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There are so many enticing elements of horror that draw readers in and hold their attention. It's the dread-inducing suspense, chilling prose or maybe that creeping tension winding tighter and tighter. But nothing enthralls me more than the atmospheric feeling you get from reading quiet horror. Such a story is palpable and I crave it with every new book I pick up. This is something that I believe to be lost on a lot of readers of the macabre. Many are familiar with the gripping stories, but not so much the term or meaning of quiet horror.

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Everybody has their 2020 story.

Here’s mine:

January: I get the flu. Twice. Then, after a pretty terrifying afternoon, I discover that someone in my life, VERY close to me, has a medical situation. I’m not going to spill all the beans here because it’s not my story to tell, let’s just leave it at this: think of the 5 scariest, worst pieces of medical news you can get. This medical situation she’s/we’re facing, it’s probably in that top 5.

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I am not a poet, except maybe in the sense that if you ever write something, you can call yourself a writer. So, I have written poems. I’ve even written a few not assigned by teachers in grade school. But I’m not a poet, really. Many of you reading this may not be either. So, why am I pushing the idea that you write haiku?

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Image via Alex Green

Writers are creators. Creators of worlds, stories, and of people. We flesh out characters—that to some, seem like very real individuals—with hopes, motivations, frustrations, and goals. We may even become protective of these imaginary people, especially when they have stories that are yet to be told.