With the release of 28 Years Later, zombie fever has returned—and this time, it’s burning hotter than ever. The film is a phenomenal addition to the 28 franchise. It’s terrifying, emotionally resonant, and drenched in the kind of atmospheric dread that lingers in your chest long after the credits roll. I walked out of that theater electrified—hungry for more. But not just more of that movie. More of that feeling.

Because let’s be honest: we haven’t had nearly enough stories like this in recent years. I’m not talking about zombies played for laughs. I’m not talking about the shuffling corpses of Romero’s blueprint, though he’s the godfather for a reason. I’m talking about something deeper, more psychologically charged. I’m talking about the horror of losing yourself-or watching someone you love lose themselves-to a virus, a plague, or something greater and unknowable. That’s where the real fear lives. The terror isn’t in the flesh, it’s in the familiarity.

It’s the idea that your friend, your neighbor, your child, your father—they’re still standing in front of you, but they’re gone. Their bodies are there, but the light behind their eyes has vanished. That soul-deep loss, that emotional rot disguised as a pandemic, is what makes stories like 28 Days/Weeks/Years Later hit so hard. They don’t just scare you. They grieve you.

As a creative, that’s the kind of horror I live for. The kind that reflects the fragility of who we are, of how close we are to losing everything we think makes us human. So, where do we get more of this? How do we get Hollywood to keep producing horror with weight, horror with meaning?

Simple: they need the right material.

Yes, there are plenty of newer movies and shows that dip their toes into these themes. But very few hit with the raw emotional power and philosophical dread that the 28 series has mastered. Except—I know one. One that is screaming to be adapted, one that is timely, urgent, and terrifyingly relevant. It’s called Hater, by David Moody.

I first read Hater in my late teens. It wrecked me—in the best way. It was unlike anything I’d ever encountered: fresh, brutal, emotionally devastating. I was so floored that I shared it with my friends and even my dad. I needed people to read it so I wouldn’t feel alone in the unease it planted inside me. I even wrote to Moody personally to thank him. That book stuck to my ribs like trauma. I still think about it today.

If you’re not familiar, Hater isn’t about zombies in the traditional sense. It’s about a sudden, inexplicable shift in human behavior. People begin to snap—instantly, violently—attacking loved ones, friends, strangers, without warning or reason. Society fractures overnight. Trust collapses. It’s paranoia and fear weaponized. It’s us turning on us—not because of ideology or politics, but because something inside us has shifted.

Sound familiar?

In an age where division and rage simmer constantly beneath the surface, Hater doesn’t just feel timely—it feels prophetic. It’s a horror story that holds up a cracked mirror to our world and forces us to ask: What would I do? Could I be next? And beneath the bloodshed and chaos, Moody builds a deeply human narrative about fear, survival, and the terrifying notion that you might not recognize the person you’ve become.

This series needs to be made. Now more than ever. It has the thematic weight of 28 Days Later, the savage tension of The Road, and the emotional punch of The Last of Us. Hollywood doesn’t need to reinvent the wheel—they just need to open their eyes to the masterpiece waiting in plain sight.

We don’t need another soulless zombie romp. We need stories that shake us awake. That disturbs, that moves, that means something.

Hater is that story.

And it’s time.