As a lifelong reader, I’m always on the hunt for that rare book—one so captivating, so utterly consuming, that I can’t help but press it into the hands of friends with a fervent, “You have to read this.” This is one of those books.
The first time I read Dean Koontz was in 2003. The book? Odd Thomas. The year, the moment—it’s burned into my memory. I didn’t just read the story; I lived it. It reminded me of a simple truth: if someone says they don’t like to read, they just haven’t found the author yet. The one who speaks directly to their imagination, who understands the way their heart beats and the way their mind works. For me, Dean Koontz was that author.
Koontz is an artist wielding words like paintbrushes, his prose forming landscapes so vivid you can almost smell the pine, hear the whisper of danger in the wind, and feel the pulse of his characters as if they’re alive. He doesn’t simply write; he crafts. And you, the reader, aren’t passive. You’re a watcher, a witness to his genius, mesmerized as the tale unfolds. To call him “good” feels almost insulting. No, Koontz is the best of the best, the kind of writer who makes you forget time exists.
So, when I started reading The Forest of Lost Souls, I braced myself. Expectations? Through the roof. I expected to disappear into its pages, night after night, as part of my evening ritual of self-care—reading until the real world fades to black. And let me tell you, Koontz delivered. Each chapter reaffirmed why he is who he is: a master of his craft.
I won’t spoil the story for you—not the beginning, not the end. I’m not that kind of book critic. But I will say this: when you enter The Forest of Lost Souls, you will lose yourself. Not in a disorienting way, but in the best way possible. You’ll wander through the pages, marveling at the world Koontz has created, feeling your pulse quicken with every twist, every reveal.
“The Forest of Lost Souls pulls you in and won’t let you go—a masterpiece of vivid storytelling."