You are seven. Perhaps nine, or even thirteen. In the earliest hours of a sleepless night-turned-morning, a figure you cannot see (but you can feel, their very existence heavy on your skin and you do not have to see, your bones howl that you are not alone) leans low, low, low over your bed.

Most people who are asking for recommendations for terrifying books are bound to be disappointed. Responses to these posts germinate an exhaustive discourse around the subjectivity of fear but—it’s intriguing—there are little gems that pop up sometimes.

Birds aren’t monsters. Then again, maybe? Every mammal, fish, or insect has the ability to stimulate our imaginations—I’ll give animalia that. But birds, something special about them has the ability to tap into the darker depths of our creative core.

For my tenth birthday, I had a slumber party. Half a dozen or so of my friends jigsawed their sleeping bags into place on the floor of our living room. Earlier, at Blockbuster, I’d picked out a movie, disregarding my mom’s gentle concern: Are you sure? It’s pretty scary.

There is no working, thinking creature that does not have their thoughts, their life, their whole essence, alienated from them. Whether you work as a labourer, a gardener, a chef, a cleaner, a brickie, a middle-manager, an assistant, you have your very life purchased from you (if you’re lucky enough to be paid). When I worked in grounds maintenance for the council, I certainly sold my inability to feel what is now a continual ache in my hips

I’ve been told that nautical horror is having a moment. What that means, or what any of us should do about that fact, is a little bit oblique, mainly because oceanic terror has been the quiet backbone of the horror genre for almost as long as it has existed.

The first horror film I ever saw was with my father. I was way too young to watch anything so graphic, and I cowered behind the ratty green footstool in the living room, daring to peek out when the worst was over. The lights were off, curtains drawn, blinds closed, and my father lay on the couch, very disinterested in my sheer terror. But by that time, I’d already learned not to make a fuss. Be still and quiet so you don’t get noticed.

Cemeteries don’t need the supernatural to terrify. Zombies and revenants aren’t required to raise gooseflesh along our necks. Ghosts don’t have to peer out from mausoleums to sink that stone of dread into our guts. King’s Pet Sematary is a great example of the fear that has been associated with graveyards in the horror genre.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” It’s a question I’m often asked, and, for the longest time, I never had an answer to it. In a genre as storied and diverse as horror, anyone would be hard-pressed for a response. What’s certain, though, is few if any, casual viewers would pick a slasher film.