u/Hollowcrow23

Hi there.

Brand new to this thread and can’t quite believe how busy it is. Crikey!

I’m a writer that’s only relatively recently turned to horror - and that’s reading too.

Been hoovering up short stories, a couple of novels but I’ve yet to find the thing that scratches the same itch as when I watch The Wicker Man.

I’ve written some absolutely honking folk shorts myself so I reckon that reading some good stuff can only help?

Thanks so much!

to know if they’ve successfully made their horror writing scary before people read it?

I’m rubbish at assessing my own stuff - maybe too swayed by opinions of others, but I’ve no idea if something is good or not until someone tells me 😀

With my horror writing, my writing doesn’t scare me. I do silly things like write by low-lamplight in the middle of the night, with the curtains to my dark garden wide open - but all that does is make me scared of the garden.

Are there any tips/tricks/techniques/tests anyone here subscribes to before pulling in people to read?

Thanks!

Hi folks.

I’m a theatre writer and, to a much less paid extent, a middle-grade fiction writer.

Whilst I query a couple of novels, one written for each child, I’m scratching a horror short-story itch under a pen name, with the idea of keeping my kids’ eyes off my supposedly scarier stuff.

Over the past two months, I’ve had a story on the NoSleep podcast, one accepted by another podcast that I’m not yet able to name as well as another accepted by a similarly-undeclarable journal.

I’ve got socials under my pseudonym - and something called a carrd - but it feels weird trying to PR what is, essentially, a character.

Is anyone else in the same boat? I’d love to get to the stage I do interviews - and I know I’m premature - but I guess I’ll have to buy a mask!

Can I ask, if this is similar to anyone here, how you guys are approaching it?

I think I saw him when I first woke up.

Just him, white walls and the green light of monitors showing I was alive. He had flowers, maybe, for someone, but he’s brought me so many since I don’t know if I’m remembering right.

“I volunteer,” he’d said, walking over. His words plain. Sad. Matter-of-fact. If I’d volunteered anywhere, I’d probably want people to know I was doing it. Laughter then. Said it sounded like something his wife would’ve said. The lines at the corner of his eye pinched together with his smile - way better to look at than the monitor beeping next to me or those white walls beyond.

Two hours of visiting a day since I came to the ward. Ed here sometimes, when the guilt gets him, twenty-two alone. Plenty of time to talk to the volunteer.

“Alan,” he’d said, and soon Ed faded to the point I didn’t notice he stopped coming.

Everything was hazy – like I was lying in the tub looking up at the world through the water. Then slowly everything started to turn solid again - real – and Alan was there, the crinkle in his eyes – patient. Quiet. Watching.

When he wasn’t there, the guilt was.

He wanted to know how everything felt. He really listened. One night we both cried that someone had to die for the heart to beat inside of me.

The next day he said he could find out who it was.

That night he told me all about her. How did he know? Maybe he visited her like he did me. Maybe he spent hours and hours with someone else who needed the smiling eyes of a volunteer, and…no…it didn’t matter.

Night after night we talked about her until it felt like I knew who she was. He was as swept up as I was. After a few silent moments, he moved his hand towards me, but snapped it back quicker. I didn’t see him for days.

My heart – her heart – hurt. Didn’t know if it was post-op pain or loneliness.

He came back then – different. I told him not to be embarrassed – he said he wanted to hold my chest. To feel the miracle, the sacrifice inside. Our eyes locked as I nodded.

He stayed later that night. Hiding next to my bed. When we were alone, he climbed in next to me and held his hand against the stitches. We did the same the next night and I fell asleep in the crook of his arm.

And now they’ve told me I can go tomorrow but -

But he’s here again. Like I want. Like he gets to my thoughts a second before I do.

His hands are on me.

“Sorry,” I say, “the stitches.” He’s moving now, tender to tough. Rough. The stitches starting to tug, to part.

“Stop,” I say, but the pain makes my voice a breath. He carries on. I want him to, but -

“Stop!” I shout this time. Trying to push at him. Trying to speak again, but the stabbing is worse now; sharp, immediate.

I look down - a glint - fingers hooking through my stitches.

“Alan,” I whisper, as I realise.

Our eyes lock again, his already full of tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I need it back.”