Growing Things and Other Stories

The unknown. The unfamiliar. The impossible. Horror thrives in these uncertain spaces, lurking one page behind and one page ahead, tickling your brain through the writer’s words. Yes, sometimes horror is borne from understanding the threat, the monster, the implication, but most of the time, horror emerges most effectively from confusion, from not comprehending what’s happening, from missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

Few writers make the most out of the shadows of uncertainty like Paul Tremblay does. He’s exceptionally good at putting the reader off-kilter, making the familiar feel alien and carving narrative weapons from mystery and gray areas. There’s always a question at the heart of his stories: Why is that woman acting like that? Are they coming back? Can I trust what I’m seeing? And those questions are seeds, taking root in our minds and not letting go as the horror grows and develops and evolves.

Sometimes, those questions, that uncertainty, may leave you adrift, not connecting with a particular story. But most of the time, that uncertainty becomes the razor’s edge of a tale that cuts you to your core, leaving you momentarily devastated once you’ve turned the last page of the story.

I haven’t said much about the actual stories in Growing Things and Other Stories, and that’s for good reason. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.