J.B. Shaw is an emerging writer from the Midwest. He has a passion for horror writing and literature in general, and has been published previously on online forums and magazines. Since an early age, he has always been drawn to the horror genre.

By day he is an assistant manager at a manufacturing plant. He lives with his wife and child and passes the time writing, is an avid horror film enthusiast, and enjoys cooking. He is currently working on his first full length novel.

On Horror and Human Nature

The human species is a curious creature, often drawn to things of an enigmatic and dark nature. One such example of this primal inclination is the allure that horror and dark literature hold for
many. From the earliest days of humankind, we have been spellbound by tales that send chills up our spines and leave us with a sense of dread. Like the ancient Greeks, who wrote of gods and monsters, and the enigmatic tales of the Norse, humanity has long been enamored with stories of horror and the unknown.

The works of H.P. Lovecraft, one of the most prominent authors in the realm of horror and dark literature, exemplify this theme of terror and fascination. In his stories, Lovecraft paints a world of incalculable horror, where human knowledge and understanding are but a mere drop in the vast, unknowable ocean of the universe. Characters often find themselves in situations where their own mortality is brought into stark relief and they must confront things beyond their ken.

Yet, unlike much of the literature of the past, Lovecraft’s works delve far beyond the monsters
and gods to explore the facets of horror that are more closely tied to the human psyche. His
characters often find themselves face-to-face with the terrifying unknown and must grapple with the knowledge that they are but a speck in the grand scheme of things. In doing so, they are forced to confront their own mortality and the limits of their understanding of the world.

The primal nature of humanity is such that we are drawn to tales of horror and the unknown.
Our curiosity about the macabre and the alien has always been inherent to us, and the fear it
brings is part of the reason we are so drawn to these kinds of stories. In ancient mythology,
such as that of the Greeks and Norse, these ideas are often explored through stories of gods
and monsters. In modern horror literature, these themes are still present, but they can be seen
in a different light. Through the works of horror writers, we are shown a world where knowledge and understanding are but a pittance in the infinite sea of all of life’s greatest questions. What lies beyond the realm of the living, what nightmares await the farthest reaches of space, and why are we alive? It is this fear of the unknown that holds us in its grip.

Dark literature, such as horror and gothic stories, has been a part of human culture for
centuries, and it has been theorized that our primal nature and curiosity of the unknown create a need for these works. However, it is not always the unknown that can unnerve us. A prime example is the work of Stephen King, who has commented on the human fascination and need for both dark and disturbing images, as well as the fear of our own worst nightmares.

Stephen King has famously written about the human desire for horror and dark literature, stating that “we are all mentally ill; those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better—and maybe not all that much better, after all” (King). This statement implies that humans have an innate curiosity and need to explore the dark side of the world and our own psyches. This is evident in King’s works, which often include themes of supernatural forces and death as well as the exploration of psychological trauma and our own fears.

One of the most common themes in horror stories and in King’s works is the fear of our own
mortality. In Pet Semetary, a novel about a father who attempts to raise his dead son from the
grave, death is a constant presence. Even though the father’s actions are desperate, they are
ultimately futile since he cannot escape the pain and grief of the death of his child. Similarly, in
The Shining, a story about a family whose members are attacked by sinister forces, the ultimate fear is that of family homicide. In both stories, King explores the depths of our darkest fears—the loss of loved ones.

The fear of death and the primal nature of man are also evident in many works of ancient
mythology. One of the most famous examples is that of the Minotaur, a half-man, half-bull
creature from Greek mythology who lived in a labyrinth and killed any intruder. This creature
embodies our fear of the familiar, such as a beast that could prey upon humans, and of death, a fear that has been present in human culture since ancient times. Truly, death has always been the prime factor in terms of inciting the horror reaction within our psyches. With pain and terror comes the very thing we, by nature, avoid at all costs, which is, of course, dying. Our instincts are no different than those of early man; we simply have the ability to explore those instincts on a much grander scale in the modern age through literature and cinema.

In conclusion, dark literature has been a part of human culture for centuries, and horror writers
and readers alike have commented on the human fascination and need for both dark and
disturbing images, as well as the fear of our own worst nightmares. Examples of these fears can be found in almost every aspect of the horror genre. It is clear that our primal nature and
curiosity about the unknown create a need for stories of horror and darkness. One simply needs to remember to turn on the light once our temporary thirst for terror has been slaked and return to our daily lives. But always remember, we are no different than the cave dwellers of eons past, crouched close to the light of our fires, remaining vigilant and just out of death’s icy reach.

The Devil Atop His Tower

‘The nature of lies is a vicious cycle that is hard to break’ Stephen thought this as he ushered
the new family in, methodically waving his hand through the air as he explained the woodwork
and ornately carved staircase. He straightened his tie and opened the large French doors that
separated the living room from the massive kitchen and dining area. The familiar gasps of the
prospective clients was like music to his ears.

This particular abode he was selling had been sold many times before. The century-old Queen
Anne house stood tall on the outskirts of town, overlooking the surrounding countryside. Even
from a distance, its grandeur was unmistakable. Every window winked in the sunlight with its
vibrant stained glass, and each dormer jutted from the roof of the sprawling architecture with a mischievous glint in its eye. But none of those touches could quite compare to the grotesque bronze statue that writhed around the highest tower, a demonic figure gripping the ornate spire with its vicious claws.

The twisted bronze figure seemed like an omen of things to come, a warning of what lay beyond the neat little picket fence and white trimmings of the Queen Anne. The sleepy town of Bedford hadn’t experienced anything particularly dark or deadly in recent memory, but occasionally someone—usually a child or an elderly villager—would tell visitors a strange tale and cast a suspicious eye toward the looming tower of the house.

Even when the winds of winter howled around the country manor, the inky eyes of the demon
stared out across the landscape like an unblinking sentinel, regardless of the time or the
season. As though it were mercilessly keeping watch over the house and any visitors who might pass through. Townspeople had begun to tell tales of superstition and dread when the mournful figure had taken up residence on one of the towers decades ago, and whispered warnings were passed around like gossamer threads of fear throughout time until it had become one with the local folklore. Its origin and true nature unknown, it simply was and had always been.

But nestled amid the shadows of the demonic figure and its ominous tower, the warm and
inviting living spaces created an atmosphere of homeliness. Years of devoted care had gone
into maintaining the interior of the house, and it seemed almost wrong to let an unsettling sculpture be the first thing that most outsiders thought of when they arrived. It was a charming Queen Anne with a secret, and despite the warnings, many were happy to call it their own.

Built during the Victorian era, it was a wonderful display of architecture in an otherwise barren
landscape of Midwest drivel. Its majestic turret-style towers and noble archways put all other
homes to shame. The modernized homes that were its neighbors sported the ugliness of
industrialization. The sidings of these homes were made with plastic, and the wood was made
of shredded timber and glue. While the Demon Tower, as it was named, stood natural and
pristine, seeming to laugh at the others. It was no feeble ranch house with a detached garage. It wasn’t a two-story bungalow with stucco siding. It was natural; it was made with love. And it
showed sophistication.

But the one peculiar aspect of it—the statue, which was the reason for its less than stellar
nickname—was indeed an eyesore. However, a home in such good condition being offered for
a bargain price couldn’t be passed up. Stephen knew this well, and he ensured the rest of the
tour showed only the finer things. He left out the small patched hole in the ceiling of the master bedroom, where a former tenant had shot themselves through the mouth. Or the tree in the backyard, where another tenant had hung themselves. Those memories were in the past, and one might even say it was something the house itself easily forgot as the seasons changed. Like the statue, one did well to simply look forward and never behind them.

The new owners were from out of town, and they couldn’t believe their luck. To get such an
amazing deal on a house as well crafted and taken care of as this, it was obviously a sign that
they were meant to buy the home. While they signed the last papers to seal the deal, they were suddenly alarmed by cries coming from the front porch. The new tenant’s daughter, old enough to be outside by herself but young enough to not be taken seriously, had begun crying and was inconsolable by the time her parents rushed out the door. They brought her inside, and after a gentle amount of consoling, the little girl told them what she saw.

“The demon on the roof hissed at me! It made a mean face!” she cried. Taken aback, the wife
and husband looked at one another, concerned. But Stephen was quick to offer an explanation.

“Oh, I am so sorry. That thing makes noise when the wind picks up. It’s rather old,” he said
dismissively.

It was quickly decided that the devil needed to go. Seeking workers in the surrounding area that would agree to the job, however, turned into a job in and of itself. Many refused outright,
claiming the house was cursed. Others wouldn’t bother returning their calls, and they found
themselves in a bit of a predicament. Had they known the house had such a sordid past, they
might have changed their minds upon purchasing it, but seeing as they had already moved in
and paid in full, they were at a loss. Each day the daughter would complain about the statue,
and each time she would get more distraught. Simply leaving the statue where it was didn’t
appear to be an option, despite the husband’s insistence on leaving it alone.

They finally contracted a handyman to do the job from out of state. While it didn’t make sense to the worker why they couldn’t just hire someone closer and pay a far less exorbitant price for
such a simple job, he was convinced the homeowners were simply inexperienced. Although the roof was treacherous and its incline steep and uninviting, he figured it would be quick and easy. After all, it wasn’t his fault the owners were shmucks. One man’s ignorance is another man’s pay day.

Coming to the job site and quickly placing his ladder, he began the steep climb and nailed
stepping pieces along the roof of the tower as he went. Finally, making it atop the tower next to the statue, he fired up his hacksaw. Before the blade could touch the beast’s metal skin,
however, the power was suddenly cut. Looking down at the family, he yelled angrily.

“Why’d you unplug me?”

But nobody had done such a thing. The wife could see the cord was still connected to the outlet just inside the porch and entryway, and she shrugged her shoulders at him in annoyance while shaking her head. The daughter was atop the husband’s shoulders, and they were all watching intently.

“Hang on, let’s see if a breaker was flipped,” the husband stated as he sat his daughter down
and walked inside.

Then, the sound of hissing and a low growl emanating from the statue suddenly erupted,
causing the worker to shift away in surprise.

As he shifted, a piece of wood he had nailed down as a stepping piece gave way, bringing a
large piece of the rotten roof with it. The man fell quickly to the stone patio below as the wife
and daughter looked on in horror. Falling headfirst, his skull erupted like a watermelon thrown
from a catapult and coated the lawn with pink and gray.

The worker’s family was furious, as would be expected. After a lengthy court battle, the blame
was placed on the family, and they were ordered to pay a hefty sum in a wrongful death suit.
Left destitute, the family had no choice but to sell the home.

And so it was: the family hired the same realtor that had sold them the house months before. He was to sell the home to another family that was not familiar with the area. The new tenant
should be from out of town, and the house’s reputation should remain cloudy. They feared the
accidental death would affect the price.

After handing the key back over, the family piled into the moving truck and sped off before their daughter went into hysterics over the statue one final time. Standing in the empty yard, Stephen turned and looked at the house he had sold so many times before. The usual feelings of guilt and remorse took hold. As he pondered why and how he had gotten into such a predicament, a notification on his phone sounded. Looking at his phone screen, he wondered if he could ever shed the statue and the vicious cycle he had been sucked into. The numbers of his share of the sale stared back at him from the screen, a deposit into his bank account, and the screen went dark as he failed to interact with it.

In the reflection, the Devil sat atop its tower, his snarl transforming into a ghoulish smile. It
shone in the sun, blinding and horrid.