I wrote this story over Christmas at my childhood home. The house is from the 1800s and has the type of basement that you can’t bear to spend more than a few seconds in. When I was little, if I had to get something from the basement, I would run down the stairs holding my breath and try to make it back up the stairs before I had to breathe again.

I’ve lost a large number of people in my life: my wife, a child, both parents, a brother, a succession of close friends. When you get to be my age the losses come sometimes at an alarming rate. I recently turned seventy-four, with some health issues of my own, so mortality is a very real issue.

With a story like Amelia’s, the lack of a coherent explanation is the nightmare fuel. I promise you that even if readers don’t concoct something specific, they nevertheless feel the shape of an explanation too terrible to be borne. This tends to work better in horror than in science fiction.

I like princesses, but I love them even more in their depraved and murderous states. I just really wanted to write in the perspective of a gross princess character, and I wanted her to be unapologetically messy.

Shape-changers exist in myth and legend all over the world, and, to me, there’s something inherently tragic about them. I think Ovid’s Metamorphoses in particular thinks about the idea of willing and unwilling shape change.

The whole idea for the story sprang from a visit to North Wales for a friend’s wedding, in a really rugged, scenic spot along the coast. I was travelling back with friends and we stopped to wander about on the cliffs and the idea for a ghost story began to take root!

Horror has always been where I saw myself reflected most accurately, from a pretty early age. Over the last fifteen years, I’ve come to understand that that probably has a lot to do with my having always been an undiagnosed neurodivergent woman in a neurotypically-inclined world.

My training as a visual artist has deeply influenced my development as a writer. I see my stories in layers, beginning with large forms and then adding light and shadow. The details come last. Imagery is so important to me. My characters move through space before they find words.

This story put me deep in the doo-wop and R&B sounds of the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. The Ink Spots. The Penguins. The Dells. I had The Platters on loop. Revisiting classics like “Only You” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” In 2006, I wrote a feature story for Boston Globe Magazine about Herb Reed.

Americans love to think they reinvent everything they touch, which gives us license to make the same universal mistakes. But we do add a uniquely belligerent gusto to our observances that feels like misplaced pagan bloodlust, mistaken for patriotism.