Fifteen years ago when I published my first short story, The Woman and the Stiff, in an online magazine called Blood Moon Rising, I remember the reaction of one of my colleagues. She said, “Oh, I didn’t know you write horror? Remind me not to get on your wrong side!” It was a joke with a jag, of course, and we both laughed awkwardly. Was she implying that I had skeletons in my closet – maybe literally? The story itself is one of dark humour about a man who gets murdered by hoodlum teens and reappears as a zombie to warn of the dangers of road rage. If you’re interested, it has since been republished in my collection of strange and macabre short stories, Diabolical Dreamscapes.
Just because I write horror doesn’t mean I’m a serial killer, or that I live in a Gothic castle full of spiders, bats and ghosts rattling chains as they walk the halls. Actually, maybe I need to get onto a property website and rectify that second point (lol). Just joking. In reality, I suppose I’m a fairly ordinary, average person.
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