Blood Dreams

I went into *Blood Dreams* expecting a lyrical gothic, but what Adam Riley and Rex French delivered was something far more electric and unsettling. Riley’s narration is a masterclass in tonal control—his voice drips with the honeyed weariness of a man who’s loved and lost across centuries, but it sharpens into something feral in moments of raw intimacy. The first time Peter whispers a lover’s name in the dark, Riley makes it sound like a prayer and a plea at once, and I found myself leaning in so close to my headphones I nearly missed the next train stop. That said, the pacing wobbles slightly around the 90-minute mark; a few scenes linger too long on atmospheric buildup while others snap forward too abruptly, leaving emotional beats feeling either overworked or undercooked. Still, the payoff in the final act—where Peter’s dreams collide with his waking, dying mind—is devastating, and Riley sells the agony of recognition better than any narrator I’ve heard this year. My one real critique? The eroticism, for all its visceral detail, sometimes leans too hard into the abstract, leaving visceral physicality feeling more implied than realized. But if you crave a story where love is literally haunting you, where every climax feels like a resurrection and a ruin, this is a rare, feverish listen.