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Andrew Michael Hurley

A Chilling Tale from Shirley Jackson

I read this narrative long ago and it has lingered with me ever since. The so-called vacationers are a family from New York, who occupy an identical off-grid rural cabin each year. On this occasion, instead of returning to the city, they opt to extend their vacation for a month longer – something that seems to unsettle everyone in the surrounding community. All pass on the same veiled caution that not a soul has remained in the area beyond the holiday. Regardless, they insist to remain, and that is the moment things start to get increasingly weird. The man who brings oil won’t sell to the couple. Nobody agrees to bring food to their home, and as the family endeavor to travel to the community, the automobile fails to start. A storm gathers, the batteries of their radio diminish, and with the arrival of dusk, “the two old people crowded closely inside their cabin and expected”. What could be they expecting? What might the locals be aware of? Whenever I revisit Jackson’s unnerving and thought-provoking narrative, I’m reminded that the best horror stems from what’s left undisclosed.

An Acclaimed Writer

An Eerie Story by a noted author

In this brief tale two people journey to a typical beach community where bells ring constantly, a constant chiming that is annoying and puzzling. The first very scary episode occurs at night, when they opt to walk around and they fail to see the water. Sand is present, there’s the smell of rotting fish and salt, waves crash, but the water appears spectral, or something else and even more alarming. It is simply deeply malevolent and whenever I go to the shore at night I think about this story that destroyed the beach in the evening in my view – favorably.

The young couple – she’s very young, the man is mature – head back to the hotel and learn why the bells ring, through an extended episode of confinement, macabre revelry and death-and-the-maiden encounters danse macabre chaos. It’s an unnerving meditation on desire and deterioration, a pair of individuals aging together as spouses, the connection and aggression and affection in matrimony.

Not just the most terrifying, but likely among the finest short stories available, and an individual preference. I read it in Spanish, in the initial publication of Aickman stories to be released locally in 2011.

Catriona Ward

A Dark Novel by an esteemed writer

I delved into this book near the water overseas a few years ago. Even with the bright weather I experienced a chill over me. Additionally, I sensed the excitement of anticipation. I was writing my third novel, and I had hit a block. I didn’t know if there was a proper method to write various frightening aspects the book contains. Reading Zombie, I realized that there was a way.

Released decades ago, the story is a grim journey into the thoughts of a murderer, Quentin P, based on Jeffrey Dahmer, the criminal who murdered and mutilated numerous individuals in Milwaukee between 1978 and 1991. Infamously, the killer was consumed with making a submissive individual who would stay him and carried out several horrific efforts to accomplish it.

The deeds the story tells are appalling, but just as scary is the emotional authenticity. Quentin P’s awful, broken reality is directly described using minimal words, names redacted. You is sunk deep trapped in his consciousness, forced to witness ideas and deeds that horrify. The alien nature of his mind is like a tangible impact – or finding oneself isolated in an empty realm. Entering this story is less like reading but a complete immersion. You are swallowed whole.

Daisy Johnson

White Is for Witching from a gifted writer

In my early years, I walked in my sleep and later started having night terrors. Once, the terror included a dream where I was confined inside a container and, as I roused, I discovered that I had ripped a part from the window, seeking to leave. That home was crumbling; when it rained heavily the downstairs hall flooded, maggots dropped from above on to my parents’ bed, and once a big rodent ascended the window coverings in the bedroom.

Once a companion handed me Helen Oyeyemi’s novel, I was residing elsewhere at my family home, but the tale about the home high on the Dover cliffs appeared known to me, longing at that time. It’s a book about a haunted loud, sentimental building and a girl who ingests limestone from the shoreline. I cherished the story so much and returned again and again to it, always finding {something