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I think I would classify myself as such. Though Arlya has many different themes and genres present, coming of age, thriller, mystery, at the end of the day it is a horror novel. A tale of something horrifying happening to a family, a town. Most of my short story work is also in the horror genre so I believe I would have a difficult time calling myself anything else.
Anyways, back to the question at hand, what I believe the making of a horror writer would be. I believe one of course has to love horror. You have to be a little strange, to love the feeling of being scared. To read or watch something that gives you goosebumps. The feeling is powerful, to have an emotion you never usually get on a normal day, while safely in your bed or in a theatre.
I have had countless nights wide awake, staring at the closet as a kid, telling myself for sure, for sure there is something behind there that will crawl out any minute. No matter how badly I wanted to turn over, to stop looking at the place where I would see bony hand claw out from around the wood, I would stare. I still do it. I still wake up, and though I hate it, I imagine the scariest thing that could happen right then. Something crawling along the floor moving quickly out of sight to climb into my bed.
Then, I write it down. Use it as a scene, imagine a story around that one single moment of terror.
I believe you have to see things a little differently. Horror is an interesting genre because it is filled with people that were maybe born with a strange, haunting view of the world. I tell people about the scenes I imagine and they scoff, why would I want to think about those things. I think a horror writer allows these thoughts to enter their mind while most people push it away. I have to blame my dad for reading me scary stories and encouraging these thoughts. When we would drive to our cottage, down a dark winding road through the woods, we wouldn’t talk about the next day at the lake, the morning sun, the quiet that comes with the forest at night, we would talk of old women in nighties sprinting through the woods at us, of decrepit beings crawling out in front of our headlights. So yeah, maybe it’s his fault.
I think horror writers are a rare breed, those who do it well at least, and I am not saying I do, although I have had a few people tell me they can’t read my stories at night. Anyways, my respect to all of you weirdos out there who see things a little differently. Keep writing, keep reading, and keep listening to those things that go bump in the night, and imagine them a little more next time, because it might not be “just the pipes”.
Thank you.
Arlya, a small town in Southern Ontario, is rocked by a gruesome crime. Four friends must work together with Detective Dylan Grey to find a pattern, a bike, a clue, and a sister before it is repeated.
James and his three best friends, Owen, Tommy, and Mike, have just finished school for the summer. The plan is the same as every other year: they are going to build the biggest fort yet, deep in the Dhoon Woods. After stumbling across a tiny, seemingly unimportant wooden hut, a series of crimes take place and their plans change.
Arlya falls into itself. Doors are locked, curtains drawn, bikes are put away, strangers invade, and kids are off the street. In the first week of summer vacation, a dark and disturbing family history is uncovered; friends turn on each other; a storm rolls through town; and a monster is hiding just out of sight, smiling its toothy grin and crawling through the corn.
Enjoy an Excerpt
One Friday night last summer, the four of them had left James’s house after his parents had gone to bed. They had biked around in the dark, briefly illuminated by the sparse streetlights looming over the side streets. Fog had drifted across the side roads; houses were barely visible through their covered lawns. Somehow, they wound their way to the bottom of Cemetery Hill.
“My grandpa is in there,” Tommy had said quietly.
They had looked out at the long blackness which rose menacingly above them. The trees at the top of the hill had been reaching toward the starry sky.
James had wanted to bike back. If he had left, the others would have surely followed suit. Mike had glanced at James waiting for his decision.
“My dad was supposed to be buried here,” Owen had said, his voice cracking, devoid of moisture.
The fog had continued to thicken around the four of them standing stagnant in the road, straddling their bikes.
About the Author:
Jack Lowe-Carbell is a 26-year-old writer living in Vancouver, BC. Arlya is his first novel, and it is based in his hometown, Ayr, ON. Thanks to his dad, who read him horror stories when he was far too young, Jack has always loved the genre. His next novel is a tale of horror based in Garibaldi Provincial Park.
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