Chris J. Roper BIO Chris J. Roper currently resides in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, where he lives with his wife and two dogs. He's the author of three published short stories and a short story collection and is currently working on a folk horror novel set in the wilds of the Scottish countryside, where he grew up. When not writing, Chris reads, lifts weights, and—occasionally—produces electronic music. WEBSITE LINKS UK Amazon link to my book, Fearful Lands: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearful-Lands-collection-Chris-Roper-ebook/dp/B095N1694R/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=fearful+lands&qid=1625211711&sr=8-1 Link to my Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Chris-Roper/e/B0092FA8BK?ref_=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000 My childhood wasn’t especially happy. My parents divorced when I was nine or ten, and my mother’s new husband was a gruff, overbearing trawlerman with a penchant for Smirnoff. It wasn’t a violent household but it was an angry one, and school wasn’t much better. I’d spend my days avoiding bullies and my evenings doing chores and hoping everyone was in a good mood at home. I spent a lot of time outside, walking our family dog around the woods of our village. Here, alone and bored, I’d invent stories to entertain myself, many of which were inspired by earlier events. I’d always been drawn to horror as a child. My mother loved Stephen King and James Herbert and I longed to read the stories behind their spooky covers. I’d often creep into the living room as my parents watched VHS copies of The Blob (the 1980s version) or Poltergeist. I’d crouch in silence, terrified but unable to look away, fascinated by those grainy scenes of ghosts and gore. I used to suffer night terrors, too. One of my earliest, scariest memories is of my bedroom walls, which were painted cornflower blue. I was in bed, sweating through a fever, when a dark shape appeared from those walls. Years later, my mum said I’d been screaming about someone standing in the corner of the room. The terrors returned years later. I heard an unearthly humming, a swelling brass note that heralded the approach of a supernatural entity. With it, came the symbol of a diamond pulsing from the darkness. I screamed myself awake to find I’d been smashing my Sega Master System to make the sound go away. The night terrors inspired several stories, including two in my published collection, Fearful Lands. I enjoy exploring the fragile membrane between dreams and reality, and what might creep through if it split. Writing about nightmares has helped me cope with them as an adult, too. For example, a scene from Poltergeist II has haunted me for decades. It’s near the end and the Freelings have transcended to the ghost realm. Carol-Ann loses her grip on the family and falls away, her face decomposing while she releases a long, mournful sound, not unlike that in my night terror. I’ve since re-watched the scene and laughed at the CGI. But just this past year, I’ve dreamt of a tower and a girl with white hair and the face of an old woman. The dream fills me with dread but never wakes me up. I wonder whether writing about dreams has galvanized me against them, weakened their power over me. Much of my writing is about threats that manifest in uncanny ways. It’s not always violence that tortures my characters, but the threat of it, of something hidden in the shadows waiting for the right moment to strike. Knowing the strike will come but not knowing when is the essence of great horror, in my opinion. For example, what I hated most about being bullied as a child was the self-blame, the shame of not fighting back. “You’re a coward,” I’d tell myself, day after day, having the strength to fight but lacking the courage. Instead, I chose to live in fear of who was waiting for me by the harbour, the school gates, or the local café. This is one of the reasons I never leave my characters defenseless. Even if it means death, they will fight to their last breath. They are heroes of their stories, whether strong, weak, or dead. Sometimes the only thing they can do is choose when to die, the final “fuck you” when all is lost. Not always do the good guys win, nor should they. Our tormentors help us grow, and horror is a microcosm for cosmological balance. We seldom participate in the “eternal struggle” between light and dark, at least not to any serious degree. Horror, however, allows us to join the battle, vicariously, and live to tell the tale. Fearful Lands: A collection of horror |
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