Elias Ashcroft writes like he remembers things most of us have only dreamt—or tried to forget. Raised between the sun-dappled cliffs of Northern California and the dusty corridors of antique bookstores, Elias developed an early fascination with forgotten lore, unreliable narrators, and the fine line between genius and madness.
Before turning to fiction, he allegedly worked as a cryptologist, a failed sommelier, and—briefly—a chainsaw technician for a Scandinavian lumber expedition that never quite made it to the forest. Whether any of this is true is anyone’s guess. What is true: his stories linger.
When not writing, Elias can be found wandering the shoreline with a notebook full of riddles, sipping black tea strong enough to curse a man, or debating the ethics of time travel with strangers on late-night trains.
He’s most likely outlining something that starts with a secret and ends with a body.
