In the classic Greek definitions, horror is fear of the unknown while terror is fear of the known.  These days the two words are used interchangeably by almost everyone, losing, I think, an important delineation that is extremely useful.  Consider the immobilizing fear that grips you as a rockslide comes down on you that is terror in its purest form: stark, transfixing, undeniable, its stupefaction having nothing to incite the curiosity.  But now, imagine there is the midnight scratching on the side of the house where there ought not to be any, for no tree is there and the wind is still the fear then is horror, and with it, the fatal element of fascination that keeps grabbing at your thoughts as persistently as a sore tooth attracts a tongue.

 

       Often horror is the most difficult genre to define, one that may more easily be described by what it isn't rather than what it is, for horror is found not in content, as is science fiction, nor in method, as is mystery fiction, nor in historic location, as is western fiction; horror is found in atmosphere, in an environment where the unknown outweighs the defined, and where the quality of threat is not as precisely delineated as in other genres, circumstances that can take place in virtually any culture or locale, and impinge upon almost any character.  (Incidentally, and parenthetically, to my mind, all fiction is genre fiction: blockbuster and literary are as much genres -- categories -- as romance or sword-and-sorcery). Horror is the most amorphous of them all, and the most difficult to sustain.

 

       For many storytellers who deal in horror, the allure is that air of uncertainty, the abiding sense that all is somehow not right, that something is amiss, and is the more sinister because it is not defined or specific.  Certainly the thirteen stories in this book draw upon this potent device in a splendid array of applications. Each presents a unique vision, a singular approaching to the unknown and the nature of its implications.  From disquieting unease to full-blown grue, the evocations presented here are all as seductive as they are frightening, although the balances shift from story to story.

 

       The skill these writers bring to their stories covers an impressive range in topics and styles.  From Dru L. Pagliassotti's The Last Vintage to Owl Goingback's Sealed with a Kiss to Mark Dunn's The Compound, to Michael R. Colangelo’s The God of Dust, perception creates the occasion for horror.  J. M. Heluk's Tunnels, Teri Lucia's Internal Affairs, and Jack Ketchum's The Box draw heavily on circumstances for horror. In Christine Morgan's Don't Look Back, in Patricia Lee Macomber's and David Niall Wilson's Sing a Song of Sixth Sense, and in Teri A. Jacobs' Infections of its Taboo, anticipation creates the environment of horror.  In Paul Finch's Mask and Blade, in Poppy Z. Brite's O Death, Where is Thy Spatula?, and in Matthew Brolly's Hither Green, the horror element is bound to character and character development.

 

       Unlike most anthologies, this one is handsomely illustrated, augmenting the demeanor of the story with which it is paired.  Sarah Smiles, Krista Cagg, Brittany Nugent, Byron Winton, Arthur Davis Broughton, Yifat Shaik, Kenneth Emig, Maki Horanai, Alexander Gabriel, Stormi Kahn, GAK, Joanne Taylor, and Lilach Luzzatto all contribute persuasively to the book: in a mystery setting, it would probably be called aiding and abetting.

 

       Like most forms in fiction, horror is harder to do than it looks.  It takes a special kind of nerve as well as a special restraint to pull off the real achievement of horror – an actual squeam, that inward delicious shudder that devolves from the thrill without actual reality of danger: when you are not in true peril, being scared can be fun.  So I wish you many happy hours of squeaming.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

 

       Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

       Berkeley, California

       24 February, 2004