Nonfiction
Interview: Chloe Lauter
Chloe Lauter is a writer and publicist based in Los Angeles. Her debut novel is The Flayed Man, a July 21, 2026 release from Penguin Random House’s Skull House Press imprint.
Chloe Lauter is a writer and publicist based in Los Angeles. Her debut novel is The Flayed Man, a July 21, 2026 release from Penguin Random House’s Skull House Press imprint.
I obtained a degree in clinical psychology, which helps, but I’ve always been adept at imagining other people, the conversations they might have, their reasons and motivations. The degree helped me understand the underpinnings of disordered behavior, but I don’t think it would’ve had as much impact if I hadn’t already been very good at empathy.
“Women’s issues horror fiction” has bloomed into its own hot subgenre, and no one is more thrilled than me. On some level, this subgenre arches back across generations (see: the gothic novel)—but I’m referring more specifically the spate of novels that has crashed onto the market since 2021 or so.
It’s another terrific issue, packed full of great insights, blood, magic, and creepy rats. I think it’s the perfect counter to room temperature potato salad and overcooked hamburgers. I hope you think so, too!
As I wrote this story, I was mulling over legacy and inheritance, how the way I experience the world now is affected by the way Chinese Americans were treated then. The panic around the bubonic plague resonates with that of the COVID-19 pandemic and the subsequent wave of Asian hate, for instance; questions of femininity and labor persist as well.
Adam-Troy Castro compares and contrasts two March releases featuring sister protagonists and uber-wealthy Satanist villain: Ready or Not 2 and They Will Kill You. Find out which one has teeth!
Many of the attacks aimed at trans people are aimed at removing us from public life. Banning us from restrooms (or forcing us into restrooms where we know we’ll be unsafe), taking away our drivers licenses, forcing us into the closet if we need passports . . .
As I write from within the sidelined shadows where the horror genre lurks, I am reminded of the four hours I spent in that busted-ass, stinking shack. The people, the music. The communion. I think about the exploration we do as writers of horror.
Remember the first time you ever saw the Xenomorph’s mouth? Those silver, almost human-shaped teeth? The pooling saliva as the maw slowly opened, revealing not a tongue, but a projectile mouth-within-a-mouth? What kind of monster is so hungry it needs a mouth inside its mouth?
It was absolutely intentional to not just critique the “traditional” three-act structure but to expose its inherent violence through the story’s very bones. For women like Mirlande, who is undocumented, Black, and Haitian, that very structure gaslights on a narrative level.