Limited series are so in these days, and the medium has proven to be an especially effective storytelling tool for the horror and psychological thriller genres. The contained nature of limited series sets clear, measurable goals, and this lends itself particularly well to adaptations of written works, as the series' pacing is pre-established to present a self-contained, adapted story, unlike standard cable shows, which can develop and metamorphose as seasons pass, often leading to fatigue or filler material and an abrupt, unresolved end.
Accordingly, more mini-series projects have come out in recent years than ever before. Specifically regarding the horror and thriller genres, the success of limited series like The Outsider and Sharp Objects (HBO), Brand New Cherry Flavor and Archive 81 (Netflix), and Apple TV's Cape Fear has ushered in a new generation of directors and showrunners who have turned to short narrative formatting as their preferred method through which to tell compelling and gripping stories.
One of these directors, Mike Flanagan, has established himself as the most talented and innovative limited series showrunners around.
While he has created a few original IPs (notably, the cult-favorite Midnight Mass), and while he doesn't always default to limited series as his preferred medium for his adaptations of literary horror (e.g.: Gerald's Game and Doctor Sleep, both of which are Stephen King adaptations), his most successful and well-regarded projects have been his limited series adaptations of classic horror literature: Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor, Christopher Pike’s The Midnight Club, and Edgar Allan Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher.
These all routinely rank amid some of the most successful and highly rated examples of the new, functional relationship between horror classics and limited series—onto both of which Flanagan has tied much of his career.
With those four recent projects in mind, here are five more literary classics that are practically begging to receive the "Flanagan treatment" (the specific form of adaptation that will be referred to in this article). Note: There are some spoliers for the stories listed below
At the Mountains of Madness by H. P. Lovecraft
Much of At the Mountains of Madness occurs in distinct, clearly demarcated segments: the build-up to the journey, the arrival in the arctic, the separation into multiple groups, the aerial flyover, the excursion into the ancient city, the escape, and the recounting of the story, as told, years later, as a warning by the narrator, Dyer. While the story, at times, gets caught up in some repetitive details, the formatting of this eldritch horror novella lends itself perfectly to a limited series; any pacing issues that exist within the novella—caused largely by the constant influx of the protagonist's first-person narration across more than 40,000 words—could be remedied by focusing more heavily on the secondary characters in the tale.
Utilizing tragically underdeveloped characters like Lake, Danforth, and Pabodie as narrative elements would help flesh out this horrific, subarctic world. Lake (and the demise of his team) is described in great detail in the novella, but it happens, as relayed by Dyer, as an account of something first heard over a radio. It isn't fully uncovered until later when Dyer comes across the scene. In addition, some backstory for Danforth, whose character in the novel is largely one onto which Dyer can project his own emotions, would also benefit from further exploration, especially as his own sanity deteriorates.
Flanagan is famous for the "slow burn" that is so often utilized (and occasionally criticized) in his works, and this could pair well with the pacing of At the Mountains of Madness. Each distinct scene in Lovecraft's work is capable of carrying the weight of a full episode's focus, and the time in the city would make for a perfect two-part antepenultimate and penultimate pair of episodes.
Flanagan has a knack for seductive pacing: he lulls the viewer into complacence before tearing them back into the dark, overarching dread that sits at the heart of the tales he tells, and this makes a Lovecraftian adaptation a perfect fit for him. In addition, a focus on cosmic horror (which is something that Flanagan has recently delved into; his next project after his upcoming adaptation of Stephen King's Carrie is a film adaptation of The Mist, also by King) would be thematic for this current era of Flanagan's works.
Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu
Fans of vampires have been eating good and drinking up the plethora of vampire-centric media that has graced both the silver screen and streaming services in the last half-decade or so. Hollywood hits like Sinners, Nosferatu, and The Last Voyage of the Demeter have found much success (and, in the case of Sinners and Nosferatu, awards nominations and wins).
Streaming series such as Interview with the Vampire/The Vampire Lestat and What We Do in the Shadows (Hulu) and the animated adaptation of Castlevania (Netflix) are just a few examples of the numerous vampire tales that have become cult favorites. Add in games like V Rising, Vampire Survivors, and Vampyr, and there's no shortage of blood-drinking goodness to go around.
Flanagan, himself, is no stranger to vampire stories; perhaps his highest-regarded work is one of his only projects that isn't an adaptation: Midnight Mass. Would it not, then, be redundant to tell another vampire story, especially so soon after Midnight Mass (which came out in 2021) and with the wealth of other vampire-related options?
One could make that argument, yes. However, there are some elements of Carmilla that make it an enticing choice for an adaptation. Firstly, the novel actually predates Bram Stoker's famous and foundational work, Dracula, by over a quarter-century, and yet, it has never gotten anywhere close to the same level of attention in terms of adaptations.
Secondly, Carmilla is a seminal piece of queer media, and it is often regarded as the piece of text responsible for an entire sub-genre of romance novels and smut that still dominates that corner of the literary market—making it especially ripe for adaptation in 2026.
The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole
Despite its wide recognition as the progenitor of the gothic horror medium—and despite its publication over 250 years ago—there haven't been many adaptations of The Castle of Otranto, and there are few active directors better suited to successfully adapting said story than Mike Flanagan. While Flanagan has already found much success with adapting ghost stories (especially those centered on a singular, specific 'house'), it is this very success and those very similarities that make him fit to once again tell a gripping and engaging spectral story.
The Castle of Otranto is a tale of family lineage, prophecy, and the decay of one's sanity (often illustrated through the literal decay of one's environment). Is it a bit on the nose in terms of similarities to both The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor? Perhaps. The setting of this story, which is somewhere between the 11th and 13th centuries in Italy, is, however, uncharted waters for Flanagan, as his ghost stories have never been set any farther back than 1890, and the only project he has directed that isn't set stateside is The Haunting of Bly Manor—all of his other projects have, primarily, been set on the east coast of the United States.
By changing up the various baseline components (setting, time, place, etc.) but returning to the genre that has defined his career, Flanagan would be a perfect choice to direct an adaptation of The Castle of Otranto.
The Dunwich Horror by H. P. Lovecraft
The Dunwich Horror, the second and final Lovecraft story to appear on this list, is less well-known than some of Lovecraft's broad, cosmological epics, but, despite its more "small town" setting, its scope is perhaps one of Lovecraft's most horrifying. In this story, a child—born of a human woman and an elder god—is raised in a small New England town alongside an invisible twin brother. The visible child, Wilbur, grows (both in terms of age and size) at an alarmingly unnatural rate, which leads the child to seek answers from the Necronomicon, but he is ultimately killed during his search for the infamous tome. This results in the exponential growth of the surviving, invisible twin, who terrorizes the town while leaving footprints and brutalized animals and people in its wake.
The component that makes this story one that is particularly apt for the "Flanagan treatment" is the director's brief but successful history of body-horror utilization; in both the 2013 film Occulus and his 2023 Netflix adaptation of Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher, there are elements of mutilation and body disfiguration that are employed effectively.
These both served as a baseline off of which Flanagan built his upcoming foray into the new DC movie universe: Clayface. Based on both the film's initial teaser and its recently-released trailer (as well as the history of the eponymous character), body horror will, for the first time in Flanagan's career, seemingly be the focal point of the project's horror.
Of the four limited series horror adaptations for which Flanagan has been involved, never once has the total episode count fallen under eight. An adaptation of The Dunwich Horror would provide an opportunity for Flanagan to abandon his traditional, slow-burn motif. In fact, given the rate at which Wilbur grows in Lovecraft's story—and given the success Flanagan has shown showcasing characters at different ages (and played by multiple actors) in his prior projects—there's an interesting opportunity here: if Flanagan elected to go with a four- or five-episode format, a different actor could be used to depict Wilbur in each episode.
Maggie: A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane
This tale is one of tragedy and grime; its climax, which is built up to and devastatingly delivered to the reader by the story's end, is tailor-made for a limited series adaptation. Each episode could focus on an element of Maggie's life that falls apart, each of which contributed to the grisly death she ultimately arrives at in the final chapter. Her death could come at the beginning of the final episode—or even at the end of the penultimate episode—which would give Flanagan plenty of time with which to unpack the overarching theme of virtue signaling (long before that term was developed) and hypocrisy shown by the characters in Maggie's life.
Flanagan has, historically, done such a wonderful job telling the intertwining tales of each member of an ensemble cast; he could easily follow that same motif with Maggie: A Girl of the Streets, which has a slew of characters whose decisions and actions (or noted lack thereof) directly correspond to the outcome—and eventual killing of—Maggie in the final portion of Crane's most enduring and gruesome work. It would also present something of a challenge for Flanagan: much of his work has covered the supernatural. Maggie: A Girl of the Streets is, in contrast, a story deeply rooted in reality and in the perils of real life: the horror comes from how easily one's life can fall apart. While the other primary component of Flanagan's storytelling successes — a focus on psychological horror — is certainly present in Crane's work, having to rely on a more grounded and less ethereal plotline would be a departure from Flanagan's norm.
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