They say you should never meet your heroes. But speaking with Stephen Graham Jones is a lot like speaking with your local theater nerd about the history of Broadway, except with a lot more goosebumps and nightmares. 

Known for his horror writing, Jones has won or been nominated for over 20 awards, including the Bram Stoker Award, Shirley Jackson Award, British Fantasy Awards, and Locus Awards. He has published more than 30 books and hundreds of short stories, in genres ranging from horror to science fiction to absurdist. You can find his work in well-known publications like Clarkesworld and Nightmare Magazine. On top of his writing career, Graham Jones is also the Ivena Baldwin Professor of English and a Professor of Distinction at the University of Colorado Boulder. But while some writers might let those accolades feed their egos, Jones is just like the rest of us—plagued with pre-publication anxiety. 

“I’m still in that stage where it could be a total flop and a failure and nobody’s going like it, you know?” he said, laughing, as we sat down to discuss his upcoming release, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. “Like, you and three other people have read it, so I’m scared. But you’re supposed to be scared, I think, too.” 

I assure you; he has nothing to be scared about. The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a historical horror novel about a professor, Etsy, who, in the midst of a career crisis in 2012, is transcribing her great-great grandfather’s diary. Through entries from 1912, we learn that Arthur Beaucarne, a pastor, heard several confessionals by a Blackfeet man named Good Stab. These transcribed confessionals leave blood in their wake.  

We began our conversation by discussing the technicality behind this latest release. 

I would consider The Buffalo Hunter Hunter to be a story within a story within a story, but all three of those stories are told through first-person narration. Was it difficult to keep all of those voices distinct? 

I did have to keep all three of those voices, those narrators, distinct. I mean, they distinguish themselves a little bit just because they’re in different contexts and they have different histories, but that’s not quite enough, for me to do it, anyway. What I ended up having to do was give each of them different rules to follow that they didn’t know they were following. 

The outside narration, the frame—Etsy—she has access to anything she wants. She’s got semicolons. She could have footnotes if she wanted. It wouldn’t matter. She’s got everything. Arthur Beaucarne, he has those big old long dashes, and he’ll use however as a coordinating conjunction. And then when you get to the center of the nested narratives to Good Stab, he doesn’t have any dashes at all. And no semicolons, either. … I have somewhere a list of rules [that] each character will always default to using this when possible, and that when possible.  

And I wish I could say that that happened organically the first time through, but really, it just kind of expressed itself through their own voices. And then I had to codify it and go back through a few times and comb all the things that didn’t fit out of each character’s voice and sections. I made that little list of rules specifically for my editors and copy editors so they could help keep me on track. 

In 2011, you wrote an article for our blog in which you said, “If you keep having to dip into the story’s past to explain the present, then there’s a good chance your real story’s in the past, and you’re using the present as a vehicle to deliver us there.” Did tackling the storylines in The Buffalo Hunter Hunter complicate that for you? 

I did say that in 2011. I’ve been saying it since, like, 2000. I still subscribe to that completely. I think a lot of stories and novels and novellas and stuff I read, the past is simply there as a slippery ramp you fall down to get to 1942 or whatever. And I think, Why don’t we just go to 1942 and tell the story from there? But yes, this story is probably showcasing my infatuation with Philip K. Dick and how he always nests his narratives inside like Russian nesting dolls, you know? The trick is there are causal implications between each layer of those nests. And I really, really love that kind of narrative. I don’t know if I call it a framework, but I just love that delivery method. 

So, yeah, I wanted to try it this time. I’ve done it once before in a novel called Ledfeather that came out in ’07 or ’08. It goes back and forth between 1884 and a century later. And that was me testing myself, how would I handle delivering the past? And turns out epistolary was the trick I used in that novel. … 

But this did complicate it. And I think the way that I handled it—in my head anyway, maybe on the page—is I made Etsy be that outside frame of the past. 1912 was, of course, the past … and then Good Stab’s story from 1833 up to 1884 is even the deeper past. I did end up saying that this story happens in the past. I don’t think it actually happens in Good Stab’s past. I think it happens in 1912 … But I did want to have stairsteps to get there. I felt like I would’ve been losing some context had I just dropped us into Beaucarne’s Sunday sermon.  

This is not the first time you’ve played with multiple points of view. Even though Mongrels has a first-person narrator, some parts of the book are told from a third-person perspective. At what point in your writing or drafting process do you decide to include these layered points of view? 

With Mongrels specifically, I wasn’t even writing the novel. I had two weeks off, so I thought I would write a bunch of stories right fast, and then I decided, What if I name the characters the same and put them in the same world, and it can be a novel? But what I found out with Mongrels was if the first-person chapters touched each other, then the reader instantly was triggered to ask, “How did we get from here to here?” I realized I had to pad it with these little third-person interstitials …  

As for The Buffalo Hunter Hunter … I had just taught a vampire graduate course. I just had vampires all in my head. And a couple weeks before the course was over, I started writing The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. I just couldn’t help it, ’cause I had so many fangs in my dreams and everything. So, I sat down to start it, and I thought, Well, here we go. We’re dropping back into some past. Then Etsy just kind of raised her hand and said, “Wait, wait, I gotta go first.” It wasn’t anything strategic, and I didn’t plan it out. It’s just that I couldn’t figure out how to get back 100 years or so without some sort of person to hold [the reader’s] hand back to there. Then the person who was best at holding their hand I thought might be a professor. And then I had to ask myself, “What kind of crisis is that professor in?” She’s in a tenure crisis, a career crisis.  

To me, that’s just how novels develop. It’s all like mechanical problems that you provide a solution for, but then those solutions bloom out and become the story.  

With your Indian Lake Trilogy, you were exploring the expectations around the slasher subgenre and then how easily those expectations can be subverted. What were you exploring with The Buffalo Hunter Hunter? 

You know, I told myself I would never write a vampire novel until I could do it the same way I did the werewolves in Mongrels, which is to say, until I could put a creature on the page with a biology and a culture that felt real to me. I had tried to write werewolf novels twice before Mongrels, and both of them failed because I was just looking at pretty werewolves. [Laughs] Basically, I didn’t have a story. So, I knew not to just look at pretty vampires with The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, but also, I had to do a lot of swapping out of characteristics and traits to make the vampire something I could believe in.  

In a lot of vampire stories, the vampire will just up and fly across the town. And I’m like, “What in the world, is that Vampire Superman? I don’t understand this. How are they not beholden to gravity? How are they propelling themselves?” … There are a lot of things with the vampire that I think are story expediencies that have kind of accreted onto the vampire through so many [adaptations] of telling over the centuries … and then they become part of the code for vampires, and they don’t get interrogated quite enough, I don’t think.  

With The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, I wanted to interrogate all those. And what I want is for the vampire to keep on going. I don’t want it to fizzle out. I don’t want sparkly vampires to kill the vampire. [Laughs] For me to help the vampire thrive, I feel like it’s incumbent that I kind of burn off the fat, if that makes sense. So it can be a leaner … organism … I asked myself, “If somebody was infected with something that made them have to subsist on human blood, how would that function? And what are the ramifications?”  

You have tackled everything from short stories to novellas to full novels to graphic novels. When you sit down to write a story, do you have the length and format already in mind? Or do you figure that out once you’ve begun the project? 

You know, for a story, I generally have the length down. Like, an editor will call me and say, “I need something from you. I’m paying $.10/a word, up to 7,000 words. After that, you don’t get any money.” And I’m like, “Well, a 7,000-word story, then.” [Laughs] I can usually hit that, more or less.  

Flash fiction always stays flash fiction. Flash fiction never opens up to a story for me—so far, anyways. Only once have I had a novella open up to a novel, and that was Only Good Indians. Well, now I’m lying. I tried to write The Only Good Indians three times; the third time, I finally did it, but the first two also became novels—The Babysitter Lives and Killer on the Road. So, I screw up sometimes. I just misjudge the scope, you know? 

People always ask why I write and read so much horror when the real world is horrifying enough. Have people asked similar things about your work?  

Yeah, they do. I think that the response to the world being a dumpster fire is either to look deeper into the flames or to find a cute kitten to look at. Those are the two responses. [Laughs] Both are legitimate! Neither is better than the other. … But I think what gazing at the flames of the fire can do is when we engage horror media, whatever kind, we’re seeing characters struggling through a dark, violent, terrible, scary tunnel, the same way we are. The difference is those characters on screen, on the page … they get to the end. And that gives us here in the real world, in our own dark tunnels, hope that there is going to be an end to this horror story.  

I mean, there is a sense in which horror media is a funhouse mirror that distorts our current anxieties and fears and issues and all that stuff. … But really, I think the reason so many of us are watching, reading, engaging with horror lately is that it has an end. Stories have ends, whether they’re good or bad, and we want an end to this horror story we’re in. 

There seems to be this perpetuating idea that publishing is having a horror renaissance. Do you feel that that’s accurate? 

I do think that since probably Jordan Peele’s Get Out and Victor LaValle’s The Ballad of Black Tom … the world has finally woken up and realized that we’re in dialogue with what’s happening. I think until then, people always thought, like, there’s a carnival, but we’re this far-out tent just doing blood gags for each other, putting on masks for each other and laughing and dancing around. But I think Get Out and Victor’s book both signaled to the world that, “Hey, we’re talking about things that matter.” And ever since then, horror has had a different velocity or momentum or something. It just feels more vital, I think. It’s got its finger on some sort of pulse for the moment. 

I do sometimes hesitate to say that horror is having a renaissance, or it’s a current fad, but the only reason for that is self-protection. It’s because fads go away, renaissances [blow] over, you know? I’d much rather horror just continue to be part of the conversation. However, my concern is that horror, we’ve gotten so much of our identity from the solidarity of being outsiders with each other. And so now that we’re in the big tent, now that we’re not outsiders, I wonder how that’s going to change the fabric of horror. 

It’ll be interesting to see. It’s one of those waiting games. 

Yeah. I totally agree. I’m excited, too. Because if horror had stayed the same, then it would die. Things can’t stay the same. They’ve got to keep adapting.  

I know quite a few people who would be upset if I invited them over to watch a monster movie and then put on John Carpenter’s Halloween. So, I want to ask you: Do you consider slashers to be monsters? 

I do. I’m teaching a monster lecture course in the spring here to, like, 250 sophomores. One of the monsters we process through is going to be the Jason Voorhees of the world, the Michael Myers of the world. My definition of monster is that which we have to use unconventional weapons to dispense with, like silver bullets or daylight and or headshots with the slasher, the unconventional weapon that gets used against it. [The slasher’s] silver bullet, its Achilles’ heel is the final girl, you know? … I think Jason Voorhees is as much a monster as Godzilla is. 

In your opinion, what makes a good monster? 

They have some sort of Achilles’ heel. That there’s something we can use our clever monkey brains to figure out and weaponize against them such that we can put them down. Because realistically, how can we ever stop Jason Voorhees or a werewolf? We’ve got to melt down our grandmother’s silver to shoot that werewolf. That kind of stuff. I love that. I think monsters need to be bulletproof, basically. That’s kind of part of the unconventional weapons.  

And monsters can’t be negotiated with. That’s really important as well. If you can ever come to a treaty table under a white tent and say to the monster, “You’ve been doing this a while, and this is really causing us some grief. Let’s see, if we give you this and this, can you stop doing that?” That’s not going to be a fun story. [Laughs] 

This issue of WD is all about pushing boundaries. Who are some authors you admire for how they push boundaries in their work? 

Oh, man. I like the way Jeff VanderMeer is always pushing the boundaries of both delivery and reality. Nicholson Baker, I like the weird stuff he does. … Paul Tremblay is pushing boundaries with form in a lot of his books. He’s always doing stuff in the margins, or he’ll pit two or three narratives against each other in his story, such that you kind of lose the thread of truth or trust.  

I love to read writers who are tinkering like that, because like with music, garage bands are what keep music vital. It’s not The Rolling Stones, you know, it’s not the monster bands. It’s the ones who are coming up with new sounds in the privacy of their garage. And we need people doing that. 

How do you think you push boundaries? 

I like to experiment—you know, actually maybe experiment’s the wrong verb. Brian Evenson, when people try to label him an experimental writer, he’s like, “I’m not experimenting, I’m innovating.” Because he’s not just pouring random test tubes into other test tubes and waiting to see what happens. He needs to get from here to there, and he comes up with a new way to get from here to there. And innovation is wonderful. I think random experimentation doesn’t always feel authentic or doesn’t come from an authentic place.  

But myself, if I am contributing anything in that regard, it’s that I only write novels that I think are bad ideas. Like, any novel I ever have that I think, Oh, I can do that, then I don’t write that novel. That is just super boring to me. I can’t imagine writing a novel that I think is going to work. I only want to write novels that are broken at the level of conception, that feel like bad ideas, because then I have to become a better writer and get extremely lucky to make it work. And when I get extremely lucky, and I somehow become a better writer, I feel like I went somewhere. I did something. … I like to write myself into a corner over and over, such that I have to become a better writer to get out. 

We would be remiss not to discuss that you are a distinguished professor. Do you feel that your approach to writing has changed at all since you began teaching writing? 

I signed on as a visiting assistant professor in 1999. My first novel came out in 2000. So, it’s really hard for me to disentangle those two. I feel like my professor career and my career as a novelist were birthed at the same moment.  

But I do think that being a professor helps me a whole lot with being a writer, because every day, like here in an hour and a half, I’m going to teach a workshop, and I’ll be telling the students things, techniques, precepts. What I’m trying to do is instill in them a sense of narrative ethics, basically. I want them to care about story in a new way, in a good way, in a responsible way. I hear myself telling them those things, and then, later on in the afternoon, I’ll be writing, and I’m like, “Oh man, I told them this. I’ve got to be better. I’ve got to adhere to that myself. I’ve got to set a good model.” I can’t just say it. I’ve got to live it.  

And so, saying these things to all these generations of students that I’ve been doing for 25 years now, it’s kept me on the straight and narrow. I mean, I’ve written stories about working the window at a drive-through urinal. I’ve written about giant time-traveling caterpillars. But to me, that’s all the straight and narrow in that I’m adhering really strictly to a sense of narrative ethics to something that I think actually matters.  

You know, content never matters, but how you care about the story and care about the story’s impact on the world, I think that that matters a lot. 

What words of advice do you have for our readers? 

I would say everyone has their chosen genre they like to write in—I’m a horror writer. I think of all the genres as different five-acre fields spread along a creek. They all have fences around them, sometimes really tall fences. But I think it’s really important to, when nobody’s looking, step across the fence into romance or into space opera or into paleoanthropology or into botany. There are endless fields to step in, endless bookshelves, and I walk around those wonderful fields. And then when the sun goes down, I come back to my own fence, I step over it, I get back into horror, and I stand there. What’s happened when I’ve been swishing through those other fields is that burrs have stuck to my pants legs. And then they fall off in the horror field, and their seeds, they grow up into strange plants. That’s how we keep a genre vital: We transpose different DNA into it, strange alien DNA. And I think that’s the most important [thing]. That’s a way to keep your genre active instead of just using your genre. 

The post The WD Interview: Stephen Graham Jones appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Books: “Scaremail” Insanitorium, Not Okay, and 20+ more
Genre: Horror
Podcast: The Nightmare Engine, LLC
Writes from: Just outside of Austin, Texas.

Why self-publish? 

I’m an entrepreneur at heart, and I need flexibility with the ability to move quickly in the market. Self-publishing and traditional publishing both allow entry into the market but at different speeds, and I like to move quickly.  

Had you considered traditional publishing?  

Absolutely, but from a different angle. I love the idea of partnerships and businesses working together to bring new, innovative products to the market, whether they be books or “Scaremail” or other entertainment for readers.  

I wanted to show a traditional publisher a track record of sales and what I bring the table as a partner. This mitigates a lot of the unknowns for the publisher and is something I would want to see if I were looking at a deal from their perspective.  

If I were approached today, I would be able to show a traditional publisher that my stories are good not just by the content but by the numbers too. I would be able to show a vibrant community of readers I’ve cultivated over the years and a brand that I’ve built around my stories that is ready to expand. Independent publishing allowed me to build this first and make myself open to a partnership with a traditional publisher.  

I don’t believe there is a right or wrong way to publish—it’s whatever fits you best and helps you get your stories into the hands of readers. 

Indie publishing appeal: 

The flexibility and innovation. Independents can quickly test, launch, release, pivot, and otherwise adjust their businesses on the fly, capitalize on trends, build an audience from nothing, and truly craft a business from an idea—all before launch.  

Biggest challenge? 

With all the perks I mentioned, their opposite exists. Traditional publishing has its mainstays, its go-tos, while independents must be somewhat malleable to what readers want. Often, this means the speed at which books are published. A lot of indies get caught up in having to write at a breakneck, which can feel a bit unenjoyable at times. I was like this for a long time until I learned to pivot. 

Wish I’d known … 

I wish I’d taken a break after the first one and really looked at it at my dining room table and said, “Wow, I did that. I wrote a book.” I have a bad habit of never feeling too content or proud with what I’ve done and instead, just felt a moderate level of relief that it is done—and on to the next thing I go.  

Publishing advice: 

Authorship falls into a weird sphere of the entertainment industry. Sure, we can look to other authors who are doing well, study their books, investigate their tactics, and try to adopt them ourselves. Or you can look at what other industries are doing and see those as opportunities other authors haven’t explored.  

When looking for business strategy, I look outside the authorsphere.  

Marketing strategy:  

Primarily paid ads. I also look for opportunities to humanize myself to readers and build a deeper connection with them. I host “The Nightmare Engine Podcast” where I bring on another horror author and we talk about anything but marketing and craft. We talk about what readers find interesting. It helps them relate to me and keeps me top of mind for when something new comes their way.  

Don’t skimp on … 

Your website. A lot of authors will say covers and editing and formatting etc., but I believe that if you truly want to stand out as a professional in the industry and to readers, your website needs to do more than list your books with a few links. You should be ready to answer every question a reader might have about why they should buy your books, not just how.  

Website: DavidViergutz.com

The post Indie Author Spotlight: David Viergutz appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(6 Tips for Writing Domestic Horror.)

Here I’ve collected one piece of advice from 12 horror authors who were featured in our author spotlight series in 2023. Be sure to click the author names if you’d like to read their full author spotlights from earlier this year. (And maybe don’t check out that noise in the basement.)

“Don’t listen to anyone’s advice about writing! (haha) I always felt I wasn’t a real writer because I didn’t sit down and write every day, or write at the same time every day, and that perception held me back. Write in your own way.” –Adriana Chartrand, author of An Ordinary Violence (House of Anansi)

“Don’t try to be perfect and don’t try to reinvent the wheel. Get that first draft down on paper. Type THE END. That’s the toughest task you will face. Then get to work revising and do your best to tell a good story with characters that readers will care about.” –Richard Chizmar, author of Becoming the Boogeyman (Gallery Books)

“Be patient and have faith in your process. Writing in the social media age leaves a lot of us feeling as if we’re not doing enough or not moving at the right speed. I think that can hurt writers in the long run. There’s no need to chase trends or emulate other successes. Do what you know you do best and be open to working on what needs the work. You’ll get there.” –Angel Luis Colón, author of Infested (MTV Books)

“NEVER GIVE UP. Even a seasoned writer like me can feel discouraged, but it’s important to realize that emotions are not Truth, they’re just emotions. It’s fine to be afraid or to feel overwhelmed, but keep writing. And for learning writers, I particularly suggest writing short stories as both a learning tool in beginning/middle/end and as a way of establishing IP (intellectual property) sooner than it takes to sell a novel.” –Tananarive Due, author of The Reformatory (Saga Press)

“Write what you know, but also don’t be afraid to leap into the great unknown! Taking that leap can feel daunting—even paralyzing. But it also offers unparalleled opportunities to learn, to challenge yourself and your readers, and to explore, exercise, and encourage the kind of empathy that is more crucial than ever in today’s world.” –Jennifer Cody Epstein, author of The Madwomen of Paris (Ballantine)

“At the risk of sounding like an inspirational poster in a guidance counselor’s office…you have to believe in yourself!” –Rachel Harrison, author of Black Sheep (Berkley)

“It’s OK not to know what you’re doing. That’s how we learn the most.” –Andrew Michael Hurley, author of Starve Acre (Penguin Random House)

“Read lots and read widely.” –Celia Krampien, author of The Bellwoods Game (Atheneum Books for Young Readers)

“Just write. Put words on a page. It doesn’t matter if they’re the right words or the wrong words, well-spoken words or barely-articulate words—just put them on the page. Writing is like playing a sport or learning a musical instrument—you only get better at it the more you do it. Besides, it’s much easier to go back and edit existing words than words that haven’t been written yet.” –Carissa Orlando, author of The September House (Berkley)

“Trust your gut! Defend what you like to the death. Read what brings you joy and tell those stories that bring you joy. I fought myself for a long time because I was trying to write ‘what I was supposed to write.’ I floundered between memoir, plays, poetry, etc., before I finally calmed down enough to write a fun, bloody adventure that I still get a kick out of, even after working on it for years.” –Sam Rebelein, author of Edenville (William Morrow)

“Don’t listen to writers who say writing is hard. Writing isn’t hard—it’s fun. If you start out thinking writing is hard, it will be hard for you. If you think about the fun you’re having creating characters, creating a world, your writing will go much more easily for you.” –R.L. Stine, author of There’s Something Strange About My Brain (Di Angelo Publications)

“Sometimes the only way out is through, and that applies to sticky, tormented novel rewrites just as it applies to so much else in life. It’s a truly daunting process to start tearing up something you’ve written, and looting it for parts, but you have to trust the process. Keep at it—even if it’s only a little at a time, so you don’t get overwhelmed—and sooner or later, the pieces will come together.” –Ally Wilkes, author of Where the Dead Wait (Atria/Emily Bestler Books)

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While there’s no shortage of writing advice, it’s often scattered around—a piece of advice here, words of wisdom there. And in the moments when you most need writing advice, what you find might not resonate with you or speak to the issue you’re dealing with. In A Year of Writing Advice, the editors of Writer’s Digest have gathered thoughts, musings, and yes, advice from 365 authors in dozens of genres to help you on your writing journey.

Click to continue.

The post One Piece of Advice From 12 Horror Authors in 2023 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

If you love horror as much as me, you are well-versed in the classics of the genre. You’ve devoured all the “best of” lists and re-read Stephen King’s novels until you can recite the upcoming dialogue as well as any teenager spewing Katniss quips at a Hunger Games screening. But here’s the thing—horror is genre with a very steep drop-off point. When you’ve read the really, really good stuff it becomes hard to subsist on the bottom-shelf swill that inevitably clots the market. And fall is no time to waste the twilight hours on anything but the highest quality crisp-air page turners. What’s a horror fan to do?

Order a copy of Heather Herrman’s Consumption.

Amazon
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Never fear, if you want comfort in the form of a classic scare but don’t want to read or re-read the usual suspects, here are five exquisite reads perfect for pumpkin-sipping page turning.

1. Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon: Even if you’ve never heard of Thomas Tryon, you may have seen him in such classic films as The Cardinal. The deceased author was best known as a prominent Hollywood actor but, fed up with the lifestyle (in which he was forced to keep his sexuality closeted), Tryon left acting to write. Harvest Home is one of his best novels, accomplished, atmospheric, and incredibly well-written. The plot is familiar—couple Ned and Beth Constantine move to the country with their young daughter to escape city life only to find things are not as they seem—but the execution is anything but. Think, Children of the Corn as penned by Nathaniel Hawthorne. If you need a slow burn for a cool night, this is it.

2. Furnace by Muriel Gray: I have a weakness for “on the road” horror novels. Cross-country driving is like peanut butter to horror’s bloody jelly. And who better to be on the road with than a big rig driver? Furnace is a fast-paced read with a shocking beginning that requires a strong stomach. If you liked Dean Koontz’s Intensity, you’ll love this.

3. Your Presence is Requested at Suvanto by Maile Chapman: Influenced by Stephen King’s The Shining and Euripides’ The Bacchae and then meticulously researched on a Fulbright Grant, this book is a terrifying exploration of cultural and geographic alienation. Set in a remote Finnish convalescent hospital for wealthy women, we follow protagonist Sunny, an American nurse, as she is pulled by internal and external horrors to a primal, unforgettable conclusion. If you liked Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, this is your book.

[Learn 5 Tools for Building Conflict in Your Novel]

4. Wieland by Charles Brockden Brown: Though most horror fans won’t have read it (unless on a required reading list for college), this book is often considered the first American horror novel. Wieland is a psychological tale of one man’s growing insanity, in which he is led, finally, to commit the ultimate crime against his family. If you like The Amityville Horror, here’s the true original.

5. The Open Curtain by Brian Evenson: Okay, so I’m cheating a little here on the finale. This book and its author are not exactly unknown. Evenson has actually created quite a buzz for himself. That said, this book doesn’t get a lot of attention from the every day horror fan, and it should. Evenson writes with the pen of a literary master, and/but his subject matter is dark, dark, dark—proving once again that the best horror escapes genre classifications. In this story, the reader follows teenager Rudd as he becomes entangled with the rare Mormon ritual of blood sacrifice. If you like the television show True Detective,The Open Curtain is your jam.

How about you? What are your favorite horror books that you think the typical horror fan should read but hasn’t? Let me know in the comments.

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The post Five Horror Novels You Should Read But Haven’t appeared first on Writer's Digest.