Is there anything more complex than religious faith? Faith can be ineffably inspirational and intractably inflexible, a source of hope to motivate some of humanity’s greatest heroes and an excuse to defend some of our most despicable monsters. And when most people talk about the subject, they tend to focus on one quality to the exclusion of the other.
So it’s to the credit of British author C.J. Tudor that her novel The Burning Girls incorporates faith into horror story in a humane and principled manner. The book’s title refers to two young girls martyred in the 16th century for their Protestant beliefs. Today, villagers in their hometown remember “the Sussex Martyrs” as champions, holding memorial ceremonies and constructing twig dolls in homage. And sometimes, the girls’ flaming ghosts appear as omens to those who are in trouble.
The most important troubled person is Reverend Jack Brooks, a vicar who has been moved, along with her fourteen-year-old daughter Flo, to the tiny Sussex village Chapel Cross from her urban parish in Nottingham. Jack brings along her troubled past, including the murder of a young parishioner, her husband’s shadowy death, and a family history that she does not want to discuss with anyone, including us readers.
Despite her increasingly weighty baggage, Jack makes for a kind and engaging lead. Serving as the narrator for the majority of the book’s chapters (Tudor employs third-person voice for chapters focusing on other characters), Jack is quick with a quip and a forgiving aside, without ever feeling like a saint. The mercy she extends to others stems from an awareness of her shortcomings. When she begins judging a colleague for engaging in a sin of omission, she checks herself and thinks, “Who am I to judge?”
This isn’t to say that Jack doesn’t make mistakes. She gives into anger and (like all parents) constantly flubs in her decisions with Flo. But given how easily this smoking, swearing, horror-movie-watching woman of the cloth could become a “cool priest” cliché, there’s something refreshingly real to Jack’s grounded approach to the transcendent, especially to a lifelong practicing Christian like me. The Burning Girls insists that everyone has their demons and fights them their own way.
Despite the certainly admirable quality of this theme, the novel does become laden with tragedy. Everyone from a small-time reporter to a fellow vicar’s wife has a tragic backstory, which can become overwhelming. Given the mundane atrocities that mark The Burning Girls, pyro specters and crooked exorcism blades seem excessive.
The problem is exacerbated by Tudor’s sometimes too-lean prose, which prioritizes snappy dialogue over clearly defined spaces and characters. The book often reads like a script, as conversations between characters can go on for over a page, with little more than a signal phrase to break it up. As a result, the characters feel thin, as we’re forced to construct our mental image of them from the things they say, rather than the physical attributes the narrator allows us to see. This tendency crosses over from frustrating to irritating when the characters indulge in pop-culture references, talking about Evil Dead, Bill Hicks, and (with surprising frequency) The Usual Suspects. Unless you’re Nick Hornby, readers shouldn’t know more about your protagonists’ movie collections than we do about their physical features.
Fortunately, Tudor balances these issues by moving the plot along swiftly. The author shows a deft hand at revealing clues and mysteries, allowing connections between the Sussex martyrs, the disappearance of two teen girls and a local priest, and Jack’s biography, to float into view with satisfying elegance. The reader feels like an active participant in the adventure, never ahead of the characters and rarely trailing behind.
The Burning Girls treads some truly horrific ground, recounting some of the worst things humans can do to one another. And it does not shy away from the fact that religious faith often drives these acts of brutality. But it also shows us how faith can be a healing element, compelling us to care for each other, all the more in the face of such cruelty.
Women don’t get a lot of credit in any field that they may excel in, so why should the world of literature be any different? While, they get recognized by their peers, how many of you can name more than a handful of famous female horror authors off the top of your head? It’s unfortunate that most can’t, to say the least, but that’s something that we plan to remedy here today.
Photography by H.F.E. & Co.
While we are asserting that all of the writers listed here are horror writers, a lot of these amazing women have actually produced written work that is outside of the horror genre–or, even more astoundingly, their main genre of work may not even be horror.
Mary Shelley
(08/30/1797 – 02/01/1851)
Born Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, Shelley is best known for her novel Frankenstein (1818) which is quite widely cited as the very first Science Fiction horror novel. Unfortunately, her career wasn’t quite as prolific as some modern writers, but her work seems to have been more about quality, rather than quantity. Unsurprisingly she wasn’t the first writer within the horror genre, but she was the first female horror writer and she did invent two completely different subgenres of horror. I do find it rather nice though, that all of her works are within the public domain and can be enjoyed by anyone who wishes to read her Gothic-styled genius.
Check out our coverage of Mary Shelley in her Dead Author Dedication we did earlier this year.
Daphne Du Maurier has generally been classed as a romantic novelist, but the stories she produced in her lifetime have been described as “moody and resonant,” and most if not all of them have paranormal and supernatural overtones. Critics never gave her a fair shot when her bestselling works were first published, but her exceptional talent with her voice in narrative changed their minds and earned her a persistently unparalleled reputation.
A few of her novels have been adapted into films—quite successfully in fact, including Rebecca (1938), adapted by Alfred Hitchcock to film in 1940—which starts off as such an innocent romance, but quickly turns into a story with such a haunting atmosphere, you can’t be sure if it’s a ghost story, or one of subterfuge. Don’t even get us started on his adaptation of her novel The Birds (1952) which was released in 1963!
Some Books to Read by Du Maurier
Jamaica Inn (1936)
Rebecca (1938)
My Cousin Rachel (1951)
The Birds (1952)
Not After Midnight and Other Stories (1971)
Unfortunately, we haven’t covered the life and times of Daphne Du Maurier as of yet, but believe us when we say that her style of writing is phenomenal–actually, don’t believe us, read some of them and decide for yourself! Since we’ve been trying to cover a single dead author per month, in memoriam during the month in which they passed, we won’t be visiting the life and achievements of Daphene Du Maurier in full until April of 2021.
Shirley Jackson
(12/14/1916 – 08/08/1965)
Shirley Jackson is one of those writers that the weird, dark, and haunted can thoroughly relate to–personally, I believe that she is the one writer I can relate to the most. Not because she was insanely talented–I’m not self-centered enough to believe I rank on her level–it’s because she never made an attempt to pretend that she was in any way normal and I mean that in complete admiration.
If you’re interested in learning more about Shirley Jackson, take a look at the articles we did to honor her for August’s Dead Author Dedication:
Lois Duncan made a name for herself by writing for young adults–those transitioning from childhood to adulthood, who needed a voice to relate to that would help them understand what it was like to have to evolve into a responsible human being, even under the worst of circumstances. As a horror writer for the young and the young-at-heart, Duncan left a legacy, not only for her readers, but for those who were inspired to follow in her footsteps.
She paved the way for writers and creatives to finally be able to appeal to the younger audiences who, otherwise would only have had adult horror to turn to–because, let’s be honest, those among us who love horror now have loved horror for a long time and if it hadn’t been for Duncan’s books we might not have had age-appropriate content for our nerdy dark brains to dive into.
You can learn more about Lois Duncan through our exploration of her life, literary achievements, and legacy–Puzzle Box Horror style, in our Dead Author Dedication in July 2020.
She is a best-selling American author and having sold nearly 100 million copies of her books, is one of the most widely read authors in modern history. World-renowned, among her works the most well-known are the Vampire Chronicles, where she demonstrates her ability to convey love, death, immortality, existentialism, as well as the human condition under the umbrella of the gothic horror genre. One thing is certain, aside from Mary Shelley, Rice is possibly the most popular female author on this list!
Octavia E. Butler
(06/22/1947 – 02/24/2006)
Butler started her writing career in her twenties after studying at several universities and she blended elements of science fiction and African American spiritualism in her novels. Her first book, Patternmaster (1976) which would kick start her first series of books. It wouldn’t be her last series, however, as she continued to write and publish books up until her death in February of 2006. Although Butler was better known to be an author of science fiction, she often incorporated elements of our favorite genre, horror. Her most horror-inspired novel was published just a year before her death and told the story of a girl who discovers she’s a vampire. Often hailed as a genius, Butler worked to address racism from her vantage point as a writer and exposed the horrors of oppression in American history. When talking about one of her most popular books, she explained that, “[she] wanted to write a novel that would make others feel the history: the pain and fear that black people have had to live through in order to endure.”
Join us in February of 2021, for when we honor Butler’s contribution to horror.
Kathe Koja
(01/06/1960 – Present)
As a writer, director, and independent producer, Kathe Koja is a multiple platform powerhouse of a woman—her talent allows her to work within several different genres, from Young Adult, to contemporary, to historical, as well as horror fiction genres. Several of her novels have won awards and have also been translated into multiple different languages and her work has also been optioned for film and performance pieces.
Caitlín R. Kiernan
(05/26/1964 – Present)
As an Irish-born American, Caitlín R. Kiernan is a published paleontologist and author of both science fiction and dark/horror fantasy. An accomplished author in her own right, Kiernan has published ten novels, a series of comic books, and over two hundred fifty short stories, novellas, and vignettes—for all of her hard work she has received both the World Fantasy and Bram Stoker awards twice!
Tananarive Due
(01/05/1966 – Present)
Tananarive is an all-around wonder when it comes to the horror community, not only is she an award-winning author, she also teaches about Black Horror and Afrofuturism at the University of California Los Angeles. But wait, there’s more—as a prominent figure in black speculative fiction over the last twenty years, she and her husband collaborated to write “A Small Town” for the second season of the reboot of The Twilight Zone. This is by no means a complete biography for Due but we hope it’s enough to interest you in her incredible literature and work for equality as she helps to educate in the exclusionary history of not just American history, but horror history.
To get better acquainted with Tananarive Due, check out her official website and the upcoming article we have dedicated to her work in horror.
For a more in-depth look at the history of horror and the role that black people have historically played within the genre, keep an eye out for Shudder’s Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror. Tananarive Due is listed as an executive producer for this highly anticipated documentary and it’s coming out in February 2021, just in time for Black History month!
Gemma Files
(04/04/1968 – Present)
London-born, Gemma Files is a Canadian horror writer, journalist, and film critic—but she had quite a meager start as a freelance writer until she landed a continuing gig with an entertainment periodical called Eye Weekly. It was this position that led to her gaining local traction, as she began critiquing horror, independent, and Canadian films. In 1999 Gemma won the International Horror Guild Award for Best Short Story, with The Emperor’s Old Bones. Since then, five of her short stories have been adapted to television for The Hunger series. She’s been nominated for countless awards, including the Shirley Jackson Award in 2009 and 2010 for a short story and novelette respectively.
Jemiah Jefferson
(01/01/1972 – Present)
Another elegant African American horror author, Jemiah Jefferson toes the line between horror and erotica through her gift to horror-loving women everywhere—her Voice of the Blood series about the famous creatures of the night has been called “smart, beautiful, sexy, and vicious.” (I’m not going to lie, I may have purchased all four of them the very same day I discovered her.) Jemiah has a lot more to offer in the way of novels and short stories, however, and we’re exceptionally excited to share her with you all.
Helen Olajumoke Oyeyemi
(12/10/1984 – Present)
Oyeyemi and her writing are equally unique, her writing transcends any genre that attempts to confine or define her, so the best way we can describe her work is a blend of horror, fantasy, fairy tales, and folklore. While not a dedicated horror writer, her work is often unsettling (just the way we like it), frightening, and she often explores the paranormal, bizarre, and supernatural elements of fiction. When she was a young woman, just twenty years of age, she published her first novel The Icarus Girl (2005), which mixed the paranormal with Gothic horror themes and Nigerian folklore. In 2009, her novel White is For Witching, was published and is considered one of the great modern cosmic horror novels—we personally loved it!
Kat Howard
(09/14/19** – Present)
As a modern-day writer in a genre dominated by a more masculine influence, Kat Howard is a refreshing change of pace–since the best writing is when you are allowed to immerse yourself in the story and are otherwise unaware of the writer’s gender, skin color, sexuality, or how they otherwise identify themselves.
We were lucky enough to be able to speak to Kat Howard recently—so, check out the interview that we did with Kat Howard, where she speaks about her novel The End of the Sentence (2014), horror, and what it’s like to be a writer. You can check out that interview here if you’d like to know more!
We reserve the right to update this list in the future to further represent female writers of the horror genre that we may currently be unfamiliar with–an exclusion of an amazing female horror author here only means that we have yet to be introduced to her work! Let us know if you believe someone should be included here!
Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.
Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.
Many of Richard Matheson’s works went from page to screen pretty successfully–perhaps that’s part of the reason why so many people are familiar with work that he originally penned, but are unaware of the source of the story. After such a long career, one might hope that people would come to recognize your name, but it didn’t seem to bother Matheson, who seemed to only write for the love of writing.
The Films Based on Matheson’s Novels
I Am Legend (1954) is Richard Matheson’s most talked-about novel–it was such a success and inspiration to creatives everywhere that it was even adapted to film three separate times. The Last Man On Earth (1964), The Omega Man (1971), and I Am Legend (2007) all wonderful movies in their own right, just never seemed to capture the concept behind the original novel.
The Last Man On Earth (1964)
The dark tale of The Last Man On Earth takes place in a post-epidemic nightmare world, where a scientist by the name of Robert Morgan–played by Vincent Price–is the only man immune to a vampire plague which has transformed the entire population on Earth. This vampire society comes to fear Morgan, as he turns into a monster slayer. As a scientist, he studies the plague and ends up being able to cure one of them, by transfusing his blood into her. This upsets the vampire race and they end up killing him for what he has done to Ruth.
Considered the second adaptation of I Am Legend to film, Charlton Heston plays Robert Neville, a man who is the only recipient of a serum that made him immune to the germ warfare between Russia and China. This caused him to be the only known normal human left alive and he lives in a gaudy, antique-decorated penthouse in Los Angeles where he roams the vacant city by day and fends off bloodthirsty (read: vampire) mutant scavengers. Eventually, Neville comes across a young group of healthy non-vampires, which destroys the idea of him being the last remaining normal human being.
The third adaptation of Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend, this attempt at the film follows Robert Neville–played by Will Smith–as the last man on Earth struggling to survive and fend off the infected victims of the vampiric plague. He’s a brilliant scientist who is meant to find the cure to a highly contagious superbug–something he is inexplicably immune to, as we find out later in the film. By day, Neville searches high and low for supplies, sends out desperate radio messages with the hope to find other survivors, and by night he hunkers down in his fortress of a home while attempting to find the cure to the virus by using his own blood in experiments on vampires he has captured. The horde of vampires is more intelligent than Neville realizes, however, and they take vengeance upon him after he captures a vampire woman who the alpha vampire is bonded to.
Adapted from Hell House by Matheson, into a screenplay by Matheson himself, four people with supposed extrasensory powers are hired to spend the weekend in a haunted house in order to gather evidence of the haunting.
Tom Witzky lives a fairly normal life, he works in Chicago and lives with his wife and son, not believing in anything out of the ordinary. One night, while at a party, Tom and his sister-in-law, Lisa, get into a verbal debate about psychic communication and the power of hypnosis–he challenges Lisa to hypnotize him, so she does. She plants a post-hypnotic suggestion for Tom to be more open-minded and things begin to happen.
Matheson wrote several screenplays, including sixteen episodes of The Twilight Zone, where he could simply pitch an idea and spur an entire episode.
Nightmare at 20,000 Feet (2002)
A salesman is traveling via plane after a recent nervous breakdown–after being told that he’s recovered from his issues–while flying, he begins to believe he’s seeing a monster climbing on the wing of the plane and damaging the engine. The only problem is, is that he’s the only one who sees it.
Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.
Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.
Dark and mysterious in life and in death, Edgar Allan Poe is most famous for the Gothic horror genre, was a master of macabre poetry and short stories that are the stuff of nightmares. As an American writer, he made a surprising number of enemies through his harsh literary critique of their work. His abundant well of imagination and creative abilities directly enabled him to create a new genre and he has long been considered the father of the modern detective story. While that alone is impressive enough, he is also often regarded in literary history as the architect of the modern short story. As a creative individual, he was also a principle forerunner of the Art for Art’s Sake movement within nineteenth-century European literature.
Edgar’s life, just like his profound short stories, is largely shrouded in mystery to this day. The substantial confusion between the facts and the falsehoods is a direct result of the blatant misrepresentation in a biographical piece written by one of his enemies—in an attempt to smear the dead author’s name. As a result of these widely distributed beliefs, Poe’s image has formed into one that is a morbid, macabre, and mysterious figure who dabbles and lurks in spooky cemeteries has contributed to his legend.
This horror icon grew to become such a renowned author due to his ingenious and profound stories, poems, and critical theories, which proved in time to be influential within their respective fields. He began to be the author everyone associated with tales of murderers and madmen, the prospect of being buried alive, and revenants returning from the dead. He is most widely known for poems like “The Raven,” “The Black Cat,” and “The Tell-Tale Heart,” but that’s not even close to the extent of his most famous works.
Poe managed to produce such compelling literature that he has remained in print since 1827. A man who led an incredibly dark and dreary life and somehow managed to produce these works of literary horror art that was consistently beautiful and haunting.
Early Life
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts on January 19, 1809; his parents were both traveling actors who Edgar was never able to truly get to know. His father was David Poe Jr. Who was originally from Baltimore, his mother Elizabeth Arnold Poe was British in descent. Both died before Poe was even three years old, while his father’s cause of death is unknown, we do know that his mother succumbed to tuberculosis which officially left Poe and his siblings as orphans. At that point, Poe was separated from his brother William and sister Rosalie and he alone was sent to live with John and Frances Allan—a successful tobacco merchant and his wife who lived in Richmond, Virginia. While Edgar seemed to develop a bond with Frances Valentine Allan, Poe’s relationship with John remained unsteady. Allan would never legally adopt his foster son Edgar, but he did send him to the best schools available where he was always a good student.
Despite butting heads, Allan raised Poe to be a Virginian gentleman, as well as a businessman; unfortunately for Allen, Poe was drawn to writing. By the time Poe was a mere thirteen years old, he was already a prolific poet, inspired by the British poet Lord Byron. Unfortunately for Poe, his efforts and literary talents were highly discouraged by his foster father and his headmaster at school. Since Allan raised Poe to be a businessman, he of course did not approve of the fact that Poe preferred to write poetry. He would also allegedly draft poetry on the back of some of Allan’s business papers—needless to say, this was frowned upon by Allan.
Adulthood
Education
Poe was admitted to the University of Virginia at Charlottesville in 1825, where he once again demonstrated his scholarly abilities. Unfortunately, a miserly John Allan sent Poe to his university with less than a third of the funds he would have needed to finish and he quickly accumulated debt. As a result, Poe turned to gambling to raise the money he needed to pay his expenses. By the end of his first term, Poe was rumored to have been so poor, that he had to burn his furniture to keep himself warm. This left him humiliated for being impoverished and furious with Allan for putting him in that position.
Forced to drop out of school, Poe returned to Richmond, Virginia where things went from bad to worse. When he arrived in Richmond, he went to visit his fiancée Sarah Elmira Royster, to the shocking discovery that she had become engaged to another man. After hearing this dismal news, a heartbroken Poe returned to Boston,
Military Service
Poe decided to join the U.S. Army in 1827, the same year he had published his first book—after serving for two years, Poe received news that Frances Allan, his foster mother, was dying of tuberculosis. Sadly, Frances passed away before Poe was able to return home to say his goodbyes. Heartbroken once more, he moved a few hostile months spent living with Allan drove him back to Baltimore to follow his dreams of writing, but also because he was able to call upon relatives for assistance. One cousin ended up robbing him blind, but fortunately for Poe, he met Maria Clemm, another relative who welcomed him with open arms and became a surrogate mother to him. In 1929, Poe was honorably discharged from the army, after having attained the rank of regimental sergeant major.
West Point Military Academy
Two years after meeting Clemm, he entered the United States Military Academy at West Point and continued to write and publish poetry. Poe once again demonstrated his ability to excel in any class but was thrown out after only eight months of attendance. It’s speculated that Poe intentionally got himself expelled to spite his foster father, by ignoring his duties and violating regulations.
In 1831, after moving to New York City, Poe published his third collection of poems, then to Baltimore to live with Clemm, before finally ending up back in Richmond, where the relationship between Poe and Allan had finally deteriorated.
Career
Poe began to follow his dream of being a writer when he published his first book Tamerlane (1927) at the age of eighteen. Later on, Poe was in Baltimore when his foster father passed away, leaving him completely out of the will and instead, witnessed an illegitimate child whom Allan had never met inherit everything. Poe was still living in poverty, but publishing his short stories when he could. One of these submissions won him a contest which was sponsored by the Saturday Visiter. Poe made valuable connections through winning this contest, which allowed him to publish more stories, and eventually, he grabbed an editorial position at the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. This would be the first of several journals that Poe would direct over the following decade, through which he would rise in prominence as a critical writer within America.
While his writing continued to gain attention in the late 1830s and the early 1840s, his income from this work remained minimal and he was only able to truly support himself through his work editing Burton’s Gentleman Magazine and Graham’s Magazine in Philadelphia as well as the Broadway Journal in New York City.
Short Stories & Poetry
In 1935, Poe began to sell short stories to magazines—this was also when he began to establish himself as a poet—his best-known works and poems were made during these years, the years when he was happily married despite already being a depressed alcoholic.
Literary Critic
The Southern Literary Messenger was the magazine where he ultimately obtained his goal to become a magazine writer. Before a year had passed, Poe helped to make the Messenger the most popular magazine in the south—it was his sensational short stories and his absolutely ruthless book reviews. Poe ended up developing a reputation for being a ruthless critic who would not only attack an author’s work but also insult the author themselves as well as the northern literary establishment. This job led to Poe writing reviews that were meant to target some of the most famous authors in America—one of which was Rufus Griswold, the anthologist who would become Poe’s worst enemy in life and death!
Married to his Cousin
Clemm’s daughter, Virginia, began carrying letters to Poe’s love interest at the time, but soon after became the object of his desire. He began to devote his time and attention to her and when Poe finally moved back to Baltimore he brought both his aunt Clemm as well as his twelve-year-old cousin, Virginia. The couple was married in 1836 while she was still only thirteen and Poe was twenty-seven. The age difference, as well as the marrying of a cousin, was still considered a normal thing during this era, even though by modern standards, it would be inappropriate for a child to become a bride. The marriage proved to be a joyful one and it’s likely that it was one of the happiest times during his life, but finances were fairly tight throughout despite Poe’s gain in acclaim as a writer.
Taken by Tuberculosis
Virginia was tragically taken in 1947, at the young age of 24, which happened to be the age that Poe’s mother was when she also died of tuberculosis. Poe was devastated by Virginia’s death, so much so that he was unable to write for months—his critics assumed he would die soon after and they weren’t wrong. Yet, it’s also rumored that he became involved in a number of romantic affairs before he was engaged for the third time. This time to his original fiancée, Elmira Royster Shelton, who had recently become a widow just as Poe had become a widower.
Mysterious Death
While in preparation for his second marriage, Poe arrived in Baltimore in late September of 1849. He was discovered in a semi-conscious state on October 3 and was taken to a hospital. He ended up dying four days later of “acute congestion of the brain,” without regaining consciousness to explain what had happened to him during his last days on earth. Neither Poe’s mother-in-law Mrs. Clemm nor his fiancée Elmira knew what had become of him until they read about it in the papers. Medical practitioners later reopened his case and hypothesized that Poe could have been suffering from rabies at the time of his death, but the exact cause still remains a mystery.
Libelous Obituary
Only days after Poe’s death, one of his main literary rivals—he had several due to his moniker “The Tomahawk Man,” when he wrote his scathing literary reviews—Rufus Griswold, decided to write a libelous obituary about the dead author. This was done in a misguided attempt to get his revenge against Poe for some offensive things that Poe had written and said about him. Griswold attempted to smear Poe’s image by labeling him a drunken, womanizing, madman, who possessed neither morals nor friends; his hope was that these attacks on Poe would cause the public to dismiss his works and cause Poe to be forgotten completely. Unfortunately for Griswold, his libelous attack on Poe had the opposite effect on audiences and immediately caused the sales of Poe’s books to skyrocket, higher than they had ever been during his lifetime. The joke was truly on Griswold, however, who instead of being recognized as a writer is only recognized (if vaguely) as Poe’s first biographer, even if he intentionally botched the whole thing.
Work Cited
Edgar Allan Poe. (2020, September 03). Retrieved November 14, 2020, from https://www.biography.com/writer/edgar-allan-poe
“Edgar Allan Poe.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/edgar-allan-poe.
Poe’s Biography: Edgar Allan Poe Museum. (n.d.). Retrieved November 14, 2020, from https://www.poemuseum.org/poes-biography
Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.
Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.
Enoch walked with God, and he was not, for God took him- Genesis 5:24
Noah raised the fruit to eye level. Its translucent color sparkled like a diamond in the sun. It’s shape, oval, fitting in the palm of his hand. Its skin was smooth and mellifluous. “What is this,” Noah asked, his sun worn face scrunched in curiosity. A loud thunderclap echoed across the black sky. Michael the archangel glanced up at the menacing clouds, then back at Noah. “It’s the only surviving fruit of the tree of life. You must guard it, and guard it with your life.” Noah’s eyes widened. “So, the legend is true? But I thought Shamsiel destroyed all the fruit?” “Ah yes, Shamsiel,” Michael nodded in remembrance as his face soured. “The guardian cherub.” His eyes met Noah’s. “We thought he did. His rage over Lilith being cast out knew no bounds. If it hadn’t been for Seth,” Michael’s voice trailed off as he stared at the ark. “What, Michael?” Noah lowered the fruit and cupped it in both hands. “If it hadn’t been for Seth rummaging through the rubble, we wouldn’t have known either.” Noah sat on the ground watching Shem struggle to get a sheep up the ramp to the ark. “Tell me more, Michael.” Michael sat down by Noah. “Your ancestor Seth found it. He passed it down and eventually Enoch, the man of God, took the fruit.” “Yes, and legend says God took him up to the heavens.” “Indeed, he did. Do you know why?” Noah shook his head.
“Because Enoch took a bite of the fruit.” Noah’s hand felt the indention on the backside of the fruit. He flipped it over and his mouth gaped. “Indeed, he did.” Noah looked at Michael, his face begging him to continue. “God had to take Enoch. Enoch wasn’t supposed to happen. A fallen man from Adam’s race now endued with eternal life in his sinful state.” “Was God angry,” Noah asked. Michael smirked, “No, he wasn’t angry. He loves Enoch. He enacted a plan.” Noah raised his eyebrows. “What kind of a plan?” “Well, “Michael pursed his lips in thought. “Enoch dug up Eve’s grave and buried the fruit with her.” He gave Noah a sly smile. “Proved to be a remarkable hiding spot.” Noah nodded in agreement. Michael said, “After Enoch hid the fruit, Yahweh took Enoch to heaven. Enoch has now been placed as guardian over the fruit. If the fruit is in danger of falling into the wrong hands, Enoch will come, ready to fight and ensure the fruit remains safe.” “So, you’re giving it to me? So, it will not be lost in the grand deluge?” “You catch on fast, old man,” Michael patted Noah on the back. Noah gave a half-smile then studied the fruit. “I will guard it well, Michael.” Noah’s gaze met Michael’s. “I make an oath to Yahweh on my very life.” “Very good. I know you will not fail us.” A deafening thunder shook the heavens, and Noah felt the first drop of rain graze the top of his ear.
In the years following the flood, as Noah’s descendants spread across the land, the secret of the fruit remained with Noah. Before he died, Noah entrusted this knowledge to his sons, Ham, Shem, and Japeth. The three brothers guarded the fruit well, and as they aged, the trio sought a prudent man to entrust with their family’s secret.
But none could be found.
Nimrod thrust his dagger into the stomach of the lion. He had killed the beast not even five minutes ago. The cold months were approaching, and he needed warm hide to cover his massive frame. He slid the dagger down and the blood ran. He pushed his hand into the warm liquid and the copper smell hit is nostrils. He grabbed a chunk of innards and began to gut the lion. As he worked, he thought about Ham, the head of the clan. He was on his deathbed. Maybe he should make the hide into a covering for him? No, he thought. Let the old bastard die.
Nimrod dragged the carcass back to his clan’s camp. He walked in and heard Ham’s faint voice calling for him from within his tent. Nimrod sighed, dropped the lion, and stepped into Ham’s tent. “Yes, my lord.” “Come see, my son.” Ham’s voice was a wheezing whisper. Nimrod eased over to Ham’s bed and knelt beside him. “Take my hand,” Ham demanded. Nimrod reached out and held Ham’s hand. It was cold and slick. The hand of a dying man. “I’m here, my lord.” “Nimrod, my time on this earth is about to expire. I need you to gather my brothers and my sons and daughters.” Nimrod went to release Ham’s hand and obey his orders, but Ham squeezed tighter. “Wait my child. Before I die, there is something I need to tell you. It’s a secret. A secret of grave importance. I’ve held this secret because there has been no one worthy to pass it on to. But you,” Ham coughed and wheezed. “But you are a great warrior, and a great warrior is needed to protect,” Ham’s words were cut short with more coughing.
Nimrod’s brow furrowed in confusion. “My lord, I don’t understand.” “Come closer my child, and I will tell you.” Nimrod leaned in and Ham revealed to him the knowledge of the fruit. Shem and Japeth entered the tent. Shem held a bowl of stew, ready to feed Ham his lunch. “And the fruit is buried in the mountains of Ararat, where Noah built the first altar to Yahweh after the flood.” Shem’s hands grew weak and the bowl of stew fell to the ground with a sloshing thud. “Dear God, Ham. What have you done?” Nimrod smiled over his shoulder at Shem and Japeth, an insidious gleam in his eye. Ham breathed his last breath and his spirit left to join his ancestors in the bosom of Yahweh. Japeth licked his lips and swallowed hard. Cold chills twisted up his spine. “Nimrod…no.” Shem and Japeth knew what kind of man Nimrod was. Ham had always refused to see. Nimrod stood to his feet. “Well, brothers. I think it would be wise of you to tell me where this altar is.” Shem’s wrinkled, old face contorted with anger. “I would rather go to Sheol than tell you where the fruit is buried!” “Very well, “Nimrod nodded. He drew his sword which was attached to his waist. With one fluid motion, he lopped Shem’s head off. A blood rainbow geysered from his neck, decorating the inside of the tent. Shem’s body toppled to the floor and Nimrod turned his attention to Japeth. The old man went down on both knees and shook his head. “I will not tell you either.” “So be it!” Nimrod swung and decapitated Japeth. As his headless body hit the dirt, blood flowed around Nimrod’s feet. Nimrod stepped over the body and poked his head out of the tent. When he was sure no one had heard the commotion, he sneaked out the camp, leaving the lion carcass, and traveled to the mountains of Ararat. Lucifer sat in the shadows, watching the entire scene, a sinister plan stirring in his dark heart.
Enoch approached Yahweh’s throne, his face shrouded in the darkness of his gray, hooded cloak. His body burned with the fire of Yahweh. He drew his sword and knelt before God. “Yes, My Lord.” “The secret of the fruit has been jeopardized.” Enoch lifted his head. “I know. I felt it.” “And Lucifer prowls about.” “Lucifer…” Enoch growled. “Go,” Yahweh commanded. “Release Azazel and the other watchers from prison- Amazarak, Baraqel, and Suriel. They will aid you in your quest.” “It will be as you will,” Enoch said, then rose to his feet to go to Tartarus and release the watchers.
A cool breeze flowed through the mountains. It entered a cave and rolled over the sleeping body of Nimrod, awakening him with a shiver. “I should have kept the lion,” he mumbled to himself. Nimrod sat up to stoke the fire he had built. His eyes detected movement in the corner. Nimrod drew his dagger. As the embers of the fire danced up in the air, he saw a figure in the shadows. The entities eyes glowed orange. Its skin was onyx, with a sapphire breastplate covering its chest. The figure extended charcoal wings with singed feathers, gleaming like the embers of Nimrod’s fire. “Put the blade down, Nimrod,” the being said and stepped out of the shadows. “It won’t do you any good.” It had been years, but Nimrod recognized the creature. “Lucifer?” Lucifer smiled, revealing jagged, opaque teeth which also reflected the dim light of the fire. “Yes. And I’m sure you can guess why I am here.” Nimrod returned his dagger to its sheath. “Oh, I can take a wild guess. The fruit.”
Lucifer gave a slow nod. “I’ve been waiting all these years for Noah and his family to stumble,” Lucifer chuckled. “I always knew it would be Ham.” “What do you want with the fruit, Lucifer, “Nimrod asked, his voice lacking amusement. “To make you like the mighty men of renown. The mighty men of old. The Nephilim. Then you shall devour the fruit, and we shall live forever, and be the rightful rulers of this creation.” Nimrod smirked. “Tell me more, brother.” Plans were made, and Lucifer entered Nimrod. Nimrod’s body twisted and contorted, his features taking on those of Lucifer’s, except his skin remained its olive color. His torso expanded and his limbs elongated. A pair of singed wings emerged from his back. Nimrod grew so large, he had to get on all fours to crawl out the entrance of the cave. “Go,” Nimrod heard a voice in his head saying. “I know where the altar used to be.”
Enoch sank his sword into the rocky ground of the mountain. It split open, and he saw the shimmering of the fruit of the tree of life. His emerald eyes glowed under the darkness of his hood as he glanced over his shoulder at Azazel, Amazarak, Baraqel, and Suriel. “The fruit is still here. We are not too late,” Enoch said Azazel threw off his cloak. His wine-colored scales refracted the light, causing it to sparkle like a gem. Eight tales like a scorpion aligned his back- four on each side running vertically. The tails outstretched like wings, hovering over his body. Powerful reptilian legs supported the frame, and one of its massive arms formed into a blade at the hand. Azazel’s face had been peeled back, revealing bulging eyes and a black skull with the red sinews still attached. He breathed in deep. “He is close,” Azazel turned to the other watchers. “Prepare yourselves.” The other watchers removed their cloaks. They resembled Azazel in appearance except Amazarak was a light blue, Baraqel a golden yellow, and Suriel a deep red. Enoch removed his sword from the rock and stood in front of the watchers. The ground began to shake, as a figure in the distance rumbled towards them. A few moments later, the Lucifer- Nimrod hybrid loomed over them. “Stand aside Enoch. The fruit is mine,” the creature’s voice flowed deep.
Enoch threw his hood back. Black spikes covered his pale head, which was aligned with various tribal markings. His green eyes darkened. “You cannot kill what cannot die.” Enoch bared his teeth and made the first move. Nimrod swung his sword and blocked Enoch’s attack. The blow was so forceful, Enoch flipped in the air and crashed against the side of the mountain. The watchers moved in fast. Their blade arms flailing and connecting with Nimrod’s flesh. Nimrod cried out in anger and pain. While he was preoccupied with Suriel and Baraqel, Azazel was able to slip in behind him. Azazel leaped onto Nimrods back. As he did, he sank all of his scorpion legs into Nimrod’s sides and chest. Amazarack saw his opening and thrust his blade arm into Nimrod’s stomach. Blood flowed from Nimrod’s wounds and his body grew weak. With a show of strength, he brought his sword crashing down on Amazarack’s arm, severing it. Amazarack retreated in pain, and Nimrod removed the blade, then fell to his knees. Azazel released his grasp, and Baraqel kicked Nimrod in the chest, collapsing him to the ground. By this time Enoch was on his feet. He approached Nimrod and stood over him. “As I said,” Enoch raised his sword. “You cannot kill what cannot die.” He brought the blade down like a bolt of lightning into Nimrod’s heart. Nimrod breathed his last, and Lucifer ascended out of him and flew into the heavens. Enoch and the watchers looked on until Lucifer was out of sight. They inspected the fruit one last time, then sealed the crevice. Enoch and the watchers returned to heaven, leaving Nimrod’s body to decay in the mountains.
Shamsiel saw the entire thing. He descended the mountain and stood where Enoch had split the ground. Shamsiel’s head resembled a gigantic, black goat skull with long horns. His black and red feline body gripped a flaming sword in its human hands. His tail, a viper, slithered around his feet. He raised the sword above his head and then slammed it into the rock. The ground split and Shamsiel saw something sparkle. He reached into the crevice and took hold of the fruit. Shamsiel brought the fruit to eye level and inspected it. His grip around it tightened. His voice echoed as he talked. It was a low, guttural voice that rolled like thunder. “It’s not over Lilith. Not at all.”
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