These snippets add humor, nostalgia, and a gut-wrenching intimacy that makes Braden’s unraveling hit like a brick.

The dialogue is so real it hurts. Braden’s voice is pure teenager—awkward, horny, and desperate for approval, but never cartoonish. Even when the story veers into dark magic and cosmic horror, Bradley keeps it grounded, which makes the freaky shit freakier. He doesn’t spoon-feed you the dread; he trusts you to feel the slow-motion trainwreck and scream internally.

Strengths

• Tone Wizardry: Bradley juggles funny, cringe, and holy-shit terrifying like a circus clown with a death wish. One minute you’re chuckling at Braden’s Penthouse obsession; the next, you’re staring into the abyss of Pauly’s true nature.
• Real-Ass Characters: Nobody’s a cartoon. Sam’s a prick, but you get why. The parents aren’t monsters, just flawed humans who don’t know they’re failing. And Pauly? He’s the kind of villain you’ll hate yourself for liking, a monster so charismatic you almost miss the blood on his hands.
• Social Horror Done Right: This isn’t about spooks; it’s about the systems that spawn them. Bradley nails the sociology of toxic masculinity without preaching.
• Subtle Supernatural: The slide from gritty realism to “what the fuck is that moss monster” is so smooth you won’t see the cliff until you’re falling.

Critiques

• Midsection Bloat: The middle drags like a hungover Sunday. Braden’s horny teen subplot with the Penthouse and his awkward crush on Ancy is thematically on-point, but it could’ve been slashed by 15 pages without losing its punch. Less wanking, more terror, please.
• Rushed Climax: No spoilers, but the final act leans hard into supernatural horror, and it feels like Bradley ran out of runway. The buildup is a slow-cooked nightmare; the payoff is more like a microwave burrito—still good, but not great.

Say Uncle is not reinventing the wheel, but it’s pimping the hell out of the ride. If Bradley tightens the screws on his next book, we’re looking at a potential classic. This is smarter than most “literary” fiction from the Big Five, with sharper teeth and a better sense of humor.

TL;DR: Say Uncle is a coming-of-age horror novel that asks: What if the guy teaching you to be a man was turning you into a monster? With prose that cuts like a switchblade, characters you’ll love to hate, and a middle finger to toxic masculinity, Bradley’s book is a savage, smart addition to modern horror. It’s not perfect, but it’s got more balls and brains than most.

Recommended For: Fans of Boy Parts who want more knives and less pretentious art school wank. Anyone who had That One Uncle and still isn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or burn the family album. Readers who like their horror with a side of social commentary and a sprinkle of 2000s nostalgia.

Not Recommended For: People who want happy endings, competent parents, or horror that doesn’t make you question your entire upbringing. Dudes who unironically say “alpha male” or think “boys will be boys” is a legal defense.

Ghoulish Books
Published April 29, 2025