The best horror stories are a gateway to another world, another life. You are no longer just reading, but feeling that dread alongside the main character. Your skin is crawling, your chest feels tight.

For me, characters, more than anything else, have always driven my appreciation of fiction. When I, the conduit, manage to portray my characters authentically when they tell me their stories, it leaves an indescribable feeling of satisfaction; job well done, Nuzo.

I spend about a third of my life in a fire station, which is about as close as I can imagine to a haunted house. It’s a lot like a home, with a kitchen and living space, except at unpredictable moments the peace is interrupted by noises and lights followed by experiences which can be genuinely ghastly. So, my real home is as different from that as I can manage. We grow veggies, we raise chickens, we cuddle with dogs. Nurturing other living things is the only bulwark I’ve found against real horror.

The kernels of this story began with a few interlinked ideas: capitalism as a devouring force; the commodification of identities and the commodification of trauma (especially as they manifest in publishing and entertainment industries as fads and trends); the physical and psychological cost on those who tell their stories; how we consume—and are encouraged to consume—these stories, often as a performative act.