Halloween is a sacred time for dark fiction readers and writers alike. On Sunday, October 25 at 7 p.m. (MT), Denver Horror Collective is proud to present a first-of-its-kind, improvisational horror storytelling event via Zoom sure to spook and scar anyone misfortunate enough to attend.
Thriller master Carter Wilson (author of The Dead Girl in 2A and Mister Tender’s Girl) and a formidable roster of over a dozen seasoned and emerging Colorado horror writers will exhibit their dark arts by spinning three original horror tales on the spot, round-robin style, while you watch and listen from the (relative) safety of your home.
Early bird general admission tickets are on sale via Eventbrite for $5 until October 24 when the price goes up to $10. All attendees get the chance to kick off the stories using their very own prompts.
All Hallows Improv Scarytelling is a fundraiser for the November publication of CONSUMED: Tales Inspired by the Wendigo, Denver Horror Collective’s second horror fiction anthology featuring Wrath James White, Dana Fredsti, Owl Goingback, Steve Tem, and others, and edited by Hollie & Henry Snider.
Denver Horror Collective is a horde of horror creators (writers, artists, filmmakers, and musicians) living in and around the greater Denver metro area featuring writing critique groups, a publishing house (including the Denver Post bestselling Terror at 5280’), live events, monthly Dark Wisdom Webinars, and The Epitaph newsletter. Learn more or become a member at DenverHorror.com.
Thank the dark gods for their mercy, but it appears we’re finally getting a handle on the virus that has seriously disrupted—and ended—so many lives around the world. This isn’t to say it’s time to go back to normal or to let our guard down yet, but it’s great to finally have some good news to celebrate.
Needless to say, the worst thing about COVID-19 is the loss of life and rampant illness. Of course, as we all know, the pandemic’s shadow doesn’t just loom over our physical and mental health but our livelihoods, our social lives, and our personal freedoms.
Yet, as with so many protagonists in horror fiction, I believe the challenges we’re enduring may ultimately make us stronger, more resilient, and dare I say, better. Perhaps what axe-wielding maniacs and shape shifting demons have done for our favorite horror heroes, the pandemic can do for us. Indeed, I’d go so far as to say that the coronavirus might be a catalyst for the most positive societal transformation the world has seen since the Enlightenment (or, contrarily, a global devolution, but let’s look on the bright side for once, eh?).
I’ve deliberately kept a low profile during the last few weeks, not wishing to add to the flood of (mostly mis)information flowing from the fingers of the anxious and ill-informed.
I wanted to break my silence by assuring you that I’m not here to fan the flames of fear, but to help put them out. While we’re not out of the coronavirus woods yet, it may be that before very long we’ll be approaching the edge of the forest. Indeed, China’s outbreak peaked sometime in February—with only a trickle of new cases these days—with life over there in the process of returning to normal.
If the most densely populated nation in the world that made zero advance preparations for this pandemic is through the worst, that bodes very well for everywhere else. I’m not saying there aren’t challenges ahead, or that governments shouldn’t be enacting strict measures, or that people shouldn’t be taking precautions. To nip this in the bud, we’ve all got to come together (not literally!).
While I don’t want to downplay things, trends do suggest that COVID-19 will peak and decline before very long in most regions of the world. It’s this evidence-based optimism that makes me feel justified to write not about the pandemic itself, but people’s reactions to it.
Simply put: People haven’t been reading enough horror fiction and it shows.
Some of you may be aware that I’ve been researching/writing/worrying/warning about disease outbreaks in both a fictional and journalistic capacity for over a decade, specifically since the 2009 H1N1 pandemic. So, back in January, while the world was distracted with who was saying what mean words to whom on social media, I was paying close attention to the outbreak of a new respiratory ailment in Wuhan, China.
Having read many zombie novels, I recognized the plot line: A handful of cases in some far-flung region. Initial reports suppressed or dismissed. When the reality of the incidents could no longer be denied, people telling themselves it couldn’t happen here. And then, before long, the zombies scratching at your door.
While I didn’t expect corpses to reanimate (OK, maybe a little), I did begin to physically and psychologically prepare for what I knew was probably inevitable. I started disengaging from public social events, stocking up on food and other household products, and quietly suggesting others do the same (nearly all of whom ignored me and/or thought I was crazy).
The result was that, come March, when people were finally starting to wake up to the situation and began freaking out, my anxiety had already peaked and is now on the downslope. What this means is I’m not needlessly feeding the collective fear by emotional venting, spreading inaccurate (or out of context) information, or prognosticating apocalypse.
Speaking of feeding, since I had already procured my necessities during a time of overabundance, I didn’t need to do any last-minute panic shopping and add any stress to the supply chain. (The most ironic thing about panic shopping is that it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy: When everyone buys way more than they need all at once for fear of running out, they genuinely do create scarcity). Had more folks paid closer attention to zombie novels, perhaps there would now be enough toilet paper to go around.
While horror fiction can certainly warn us about specific calamities such as disease outbreaks, its much greater benefit is how it can help prevent a lot of needless panic, which is more dangerous than any pandemic.
In other words, reading horror fiction is like a vaccine, inoculating you with a harmless germ of terror to build up your immunity for when shit really hits the fan.
The COVID-19 pandemic is but one example of multitudes, as life itself is full of both rays of light as well dark twists and turns we’d best prepare for. This isn’t to say we let ourselves be consumed by the shadow by, say, reveling in snuff films or drinking wine from the skulls of our enemies. But we can’t afford to ignore it, either.
To the contrary, people’s largely unhelpful and sometimes hysterical reactions to recent events prove that the world could benefit from more people who have built up a bit of tolerance to fear. And it just so happens horror fiction is one of the best tools at our disposal to help us get there.
As a biological and microbial horror author, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t have something to say about the coronavirus.
Worrisome though it may be, COVID-19 is still less dangerous than a slew of other illnesses teeming around the world as we speak. Indeed, despite its seemingly higher mortality rate (which many experts think might actually be much lower due to many undiagnosed milder cases), it would take a lot for this virus to surpass even influenza’s yearly death toll—a disease we rarely fear—much less malaria’s.
While it’s possible things may change, even in the case of a global pandemic it’s probable that only a fraction of the population will catch the bug, the vast majority of whom will come out healthy on the other side. As with any disease, the greatest risk falls on seniors and those with compromised immune systems, and it’s for them we should be taking the necessary governmental and personal precautions to avoid spreading this—or any other—illness.
However, the point of this post isn’t to discuss the virus, it’s to shed light (shed dark?) on the behavior of certain folks in response to the news.
One would think horror writers such as myself—particularly ones who write about disease—would be gleeful over the latest outbreak, as it provides new source material and a vindication of our not-so-subtle warnings over the years to better prepare for these inevitable threats. Not so, however. Quite to the contrary, in fact.
While I obviously can’t speak for all horror authors, I know that the vast majority of us write horror not because we enjoy suffering and want to see more of it, but because we’re sensitive to life’s shadow and seek a way to sanely process it. Indeed, I haven’t seen a single horror writer online attempting to fan the flames of hysteria regarding the current outbreak.
But then there are the ghouls. These folks aren’t fiction writers, of course, as they have no useful insight on the human condition worth communicating. Instead, they seek attention by deliberately stoking fear through the spread of false information, apocalyptic opinion-making, and/or political gamesmanship. It’s one thing to crack jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood, but these disturbed folks only seek to darken it.
Personally, I loathe the behavior of these ghouls, and I have confronted several of them online in an attempt to get them to see how irresponsible—and downright harmful—their figurative shit-spewing truly is. More often than not, they are so unhappy with their lives their only solace comes from spreading their misery around. When they hear about a new outbreak, it’s almost as if a part of them actually WANTS it to turn into a deadly pandemic. These people exemplify the worst of human nature and I am nearly sickened (pun intended) every time I see their antics on display.
Nothing is more contagious than fear. The ghouls wield that powerful emotion recklessly with no intention other than to harm. But a skillful horror writer can harness it to get us to prepare—both psychologically and otherwise—for nature’s inevitable dark turns and show us how to make it safely back into the light.
I’m not gonna lie: it ain’t isn’t easy being a horror writer.
First of all, it takes years—if not decades—to develop your writing to the point where anyone wants to read it at all (if you’re lucky). And then, if you want to get published anywhere, you’ve got to make it past the gatekeepers—the editors, whose tastes are highly subjective.
Next, you’ve got to produce an original—but still comfortably familiar—novel that’s smoothly written, excitingly plotted, and populated by unique but realistic characters.
If you’re going the traditional publishing route, you’ve got to query dozens of agents (the majority of whom are focused on finding the next bestseller) or an independent publisher whose specific niche you can fill.
Even if you land an agent, that’s no guarantee of a sale to a publishing house. And if you are published and the sales aren’t very good, your agent or publisher will likely drop you. Then, you’re back at square one—with the added albatross of a poorly selling book hanging over your head.
I’ve written two complete novels thus far and while I’ve had some offers from independent publishers, none of them were the right fit for me, so I declined. While self-publishing was—and still is—a viable option, just for the hell of it I’m going to give the traditional route a third try.
Right now, I’m working on the second draft of my new horror novel, Malinae, about a disabled elderly man living with a wife who suffers from dementia. As her behavior gets increasingly strange—and eventually dangerous—he starts suspecting something far worse than her disease is at blame.
Whether it’s through traditional, independent, or self-publishing, Malinae I intend to leash it upon the world within the next year or so. I greatly appreciate all of you who might be reading this or any of my fiction. I won’t forget it.
Over the last century, traditional publishing has brought us the most famous horror stories ever told. Big names such as Stephen King and Dean Koontz thrust horror’s tendrils into the minds of millions of Americans, popularizing the genre.
Fast forward to 2019, where small presses and indie publishing are now bringing us the lion’s share of horror fiction—including what I believe to be some of the best stuff ever written, in what many are calling a horror renaissance.
The reason is simple: Small presses have more freedom to publish unique and diverse voices, acquired tastes that might not appeal to a mainstream palate. While these conduits can sometimes be hit or miss, more often than not, they’re where you’ll find the most artful—and dangerous—writing out there. Giving free rein to authors is how a literary genre evolves.
Which is why I’m all shivers to announce that, this fall, Denver Horror Collective (of which I’m a founding member) will be publishing a horror fiction anthology of its own!
I’m not gonna lie: it 
Over the last century, traditional publishing has brought us the most famous horror stories ever told. Big names such as Stephen King and Dean Koontz thrust horror’s tendrils into the minds of millions of Americans, popularizing the genre.
