On the professional side of things, it seems as if most of the review copies and recently-released books lining my shelves contain ghost stories. Other Terrors. Our Shadows Have Claws. A House with Good Bones. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that fall — and October in particular — isn’t the only time to read horror. Sure, a slew of horror flicks and anthology series are always released right before Halloween, an occurrence I anticipate each year with ravenous glee. And sure, I usually make a point of blocking off each October for horror, dark fantasy, speculative fiction, and dystopian fiction. And, yes, sure, the roving and returning spirits at the roots of Halloween have led us to associate this time of year with all manner of witches, demons, and other supernatural baddies, all things that make up our favorite horror tales. But horror doesn’t have a season. Or rather, every season is horror season! If you’re as enamored with horror as I am, I’m probably preaching to the choir. But if you only ever venture into the genre at Halloween time, this post is for you. What follows is my argument for why horror should be enjoyed all year ’round. So much of horror forces us to explore the nuance that surrounds the most polarizing issues, amplifies the helplessness we feel in the face of societal ills, and leads us to ask ourselves: What would we do in such a situation? We see this heavy lifting at work in books like adrienne maree brown’s Grievers, a dystopian horror that highlights the imbalances that naturally come to light during a pandemic. Or in Rachel Harrison’s Cackle, which prods us to acknowledge the ways in which we deprioritize female friendships in favor of heterosexual romance. Or in the speculative fiction of Carmen Maria Machado, who explores female sexuality, and the ways in which society seeks to control it, in Her Body and Other Parties. Issues like these aren’t limited to a single month of the year. We should always be exploring them. I love psychological horror like this, as it forces us to confront ourselves. In reading such titles, we must hold ourselves accountable for at least some of the horror that exists in our lives. And perhaps in these acts of accountability we can find new, better paths forward. But a comedic horror about demon possession? My body is here for it. Not only that, but we get to do this work in a safe and controlled environment. If we feel overwhelmed, we can aways close the book, leaving those fears on the page. And at the end of the book, more often than not, we see that those fears can be defeated. Also, in seeing my fears on the page, I can know that I am not alone. To have company when facing my fears can be comforting. And we all know that fear has no season. As an adult, not much has changed. Right now, I’m reading a whole string of witchy titles and, as I read, I can’t help but wish that witchcraft was a thing I could use to harness my anger. To find power in a place of powerlessness. Reading horror is, to me, a form of wishing. Of wish fulfillment, even. In horror, the existence of the supernatural plants me firmly in an alternate reality where things remain unexplained by science… and where anything is possible. At a time when nothing good seems possible, I am desperate for that sense of possibility. I think we could all use a bit of that magic throughout the year. Speaking of witchy titles, this list of 100 must-read books about witches really boosted my TBR.
