 Horror artists create amazing designs and images, but very rarely get the credit they deserve. Below is a list of some of those artists. We cannot share any of their work, but if this is an area you are interested in, be sure to take a look. You can check out their work through their pages.
Anne Stokes @annestokesart Laurie Lipton @laurieliptonart Mary Syring @marysyring Caitlin McCarthy @caitlinmccarthyart Ghoulish Bunny Studios. Liv Rainey Smith https://xylographilia.com/gallery/
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 1) Why did you choose to write horror? I love the genre, there are so many stories to tell. I started writing paranormal romance, but with a darker side to it, before I released my first horror story - Halflings - last year. 2) What is your fav thing about the genre? I love how diverse it is and how many different monsters, creatures and other horrible things can be included in a story. Horror is different for everyone. Some like gore, some like psychological and everyone has a phobia. 3) Tell us about your latest book Halflings is the first book in a series about a young woman called Riley who discovers she is more than she thought. Supernatural creatures exist and they must be stopped and Riley finds herself dragged into that life. It isn't easy, especially when she falls for the enemy. There are a lot of different themes in it and I hope readers enjoy it. 4) If you had one piece of advice about writing horror, what would it be? Go for the unexpected. Think about the worst possible thing that could happen to your character and then let it happen to them. 5) Who are your fav women in horror? Oh, so many! I love Anne Rice, Susan Hill and some more recent writers like D.J. Doyle and S. K. Gregory. I do love horror movies, but the older ones with actresses like Jamie Lee Curtis. I am a big fan of Halloween.   Sinners by D.J. Doyle Now, on my deathbed, I hear them; waiting. I see them move in the shadows, lurking through the darkness. Etching away at my guilt. They await my soul to hunt and claim as their own, to torment for eternity. To drag my spirit to their furnace, not to the land of the gods nor the pits of the underworld, but to the in-between. To burn perpetually with blister upon blister as the charred flesh melts away into the abyss. I know why they’re here, why they hunt me, why do they wait for the dead. They are known as the Slaugh, the dead sinners. We grew up fearing the tales of these creepers. Some laughed, saying it was just folklore, I was one of those fools. Now, at seventy-nine, I thought I would meet my maker, but that is not the case. I will be hunted by the Slaugh, and all because I am a sinner, too. It happened many years ago, I hit him, it was me who took his life. It was me who hid the body. It was me who decided not to call an ambulance. I sped along the country road trying to get home to my wife, I’d also had too much to drink. My alcohol level was seven times over the legal limit and the tiredness hit me like a ton of bricks. I’d driven it many times in the same condition. It was a Friday, like any other, and my colleagues persuaded me to have a drink after work. “C’mon, Jimmy, just come with us for one pint. Just one.” We sat and talked, sometimes about our asshole boss, and ended the night slurring and laughing at someone falling asleep on their stool. Again, a typical Friday. I said my goodbyes and wobbled to the car. If a cop came along, I knew I could walk in a straight line. Well, that’s what I thought at the time. There were no breath-testers back then. My key found the ignition and glided in before the roar of the engine gave me a second wind. With the window down, the cold Autumn breeze circulated in the car, and ruffled through the embarrassing comb-over I once had. As he walked along the side of the road, in all black, he stumbled a little. Right at that very moment in time, that split second, I looked in my rear-view. If I had checked the mirror a minute before or after, he would still be alive. I saw his head turn as the lights hit his vision, his eyes widened in shock and glimmered like a cat’s. His body mounted the hood and his head pummelled into the windscreen, smashing a circle-shaped mess right in the middle which extended to every corner like lightning. Blood filled the cracks and seeped through, dripping on the dash. I put my foot to the floor and the car screeched to a halt. A strong smell of burning rubber filled the car and clogged my nostrils. With trembling hands, I wiped my eyes and rubbed my face in disbelieve. A long-sounding creak echoed in the night as I opened the car door and placed my foot on the gravel of glass; it scratched the tar on the road. In the dark, the figure of the mass in the middle of the road looked to be moving and groaning. My pace quickened, he was still alive. I knelt beside him and turned him from his side onto his back. Dark red blood spit from his mouth. “Help me, please!” he begged. What could I do? If I had gotten help, they would have known it was me who ran him over. He passed out again. This was my chance. I gripped under his arms and dragged him along the ground over towards the dense trees and bushes. Through the woods I pulled him for two hundred yards, at least. A large hedge with a massive underground was too tempting. I pulled his body alongside it and rolled him under into the thicket, making sure he was faced down into the dirt. I gathered a much loose shrubbery as I could and covered the gap between the leaves and the body. He wasn’t dead yet, but I know he would be soon enough. Guilt wrapped my soul and smothered it, but I wasn’t going to prison to be somebody’s bitch. I drove him and parked the car around the back of the house, then removed the windscreen and used the winter cover for the car. Birds chirped in the trees close by, it was time for bed, my body and brain needed sleep. I woke a few hours later with a sore head, dry mouth, and a crushed soul. A loud bang on the door made me spring from the bed, my heart vibrated against my ribs at the speed of sound. I thought they’d found me. My wife was already up and had made breakfast. Like every Saturday morning, the boys were at their games so I knew it wasn’t them. “Jimmy, dear. Are you up?” I answered with a groan. “It’s Frank from next door. Their boy, Luke, didn’t come home last night. Did you see him when you were out?” Yes, that’s right, I had killed my neighbour’s son and covered it up. I’d watched Luke grow up from a quiet boy to a young man. And now they’ll probably never see him again. Not in one piece anyway. If the body was ever discovered, the animals and the elements would have done a good enough job to not tie it back to me or my car. “No Tricia, I didn’t see him at all.” If I was attached to a lie detector, the graph would be fluctuating up and down like it was on speed. Visions of a five-year-old Luke cycling by, a twelve-year-old building a go-cart, and a teenager kissing his girlfriend goodnight. I let my friends believed their son just disappeared, that he might have done himself in or fell and hurt himself somewhere. They did a search of the area, but nothing turned up. A mate of mine brought a windshield over and replaced it within an hour. I cleaned the car and banged out the one big dent on the bonnet. All done. They never found his body, and, on my bed, I’ve felt the need to tell my wife of my crime, my cover up. I pondered on it for many days and the Slaugh stretched their limbs as shadows grew. Their moans became louder and fear consumed me. I knew I was nearer death, so decided against hurting my wife, I’d rather die with a heavy soul. The Slaugh would still come whether I confessed or not. A change in breath patterns was a clear sign I only had minutes to live as the ebb and flow of air slowed like the sea on a calm day. It was then I saw their eyes through the slit of my lids, the blackness, the torment, and the yearning. They yearned to take me. Tricia squeezed my hand, I felt the softness of her skin from her daily routine of rubbing baby oil all over herself. Hairs on my head were caressed, it had to be my eldest son. He’s done that since he was two. He’d sit on my shoulder and stroke my head. A bright light flashed in my vision. I saw myself at five-years-old playing ball with my dad...driving my first car...walking down the aisle with Tricia…holding my first born. All significant times in my life. Luke’s face as I was about to hit him. The images froze there, his face imprinted on my vision like the negative of a photograph. Darkness bled into the brightness in the shape of hands. It was time. I looked over my family as they sat around the empty vessel. Shards of black glass shot up from the ground, surrounding me, slicing me. I yelled as they ripped through me like a hot knife through butter. Excruciating pain enveloped me as I oozed a black mass which was grabbed by the Slaugh. They scrapped and tugged at me, dragging my black soul out. It burned intently, like I’d been doused in fuel and set alight. They pulled it in all directions with a murmur of ecstasy. I’d committed a terrible crime, and they were here to make sure I paid the price. As the blackness was removed an inner bright light was exposed, maybe I had a chance of redemption after all. It felt like an angel within filled with goodness. I wanted it to go up, up into the bright sky. One of the Slaugh reach into my chest and snatched the light. It held it like a crystal ball, twirling it around, blackening the outside. The brightness dimmed and spread within the globe until there was no light left. In one final swoop, they ripped me from the entity I was which dispersed into thin air, and heaved my sinned soul into the abyss. They piled on me and tore at the black mass that remained but I was unable to scream in agony. It was all part of the torment, to sense every infliction yet not able to scream through it. This was my perpetual torture… and I deserved it.   If you are new to horror, or are unsure what books to read, here are our top 5 recommendations to get you started.
1) Dracula - one of the most popular horror novels of all time written by Bram Stoker. 2) Frankenstein - Mary Shelley's birth of a genre novel. 3) The Haunting of Hill House - I have mentioned this book several times, written by Shirley Jackson. 4) The Shining - I had to include a King novel and this is one of his best. 5) The Woman in Black - written by Susan Hill. I have included a mix of male and female authors here as I feel these are some of the best horror books available.  1) Why did you choose to write horror? I often say that it was never a conscious choice. When I was a toddler, my mother sat me down to watch old Scooby Doo episodes and I vividly remember seeing my first vampire there, and from that moment on, I was obsessed. I think that horror picked me, not the other way around. 2) What is your fav thing about the genre? It’s diversity. Especially recently. But with many other genres, protagonists need to look and act a certain way. In horror, you can throw all that you know about characterization out the window. Is your villain an elderly lady who eats children? Great. A middle aged woman who kidnaps and tortures people? Excellent. A child possessed by a demon? Wonderful! In horror, you only need to do one thing: scare your reader. Make them sleep with a light on. That’s all; it’s your only expectation. I think it makes for a more creative writing environment within your mind. 3) Tell us about your latest book. My latest release is The Coven Queen, the final book in my YA horror series. Why did I choose to write horror for teens, when I can’t describe the gore or even swear? Because younger audiences deserve to be scared, too. When I was a kid, I read The Demonata series by Darren Shan, as well as the Cirque Du Freak series. Those books were so creepy, adults were scared of them. Yet they were kid-friendly at the same time. They shaped me, and I wanted to continue the tradition of writing horror that readers of all ages could enjoy. The book follows a female protagonist, Harley, and closes a lot of open gaps left by the previous four books in the series as she has to stop a witch-killing cult from destroying the Coven one member at a time. 4) If you had one piece of advice about writing horror, what would it be? If you can’t scare yourself, you won’t scare your reader. When I was writing Never Again, my supernatural horror novel, I remember rereading it during the second draft and realizing that I was legitimately creeped out and grossed out. And it made me realize that I am my first true beta reader. When you write horror, you must first freak yourself out. If your story doesn’t give you the willies, go back and think, “What about this situation would/could scare me?” Then add that in. 5) Who are your fav women in horror? (Books, movies etc) Shirley Jackson, of course. I think every horror writer should read The Haunting of Hill House at least once. I love Poppy Z. Brite as well; she’s very whimsical in her horror and perfect for Goth girls. Some others I love (and have been fortunate enough to work alongside) are Carmilla Voiez and Faith Marlow. Faith and I collaborated on an apocalyptic horror novel that is currently being redesigned to be put back for sale called Soul Syndicate. Carmilla and I have been in various anthologies together, and she can really give you the willies!  “Why am I needed for a murder? Get the Smith boy if you must,” Mahon ordered.
“No, you don’t understand. It’s … we think it might be hunters.” Caelum’s mouth dropped at the words. Hunters were fairly active in America and many other countries, but the UK had had precious little to do with them in recent decades. Mahon said, “Text me coordinates. I will be right there.” He depressed the talk button and glared at Caelum. “Does calamity always occur when one of you people show up at the PID?” Without missing a beat, Caelum replied, “Yes. Sorry. Did he really say hunters?” Mahon nodded gravely. “Come on. You wanted to see where you’d best fit in here? Let’s see how you do at a crime scene.” Caelum nodded and followed the director into the lift. He was rapid-fire texting, which seemed odd for a centuries old psychic vampire who spoke like he was living in the Elizabethan era. There was a car waiting for them, a black Aston Martin, and Caelum got inside with just a hint of trepidation. Mahon could easily pass for a villain who would lure a victim into their fancy car only to drive them to a secure location, kill them, and dump the body into the Thames. They drove to St. James Park, which was where Caelum holed up the first two days after he had been resurrected. Where he had first met Harley and Nick and the rest of them. Nick, Roger, and Inspector Linwood were standing in a semicircle around a corpse. One of the magicians had put up a barrier to secure the crime scene. “Long time no see,” Caelum joked when Nick spotted them. Roger weakened the barrier so they could walk inside. Caelum took one look at the corpse and nearly lost his lunch. It was a middle aged woman, conservatively dressed, her khakis now stained with viscous red blood. She had been shot in the chest five times, in the shape of a pentacle. There was a large hole in the centre of the star, where her heart had been cut from her chest. It was a clean job; whoever had done it had been well prepared. The only way for humans to kill a magician was to shoot them five times with consecrated iron bullets and then cut their heart from their chest, set it on fire, and bury it. It was a labour intensive process, which was why no one did it except for hunters, or PID employees performing an execution. It was a slow, painful way to die. “Disgusting,” Caelum said. “But definitely a hunter. Or angry creature.” Linwood sized Caelum up and said, “Astute. Because only magicians can kill other magicians in ways not using this method.” “So what makes you think it’s a hunter and not someone ticked off at this particular witch?” Caelum asked. “How clean the cuts are, and how precise the bullet wounds are,” Roger spoke up. “An amateur, even one who had planned this kill so meticulously, would have mucked it up somehow.” Caelum nodded. “True.” He couldn’t look at the corpse directly. The cuts that connected the bullet holes to make the pentacle were garish, especially encompassing the gaping cavern where her heart had once rested. “What happens if hunters are actively targeting witches again?” he asked. Mahon looked at him and gave a joyless little smile. “You wanted to know how you could help at the PID. You did security for the Coven, did you not?” Caelum nodded. “Get your badge tomorrow morning. You are now going to man a team that will patrol the area to protect creatures and gather intel on these so-called hunters. “Welcome to the team, Caelum Lynx.”  Horror stories have been around for a long time. Ghost stories in particular are enduring and are always popular, although many ideas have been done before. The sub genre was recently given a boost with the release of the popular Netflix show The Haunting of Hill House, an adaptation of Shirley Jackson's book. The show brought new elements like time shifts and the living being haunted by themselves!
They say there are no new ideas and horror has to change with the times. There are new threats, technology is used so much more and you need dynamic characters to tell the story. Adaptations are still popular as seen with Dracula on the BBC. The story took a different narrative angle, introduced a new character in Agatha Van Helsing and even brought the story into the modern day. It proves that there are a million ways to tell the same story and that if you can find a unique and different way to tell it, then you could have a hit. If you are new to writing horror and you are struggling to think of an idea that hasn't been done before, don't fret. Your way hasn't been done before. Stories that worked 20-30 years ago, would not work today. Think about The Ring. Videotapes? A thing of the past, but the filmmakers found a way to bring it up to date with the reboot. Equally you could take a modern day story and set it in the past. Horror will always continue to evolve and as long as we evolve with it, we will continue to produce great stories.  1) Why did you choose to write horror? I’m drawn to horror because of my experiences. There is a freedom and validation that horror offers people like me. I’ve suffered from depression since I was a teenager. I have been the victim of sexual assault (like many women) and I have always seen things, in the shadows and patterns) that make me question what reality looks like for different people. 2) What is your fav thing about the genre? Horror is my comfort blanket. I don’t fit comfortably in this world of ours. Isolation and loneliness are my companions. I am also a horror addict. Horror is supposed to make people uncomfortable. Claiming the genre is my comfort blanket is counter-intuitive, is it not? But horror fiction doesn’t point at us, accusingly. It soothes us. It tells us we are not the only ones who feel that being alive is to suffer. It shows us that we survive against the odds and there is honour in that, not guilt. 3) Tell us about your latest book Ribbons is book four in the Starblood series. Previously secondary characters pick up the baton and run their laps in a desperate race to outrun death. Blurb - Psychopaths shall inherit the Earth. The rum bar seems a cosy setting to wait out the apocalypse. When the rain stops falling those who are still breathing are forced to reevaluate their lives. Edensun, The Bringer of Chaos, and Freya’s paths are destined to cross, but when they come face to face who will be the hero and who the villain? The Morrigu gather; they are told their fate is to save the world from Chaos, but they worship a goddess of war whose intentions are dubious. Only the witch in the tower block seems to know the truth and she is unwilling to share. 4) If you had one piece of advice about writing horror, what would it be? If you are to write about pain and suffering in a compelling way you need to dig deep and find what terrifies you and have the courage to write about that. To narrate emotions in a powerful way, first you must own them. 5) Who are your fav women in horror? Barbie Wilde is an amazing actress and writer. Faith Marlow takes the Dracula legend and gives it a feminist twist. The Soska sisters are brave pioneers, willing to stick their heads above the parapet. Toni Morrison writes beautifully about the horrors of being a black woman in a racist and sexist world.  An excerpt from Ribbons. The rum bar seems a cosy setting to wait out the apocalypse. Other than the ruby smears down the ersatz leaded windows and the occasional battered body, stumbling against them from the pavement outside before lurching away again, Marian can almost pretend it is an ordinary day. Of course ordinary is a relative term. Marian’s ordinary days can be compared to many people’s worst nightmares. It amazes her that she’s here at all. Only her connection to higher forces keeps her functioning. After everything that’s happened she still has responsibilities she cannot avoid. Around her are people she knows and trusts. They were called to this safe haven, like she was, by their leader, the Oracle, and her granddaughter Jessica. A comfortable room with low lighting and warm drinks where they will face whatever comes, together. Marian Michaels, even in her fifties, is an attractive woman. Her long black hair is pulled back from her shield-shaped face in a messy bun. Her gunmetal-grey eyes soften as she downs the dregs of her fourth rum and Frangelico cocktail in a half-hearted attempt to drown her self-pity. Bill stands up to fetch another, but she lunges gracelessly and grabs his sleeve, pulling him back. Her head spins and her stomach churns. Her heart is a boulder that weighs her down. It would be too easy to drink herself into oblivion, but she has a responsibility to those who believe in her, who know she is more than a working mother who lost her son and uses sick notes to avoid the office while in mourning. She has shut herself away from these friends for months, but they do not complain. They know her suffering, too many have shared in it, and they understand what it costs her to answer Jessica’s summons. Part of her is relieved, glad she came to face them all. She belongs with these people and the only way she will heal is with the soothing balm of their love. If she drinks much more she fears she will empty her gut over the table. If it meant Bill would find her less attractive it might be worthwhile. However, holding back her hair as she throws up beside him would not dull his desperate yearning to kiss her lips. If she believed for one moment that it might she would stop clinging to the Salvations in her gut and spill them all. Deep down, in the pit of her treacherous stomach, she knows it will take more than a mountain of vomit to push him away. Bill has been a constant in her life since they buried Carl. His physique may encourage one to think he is built for war. His stomach muscles are tight and rippled, his bulky, tattooed arms are powerful, but he has the face of an adoring puppy under his short chestnut hair. With one sign from her, Bill would make it his life’s mission to protect Marian from pain. Marian shakes her head and the room lurches. Against the far wall, under paintings of debauched saints, half hidden by shadows that muted amber lamps cannot dispel, she sees two oracles and two Jessicas. None of their shifting faces carry the slightest accusation, but Marian still feels personally responsible for the carnage unfolding around the city and beyond. The Oracle says this is not the end. Marian finds that hard to believe in spite of years of devout faith. Her only son is dead and her grandson is out there somewhere, holding open the gates of hell.  Carmilla Voiez is a proudly bisexual and mildly autistic introvert who finds writing much easier than verbal communication. A life long Goth, she is passionate about horror, the alt scene, intersectional feminism, art, nature and animals. When not writing, she gets paid to hang out in a stately home and entertain tourists.
Carmilla grew up on a varied diet of horror. Her earliest influences as a teenage reader were Graham Masterton, Brian Lumley and Clive Barker mixed with the romance of Hammer Horror and the visceral violence of the first wave of video nasties. Fascinated by the Goth aesthetic and enchanted by threnodies of eighties Goth and post-punk music she evolved into the creature of darkness we find today. Her books are both extraordinarily personal and universally challenging. As Jef Withonef of Houston Press once said - "You do not read her books, you survive them." Carmilla’s bibliography includes Starblood (Vamptasy Publishing, December 2018), Psychonaut, book two of the Starblood series (Vamptasy Publishing, March 2019), Black Sun, book three (Vamptasy Publishing, June 2019), Ribbons, book four (Vamptasy Publishing, September 2019), Starblood the graphic novel, Psychonaut the graphic novel, The Ballerina and the Revolutionary, Broken Mirror and Other Morbid Tales. Her short stories have been included in Zombie Punks Fuck Off (Clash Books), Slice Girls (Stitched Smile), Another Beautiful Nightmare (Vamptasy), Elements of Horror: Water (Red Cape Publishing) and Sirens Call Magazine.  For me, kickass heroines in the horror genre began with Dana Scully and Buffy Summers. These two iconic characters helped shape the genre and gave us women who were smart, resourceful and able to hold their own in a fight.
From them, we have Abbie Mills, Sookie Stackhouse and of course, my favourite - Wynonna Earp. Heroines have changed over the years. Buffy Summers was a blonde, perky cheerleader with a seemingly perfect life - before being dragged into slaying. Today's heroines are a little more relatable. Wynonna Earp is a booze soaked mess, with a history of psychatric problems and a short temper. She isn't perfect, she doesn't have her shit together and I think it makes for much more entertaining viewing. She may be more of an anti-hero, but Harley Quinn is a similar kickass woman. She has many issues, but she isn't competely evil either. I hope to see more characters like this in the future. Real women with real problems, who just happen to save the world on a weekly basis.  1) Why did you choose to write horror? I started writing horror mostly on accident. I get scared easily so I started writing the things that scared me, and it turns out, those things scare other people too! 2) What is your fav thing about the genre? My favorite thing about horror is creating tension. That the scariest thing about horror isn’t actually the moments that are “scary,” but rather the dread and fear that builds in anticipation of a scary moment. 3) Tell us about your latest book I am actually a playwright, so I write mostly stage plays and radio plays. My most recent horror play I co-wrote with two other women, Jazmine Cornielle and Lauren Anthony, and is called It Told Me To. In the play, the main character, Savannah, is tormented by a demon telling her to kill people, starting with her fiancé, landing her in an asylum. The torment doesn’t stop with her admission to the asylum and she continues to be tormented by the demon, as well as the ghosts of those she has killed. Doctors, attendants, and even her roommate at the asylum all doubt the reality of Savannah’s tales, and even the audience is left through most of the show to question what is real and what is not. 4) If you had one piece of advice about writing horror, what would it be? I’d say when writing horror the focus should be put on the characters and story before focusing on making it “scary.” If you create characters who feel genuine and relatable, it will be all the more horrifying when horrible things happen to them. 5) Who are your fav women in horror? I must admit, I get scared very easily, so I tend to avoid watching and reading horror. I just like sleeping sometimes, what can I say? I do admire Ele Matelan’s work as a Foley artist for many horror radio and horror theatre works. Excerpt from the full-length play: Shh… They’ll Hear You ALEXIS I am, I am. But Kyla told me last night that she’s been hearing voices now and whatever. SIMONA Voices? What? ALEXIS Voices saying don’t let the red light find you. NARRATOR Don’t let the red light find you SIMONA You didn’t need to say it twice ALEXIS I didn’t SIMONA You most certainly did! ALEXIS I didn’t Simona SIMONA That’s not funny ALEXIS You’re right nothing is funny? SIMONA Stop it! I’m not hearing things! ALEXIS I never said you were? SIMONA You didn’t say it twice? ALEXIS Nope… Just once. SIMONA Let’s go somewhere else- anywhere else ALEXIS Okay, if you want to. Ice cream? SIMONA Ice cream. (SIMONA hurries off stage, ALEXIS lingers, pulls out phone, typing) ALEXIS Kyla, you have to tell me everything. (brief pause, then a ding) That was fast. (pause) I can’t come home, not now… huh. (typing again) Meet me in the park at 8pm tonight? (pause) Odd… just odd. (ALEXIS puts her phone in her pocket and rushes off stage to catch up to SIMONA) SCENE 3 AT RISE: ALEXIS is on a bench by a sidewalk, it is evening the same day. ALEXIS sits. There is the sound of rain in the background. The stage is rather dimly lit. NARRATOR It was a rather dismal evening. The kind of evening you only go out on if you made plans ahead of time. A little cold. A little rainy. Unpleasant. It was an unpleasant evening. ALEXIS Why am I waiting? NARRATOR Silence. ALEXIS She’s not going to come. NARRATOR Silence. ALEXIS Red light! NARRATOR Silence. ALEXIS A red light! (KYLA enters) You came! KYLA Of course I came- (beat) what’s wrong? ALEXIS You must tell me about the red light. (JONES enters) KYLA Maybe we should go somewhere else (ALEXIS shaking KYLA) ALEXIS You must tell me about the red light! KYLA Shh… he’ll hear you. ALEXIS It’s a light! It’s not going to hear me! (enter MAN) KYLA Shh… they’ll hear you (KYLA points to JONES and MAN, MAN and JONES whisper to each other briefly and start walking towards KYLA and ALEXIS) ALEXIS Ohhhh-kay. Let’s go. (ALEXIS grabs KYLA’s arm and starts trying to pull her along, KYLA stands frozen) Kyla! (KYLA breaks her freeze and ALEXIS begins to pull her and JONES and MAN grab them, KYLA freezes again, and MAN injects ALEXIS with something, ALEXIS faints, JONES picks up ALEXIS, MAN takes KYLA’s hand and guides her offstage as all four exit) (End of ACT 2) Bio
My name is Julia Everitt and I am a NYC-based playwright. I graduated from the University of Iowa with degrees in English on the Creative Writing track and Economics with a minor in Theatre Arts. I love writing, especially for theatre and I have written thirty-two stage plays of various lengths. I have had productions of my plays, Take Me Home, Pears, and Opening Up, and an excerpt of my play, Copper Royale, and my radio plays, I Let Them Out, The Phone Booth on Sixth Street, Dark Angel and The Bubak. I also had public readings of my plays, Spooky Town, Copper Royale, Pears, an excerpt of The Wolves Are Hungry, and an excerpt of Shh… They’ll Hear You. I write work in a number of different genres including drama, comedy, horror, thriller, political, romance, existentialism, coming of age, absurdism, naturalism, etc. I also am a co-founder/co-owner of NYC’s only exclusively horror theatre company, Human Pincushion Productions.  I, Michelle Dorey, have always been a HUGE fan of Stephen King, especially the stories he created involving kids growing up—novels such as Stand by Me and It. The bond of friendship is tested during a time when they transition from the innocence of childhood, while also confronting dire evil.
In that vein, I wrote Grave Conjuring. It involves two sisters, orphaned when they were pre-teens, who now live with their aunt. Aunt Claire sells real estate and she’s found a wonderful fixer-upper house which the three of them move into. While exploring the home Ashley, Maya and their friend Leah find an Ouija Board in the attic. The girls, joined by a few other friends, decide to try using the Board to contact their mom and dad. They unwittingly open a portal and expose themselves to ghostly horror. Let the fun begin…mwah, ha, ha. I really enjoyed writing this book, creating an eclectic cast of characters and turning up the scare factor. In fact, some of these characters, like Jake, I’ve enjoyed so much that I let him visit and partake in later tales in the series. Each book in this six book series is stand-alone. Grave Conjuring is the second book in the Haunted Ones series. I hope people enjoy the following sample and will pick up a copy of Grave Conjuring. If I have one piece of advice for other women who want to write horror, it would be to focus on your characters. People who read this genre love a good scare but only if you put likeable, realistic characters through it. Authors, aside from Sam Gregory, who I enjoy reading, are Darcy Coates, Amy Cross, Shani Struthers and of course, Shirley Jackson. Excerpt “Leah! Come on!” Maya shouted from across the stairwell. Leah grinned. “She’s not the most patient person, is she?” With that she walked from the room to join her. When Ashley got there, Maya held a broomstick aiming the hook on the end, through the eye bolt screwed on the ceiling door. Leah grabbed the stick and together the two of them tugged it open, jumping back quickly to avoid being hit by the ladder that slid to the floor. Particles of dust flitted through the air, released along with the old wooden access. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, Ashley peered up through the opening. Natural light from a window at the gabled end of the house revealed thick roof joists and curtains of cobwebs clinging to them. “Cool!” Leah grabbed the sides of the ladder and began climbing. She paused at the top of the ladder looking around at the space. “What’s up there?” Maya was chomping at the bit to get up to the attic as well. “There’s an old trunk and a bunch of boxes.” She scooped her cell phone out and flicked on the flashlight app. “You wouldn’t like this place Ashley, not with your asthma. You were right about the spiders.” She aimed the flashlight around and then jerked back. “Shit! That scared the hell out of me!” She grinned looking down at Maya. “What was it?” Maya’s grip on the sides of the ladder loosened and she stepped back. “It was an old mirror. My light flashed in the reflection, that’s all. Come on!” Leah climbed the last few steps and then was gone. Maya was wide-eyed looking over at Ashley. “I’m going. Are you?” Ashley grabbed her inhaler from the pocket of her shorts and gulped a long blast of the Ventolin. It was probably the last place she should go but Maya was already climbing. Who knew what she could get into with Leah? If the floorboards up there were anything like the dock, she might go through and break her ankle. Plus, Leah was acting kind of excited by whatever was up there, urging Maya to see it. She wouldn’t mind checking it out either. To be on the safe side, she rummaged in Maya’s dresser for a scarf or shirt to filter the dust. She found a bandana and draped it over her nose and cheeks, tying it tight at the back of her head. She might look like a bandit but at least she wouldn’t be inhaling so much dust. Slowly, she climbed the ancient rungs of the ladder, saying a silent prayer they wouldn’t give out. When she was eye level with the attic floor, she saw Leah and Maya kneeling beside some old wooden chest, rummaging around inside it. She glanced up at the cobwebs fluttering in the air from the commotion and the breeze funneling through the opening. If a spider came anywhere close to her, she would be out of there in a flash. All bets would be off, and Leah and Maya would be on their own. She climbed the remaining rungs and then hunching to avoid touching anything above, she went over to join them. “Awww...” Maya held up an old doll, draping the lace christening dress it wore over her bare arm. One blue eye of the doll’s face was open while the other at an angle was almost shut completely. Maya adjusted the bonnet on its head as she gazed down at it. “It must have been one of their children’s dolls. The Salter family, I mean.” “It’s creepy, Maya. Put it down.” Ashley mouth pursed tight staring at it. With the lines crisscrossing the plaster of the face, it was actually grotesque. She looked past her sister to what Leah had pulled out of the trunk. Her friend held a school notebook thumbing through pages. Leah’s lips pulled to the side. “Grade two, I’d guess.” She tossed it back in the trunk and then grabbed a wooden truck with three wheels. “It’s just old toys and kids’ stuff. Maybe your aunt should contact the son in case he wants this crap.” Ashley edged closer and peeked inside the box, seeing some old clothes and more books and toys. “Yeah. This stuff might have some kind of sentimental value to him.” She looked around and noticed the old mirror, which had startled Leah, propped up against a tower of boxes. She inhaled fast, trying to get oxygen into airways that were closing despite the inhaler. She’d have to get out of there soon before she had a full blown asthma attack. Leah rose and then pried open a cardboard box next to the trunk. “Oh my...” She pulled a rectangular box from inside and held it up. “This is kind of weird to find up here. Especially for a churchgoing family.” Maya set the doll back in the trunk. “Why? Was is it? Some kind of game?” She brushed her hands together and then sat back on her haunches looking up at Leah. “It’s no game, Maya. This is a Ouija board.” Leah could hardly keep the excitement from her voice as she hunkered down to the floor. Lifting the lid of the box off, she continued, “This thing’s pretty old. These boards are used to summon the dead.” Ashley grit her teeth watching her sister’s rapt attention on Leah’s words and the board. First the talk about old man Salter’s ghost and now this. “Those things don’t work, Maya. It’s just superstition and a bunch of nonsense.” Leah shook her head. “That’s not true. They do work. A girl in my Facebook group, Cindy, used one to contact her grandmother. The old lady told her things that only she would have known. And another guy, Allen, he—” “How does it work?” Maya picked up a leaf-shaped object with a glass circle in the center. “What’s this?” Leah snatched it from Maya’s hand. “It’s called a planchette. This is the thing that spells out answers to questions people ask. It’s not a game, Maya. It works.” Ashley forgot about her own discomfort and her rapid, shallow breathing. “It’s bullshit is what it is, Maya. People make this thing move. They may not consciously be aware of it but they do. I read a story where a couple girls tried it. Right after the story was an explanation of how it worked.” “Just because you don’t believe it, doesn’t make it any less true, Ashley! That’s just a theory. There’s plenty of evidence that can’t be explained away so easily.” Leah set the board on the floor and unfolded it, showing an arc of letters of the alphabet on a golden-brown surface. A line of numbers, one to ten were above the word “Goodbye.” Maya’s mouth was set tight when she peered at her sister. “What if it does work, Ashley? Wouldn’t you like to be able to contact Mom or Dad? I know I would! Maybe we should try it.” Leah’s gaze flitted from Maya to Ashley. It was obvious that her friend was on Maya’s side. But of course she would be. If it was spooky, Leah was the self-appointed expert. She was even in some kooky, paranormal investigation Facebook group! Ashley knew she’d have an adult ally in her logical-minded aunt. Claire wouldn’t want Maya buying into this and scaring the living crap out of herself in the process. “We’ll see what Aunt Claire thinks.” Leah shook her head. “You can’t tell her. She’ll take it away for sure. I wanted to buy a Ouija board a few years ago at Halloween, but my mom threw a fit! She said it was evil and wouldn’t let me get it. Your aunt will probably be the same.” Her eyes narrowed, challenging Ashley. “Besides which, if it doesn’t work, why get all bent out of shape about it? You could at least try it once for Maya’s sake.” Maya turned puppy-dog eyes at her sister. “What if we could talk to Mom and Dad? Don’t you even want to try?” |
 
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” 
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