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We have original short fiction from Daniel David Froid (“An Offering from the Void”) and Victor Forna (“like blood on the mouths of death”). Our Horror Lab originals include a flash story (“Solve This One, Mrs. Miller”) from Carlie St. George and a poem (“The Southern Bells”) from Beatrice Winifred Iker. We also have the latest installment of our column on horror, “The H Word,” plus author spotlights with our authors, and a feature interview with author J. Nicole Jones.
Cover art by iobard / Shutterstock
Welcome to Issue #140 of Nightmare Magazine! It’s May, the most flowery month of the year, and here at Nightmare, we’re seeing the blooms springing up everywhere—horror blooms, of course! We’ve been having a terrific spring.
There is something uniquely squalid and sad about estate sales. To traipse through a cluttered house, one of a teeming crowd here to bear witness to the end of a life and all that it held, not to pay respect but instead to lunge for whatever goodies you can find.
I wanted to write about a so-called lost writer but also to push that idea into somewhere strange by writing about a writer and book that may belong in oblivion. As my narrator says, “Some things, perhaps, are not and will never be classics, were rightfully neglected or lost for good reasons.” That’s the core concept I was working with. My interest in forgotten writers, the legend of the stone, and the narrative framework coalesced quite well.
Math has never been my strong suit. Still, I’ve always rather enjoyed logic puzzles (particularly ones like Einstein’s Riddle), and after falling in love with Return of the Obra Dinn last year, I got really into the idea of using puzzles like these to build a narrative—especially a mystery.
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.
I first saw them one evening in May. I couldn’t tell what they were: small, like kids, like me, but they rustled, raffia fronds for skin. My eyes fizzing with dreams, I found Mama cradled on the sofa, hugging herself. She wore that faded floral top she loved so much.
Using a child’s innocent mind, it is easier to take ourselves back to our primal and untainted fears. I agree with you. To add to that, I also think the older we get, the more tethered we become to the world. Reality becomes more concrete; our understanding sheds its infinity. A necessity, but also a limitation. However, with children, the imagination is still free-flying, and writing from their perspective allows for directions usually unattainable.
This poem began as a letter from a grandmother to her grandchild. It warns of uncontrollable wickedness and gifts them wisdom for how to survive despite it.
J. Nicole Jones received an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Columbia University. She has held editorial positions at VICE magazine and VanityFair.com. Her essays and writing have appeared in VICE, VanityFair.com, the Harper’s Magazine website, the Los Angeles Review of Books, Salon, the Paris Review Daily, Poets & Writers, and others. She is the author of Low Country: A Memoir and The Witches of Bellinas.
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