Editorial
Editorial: August 2018
Be sure to check out the editorial for all our news, updates, and a rundown of this month’s offerings.
Be sure to check out the editorial for all our news, updates, and a rundown of this month’s offerings.
I originally conceived of this story a few years ago, as a short audio drama. I was listening to a lot of podcasts then, and I think the idea was synthesized from days of listening to The Heart, Knifepoint Horror, and Limetown. Around that same time, my mom moved to an old farmhouse. To get there, you have to drive down a long, creepy dirt road, complete with an old graveyard. So I started from a particular scene on that dirt road: two characters in a car, and one of them unintentionally starting to drive dangerously fast. The story spun out from there
Linda D. Addison is one of the most honored speculative poets of all time. Over the course of more than 300 published poems, stories and articles, Addison has been awarded the Horror Writer Association’s Bram Stoker Award six times. In 2001, she became the first African-American to receive a Stoker for her superior achievement in poetry with the collection Consumed, Reduced to Beautiful Grey Ashes. Most recently, she was honored with the HWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 2018.
I’ve always liked shadow stuff. I’m the last person alive who doesn’t play video games, so I can’t draw any examples from that medium, but I’m generally into shadows, reflections, non-supernatural doppelgängers, changelings, people’s own skeletons as independent from themselves, that sort of thing. I feel like I ran into a lot of good shadow stuff in the books of my childhood, and that’s why I like it in the first place, but I’m too far removed from them to remember specific examples.
After the real estate agent took my husband and myself on the grand tour of the 1870’s Italianate Revival house, I asked the owner, before inquiring about taxes, or pipes, or the age of the roof was: Is it haunted? The owner, a classic silver-haired little old lady type, familiar to anyone who has read a ghost story or two, said “Yes. Ruby’s still here.” Of course, we bought the house. Neither my husband nor I are particularly “sensitive,” so if our house was haunted, at first, we remained blissfully unaware, ascribing any bumps in the night to mice
Be sure to check out the Editorial for all our latest updates and a rundown of this month’s chilling content.
I’m very much drawn to folklore and fairy tales, possibly because I used to adore Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy stories when I was little. They were my first love in terms of books. If I go on holiday, I like to read about the folklore of the area—I like to think it enhances a landscape with the sense of layers of story living within it (though I might just be getting carried away). There’s something magical about drawing on that story pool, and I think that’s why I love it—folklore tells us about the world, but at the same time imbues it with something “other,” and keeps a sense of mystery at its heart.
This month Adam-Troy Castro reviews horror hit A Quiet Place.
If any genre has a history of inexplicable events that exist only to bring extremes of human nature into sharp relief, it’s horror. Night of the Living Dead actually offers a few lines of lame explanation as to why corpses suddenly became ambulatory, but that explanation was a vestigial remnant of the radiation-based horror movies of the 1950s, and was quickly abandoned by the sequels, as well as by the hundreds of iterations the film inspired. You don’t need to know why. It happened.
Years ago, while studying Buddhism in college, I came across the Tibetan practice of sky burial, where the corpse is chopped into pieces and left out in the open for the vultures. Monks gather around the remains to meditate upon death, aided by the grisly reality of a human body reduced to it essential components. I found this fascinating. Still do. Bravo to those stalwart monks watching the vultures dip their red beaks into the human goulash. Whether it’s a spectacle I’d want to witness myself, though, is another matter.