A Writer’s Path to Horror, When Reality Kicks You in the Ass By Debra K. Every

Here’s the thing. It never occurred to me to write horror. Not even once. Hell, it never occurred to me to be a writer. I was too busy doing…stuff. I had an opera career for a while. Traded bonds for an investment company. Opened a café. You get the picture. 

Don’t get me wrong. I wrote—mostly for myself. Journal entries; half-hearted stabs at a novel; short short stories, just to get things off my chest. But I never submitted anything, anywhere—never once thought it was my path.

Until Aunt Mary blew up.

I put it to you. What would you do if you found yourself living, day to day, trapped in an ever-multiplying array of unexplained incidents that seemed designed to mess with your head? 

Best to start at the beginning. Aunt Mary. She never married, had no kids. There was a time when we were close, like sisters. She introduced me to New York (I’m from Philly), carted me around to Broadway shows, restaurants, museums. We even went to Europe together. And when she got us thrown out of that B&B in Amsterdam (long story), it added to her charm.

That was when I was young. That was when I looked up to my aunt with dewy admiration. Oh please, God. Make me just like Aunt Mary. 

I can’t pinpoint when it changed. I just woke up one day and realized that I annoyed the shit out of her. Small things, big things: my clothes, hair, house. You name it, she hated it. But here’s the thing. I’m Armenian. You never, ever say a cross word to your elders. And you sure as hell don’t abandon them. So, I kept my frustration to myself.

Aunt Mary grew old. Hardly seemed possible, considering how she lived. She was obese. Drank too much, ate all the wrong things, chained smoked, never exercised, took cabs instead of buses, and sat in bed for days on end watching old movies and eating pints of ice cream. My kids figured the only explanation was that she was an alien. But that’s sci-fi, not horror. Oh no. The horror hadn’t begun.

It started when Aunt Mary torched her Manhattan apartment. She’d been smoking in bed, fell asleep, and opened her eyes to flames shooting up the wall behind her. You’d think she was a goner, right? 

Nope. 

She got up, toddled to the kitchen, and filled two glasses with water. She toddled back to her bedroom and dumped the water onto the bed, which was now ablaze. She then went back to the kitchen and did it again. The fire department eventually got there, but it caused so much hubbub outside her building that somebody videoed the chaos and posted it on YouTube.

That was the beginning of our vortex of misery; our rabbit hole of horror. 

The next year was tough—for both of us. Let’s face it. The woman had lost everything. I spent my time sorting out the apartment sale, finding her a place to live (she didn’t want to live with me, thank God), buying clothes, lining up care. And every step of the way, we fought. The relationship got more and more strained. When Aunt Mary wasn’t badgering me, she was poisoning the well at whatever assisted living place I found. I did my best to act as conciliator and by some miracle found a place that accepted her. Until they didn’t. 

It was her smoking—the very thing that was responsible for the apartment fire. Aunt Mary told the interviewer that she had no intention of stopping. The interviewer nodded and smiled and politely finished the interview. The next day I got a call from the administrator rescinding their offer. My aunt was a danger to herself and others.

When that call ended, my screaming began. Pacing, crying, banging my fists on the table. Months of research, juggling finances, sweet-talking administrators, it had all been for nothing. When I was spent, I pulled out my list and began again. I found a place, got through the interview, found the money and Aunt Mary was finally moved to a hard-found living facility…  which lasted eight months. Since Aunt Mary refused physical therapy, they could no longer meet her growing needs. She had to leave. I had just about arranged another place when she got an infection which led to sepsis, and off to the hospital she went.  

My aunt denied medication. She was dying. The doctor said it wouldn’t take more than a day or two. She was moved to a nursing home. Hospice was called in. I spent all my time by her bedside. And then, one day, as I was dozing off, I felt Aunt Mary’s hand touch mine. I woke up to the sight of her, with an odd smile on her face, staring. I suspect that doesn’t sound like much. But believe me. If you’d been there, it would’ve struck you. It was her eyes. 

Against all odds, (Remember…sepsis. No medication) she managed to rally and was up and around in a week. 

Nearly dead once.

The hospital discharged her. She was off to rehab. Aunt Mary stabilized enough for me to take a night off—first night off in a year. My husband had bought tickets to a show in New York. We met up with friends for dinner and then went to the show. The first act was incredible. I had just started to feel human. We went down at intermission for a drink. And then my phone rang. 

It was the rehab center. Aunt Mary had to be moved back to the hospital. She’d taken a turn for the worst and was calling my name. So off we went to the train station.

When we got there, she was in a fever. My kids were called. We gathered around her bed and stayed up all night. In the morning the nurse came, closed the curtain around her bed, and did whatever it is that nurses do. When the curtain was drawn open, Aunt Mary was sitting up, wide-eyed, wearing a grin. “Well, hi everybody. What are you doing here?”

And that was when I knew she was fucking with me. She knew I was in the city and wanted me back. 

And since we’re keeping count—nearly dead twice.

So… back to rehab. Aunt Mary stabilized…until another round of relapse/hospital/death watch. The doctor took me aside again to say it would be any day. I told him he was wrong. He gave me an indulgent smile and shot me a ‘there, there’ with his eyes.

Death watch meant that Aunt Mary got carted back to the nursing home for her last days. 

Which turned into weeks.

And then months.

The administrator told me that my aunt was the miracle of the nursing home. There was no explanation for how she had rallied. Everybody was talking about her.

Nearly dead three times.

And through it all, I was getting haggard, short-tempered, and not a little paranoid.

Which brings us to the coup de gras. The final push over the edge.

It was Tuesday night. I had spent most of the day at the nursing home. Aunt Mary was cranky (who could blame her), but had managed to doze off. I was sitting next to her in the darkened room, nodding off myself. I heard my mother’s voice. (She had died years before. Yes, of course, I was dreaming) I lifted my head toward Aunt Mary’s bed and saw my mother standing by her side, with her hand on Aunt Mary’s forehead. She looked up at me and smiled. 

I woke suddenly, and at that very moment, my aunt woke up as well. She looked at me for a second or two and then said, “What would your mother say?”

And that, my friends, pushed me over the edge.

I got home, turned on my computer, and started writing. It was catharsis—my only way out. The final product was Deena Undone, the story of a woman being tortured by an ancient entity while she cares for her dying aunt. The novel is peppered with true stories, hidden here and there, like jagged nuggets of truth.

The P. S. to this story is that, in my aunt’s last days (yes, they finally happened), we found our way back to each other. What I find ironic is that when I was young, she was a mentor of sorts. As she lay dying, she was responsible for my new life as a writer. 

Go figure.

Deena Undone by Debra K. Every

Deena Undone by Debra K. Every, published by Woodhall Press with a release date of October 8, 2024. Currently available for pre-order.

A terrifying nightmare sets off a series of attacks on Deena Bartlett’s five senses, and her eighty-year-old Aunt Agatha is responsible. But the old woman is not alone. She’s made a monstrous bargain with the Sensu, a malevolent entity who’s stock in trade is attacking a person’s five senses, one by one. It has promised Agatha health in return for one evil act― the killing of her niece.

Deena has remained loyal to her bitter aunt for years― her self-imposed penance for having neglected her now-dead parents. But Agatha is dying and her insults will soon end… until a string of inexplicable incidents. A sound so piercing Deena’s nose bleeds. A smell so vile her breathing suffocates. And against all reason, after each attack her aunt’s health improves. With mounting dread, Deena discovers the bargain her aunt has made and when the Sensu thrusts her into its terrifying realm, she must battle not only the power of her aunt’s long-held secrets but her own guilt as well.

Debra K. Every

Debra K. Every is a self-described adrenalin-fueled writer focused on horror, thrillers, and stories that make the heart beat fast. Her debut novel, Deena Undone, won gold in the 2023 Pitch Week XXIX competition sponsored by When Words Count. It will be published by Woodhall Press with a release date of October 2024. Her short stories have appeared in various literary magazines such as Querencia Press, Unleash Creatives, and Etched Onyx as well as in soon-to-be published anthologies by Fairfield Scribes, Penumbra, and Hippocampus. 

While she has written all her life, Debra comes from a diverse background of opera and business, both of which have informed her work. She lives amongst the rolling hills and pastures of Upstate New York with her husband and quirky cattle dog, Bad Dog Bob where she spends hours in her endless pursuit of one well-written sentence.

Author website: Link to all social media 

https://debrakevery.com/ https://linktr.ee/debrakevery

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