It's not in Cranston. It's on Cranston Street. That's different. Technically, it's an old armory in Providence. But inside, the maps stop working. The cones rotate. The shadows run cold. The King doesn't rule, exactly. But he files ghost permits, names stairwells, and speaks to the radiator like it's an oracle. No one told the city to stop him. When a new assistant arrives, they begin keeping field notes. Lemon-scented hauntings. Whisper-drain protocols. A stairwell tuned to grief. What started as a maintenance job becomes something stranger. Less employment. More initiation. Into care. Into myth. Into staying put when everything else disappears. The Unofficial King of Cranston is a darkly funny, quietly aching novella about soft infrastructure, ritual power, and the strange hauntings we call maintenance

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