Someone recently asked me if my next book is going to be “scary”. Without thinking too much about it, I replied, “I don’t do horror.” But as I reflected on that response, I began to question its accuracy. What exactly did I mean by “horror”, and do I truly steer clear of it in my writing?
H. P. Lovecraft, a seminal figure in the genre, famously said in his essay, Supernatural Horror Literature:
“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. These facts few psychologists will dispute, and their admitted truth must establish for all time the genuineness and dignity of the weirdly horrible tale as a literary form.”
Lovecraft’s words capture the essence of horror, which is not simply about monsters or ghosts, but about the primal fear that resides within us all—the fear of the unknown. Stephen King, another giant in the field, takes this a step further. In Danse Macabre, he outlines what he sees as the three levels of terror:
“The three types of terror: The Gross-out: the sight of a severed head tumbling down a flight of stairs, it’s when the lights go out and something green and slimy splatters against your arm. The Horror: the unnatural, spiders the size of bears, the dead waking up and walking around, it’s when the lights go out and something with claws grabs you by the arm. And the last and worse one: Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute.”
When I say “I don’t do horror,” what I mean is that I don’t delve into the glorification of evil or the “gross-out” kind of horror that King describes—the kind where gore is used purely for shock value, designed to sicken the reader. That’s not the type of fear I explore in my writing. For example, in the opening scene of The Dead Beneath Us, a police officer discovers the putrefied body of a murder victim. While this is undoubtedly horrifying, it’s grounded in the reality of what police officers may encounter in their line of duty. The purpose here isn’t to induce nausea, but to portray a grim reality—a stark contrast to the gratuitous gore that I consciously avoid.
In Heel of Achilles, the protagonist Max Fortis, a skilled Krav Maga practitioner, faces danger with the precision of a trained professional. The fight scenes are not driven by raw emotion or gratuitous violence; instead, they showcase carefully calculated physical responses honed through rigorous training. Max assesses threats, formulates a plan, and acts—his reactions are those of a tactician, not someone caught in a whirl of terror. This clinical approach distances these scenes from the raw, visceral horror that one might expect in a traditional horror story.
Similarly, the supernatural elements in my DI Angelis series are not rooted in malevolence. The mysterious woman who resides in the liminal space between life and death, and the creatures Angelis calls the Watchers, do not embody the supernatural evil typically found in horror. Instead, they represent the polar opposite, a different facet of the unknown—one that is more enigmatic than terrifying.
Yet, despite these distinctions, I realise that Stephen King’s final point on terror—”the worst one”—is where my assertion that “I don’t do horror” begins to unravel. This type of horror isn’t about grotesque imagery or supernatural threats; it’s about the psychological fear that gnaws at the mind. It’s the fear of losing someone, the dread of betrayal, the anxiety of facing a world that has suddenly become alien. In this sense, all writers, regardless of genre, are in the business of playing with their readers’ emotions. And fear, whether it’s the fear of loss, rejection, or mortality, is one of the most potent emotions we manipulate.
For some, the mystery is more important than the thrill; for others, it’s the opposite. My challenge is to strike the right balance for everyone, while also crafting a story that I would enjoy reading.
With the burn scar on his cheek, and his huge frame, he’s an intimidating figure.