Welcome to issue #167 of Nightmare Magazine, and welcome to August, here in the Northern Hemisphere a month that is summer’s final hoorah. Gardens are pumping out the juiciest tomatoes, corn on the cob is at its peak, and every melon is bulging with sugar water. The days might be the hottest, but with fall on the horizon, the nights are growing longer—and there’s a real sense of eeriness in the lengthening darkness.
This month’s offerings celebrate potent sensory experience set against a heightened light and dark. Quincy Lee’s short story “The Dark Follows Me” launches the issue with a story about a co-navigator for DeafBlind clients who must learn to navigate fear . . . in the dark. Georgina Kamsika’s tale “Room 602 at the Hotel In-Between” focuses on a flight attendant trapped in an enticing and yet dangerous hotel occupying a truly liminal space. Our Horror Lab pieces include “My Parts, Collected,” a flash story by Melissa A. Watkins about a murdered woman rebuilding her fragmented body, and “Shapeshifting Recovery Staff,” a poem by Bogi Takács exploring new roles for magic.
Our nonfiction includes our author spotlight interviews, as well as a new H Word essay from author Kurt Fawver. We also have a Plumbing the Depths essay-slash-reading guide about gangster horror.
We do have a big announcement: At the end of this publishing year, I’m stepping down as editor-in-chief so I can better focus on writing. On the plus side, I’m simply returning the reins to our founder, John Joseph Adams. I am absolutely thrilled to see what he’ll do now that he’s had a bit of rest; his amazing work as a horror short fiction editor is what got me excited about short fiction in the first place! You can all look forward to a 2027 packed with thrilling and chilling new horror and dark fantasy.
I expect to spend the next few months feeling sad to say to goodbye and excited for the future. This magazine is such a special place, and the work we do here is so full of magic and delight. For a place called “Nightmare,” it’s actually a dream.
