Meet Frank Torrent- The Mind Behind Pale Shell

Meet Frank Torrent- The Mind Behind Pale Shell

Please tell the readers a little bit about yourself.

My name is Frank Torrent. I’m the author of Pale Shell, a horror novel about a captured pagan monk forced to endure the bleak terrors of dungeon life. It’s the first piece of fiction I’ve released, and I’m hoping it finds readers who appreciate the strange, shadowy worlds I’ve imagined.

For most of my life, I’ve worked labor-intensive jobs and spent a great deal of time on the water. My writing has taken shape in the spaces I’ve carved out between those long hours. Though I’ve been at it for a long time, writing has never been a professional career for me, but it’s always been a lifeline.

Throughout my time and travel at sea, when the water felt endless or the world revealed itself in sudden beauty, heartbreak, or something worse, books and writing have always been there for me. In many ways, publishing now feels like stepping onto dry land for the first time. After years spent beneath unfamiliar stars, with a book always tucked close, I’m finally releasing one of my own—hoping that maybe it will be carried by someone else along their life’s journey.

Which one of your characters would you least like to meet in real life?

Without question, the character I’d least like to meet in real life is The One Who Wields Stone. Of all the figures trapped in the dungeon, he’s the one who has shed the most of what makes him human yet hasn’t fully crossed into something inhuman. He exists in violence beyond compassion and hesitation, with a cold, mechanical certainty to the way he moves. A kind of grim inevitability. He’s a juggernaut, the embodiment of raw survival stripped of conscience.

There’s the sense that he has become something else shaped and sharpened by the slow corrosion of captivity. He isn’t a monster in the traditional sense. He is what remains when time, confinement, and threat converge to forge a living weapon.

The dungeon holds many horrors, some physical, others psychological, but he has always represented a very specific kind of terror for me. He is the fear of being imprisoned beside someone so volatile, so unpredictable, that your own self-preservation becomes your only occupation. He is the kind of presence that alters the air, that shifts the weight of a room simply by existing. He carries his stone like an extension of his will, and he is always ready to swing it without reason and without warning.

Which of your characters is your favourite?

Another of the monk’s cellmates, Trost, is a particularly compelling character. He’s not a “good” man by any stretch, but he’s complex—and that complexity makes him fascinating to write. He also represents something with a primal shade but more so like an intelligent animal who’s come to understand a truth about life that most people instinctively avoid. He’s gained his wisdom not through study or reflection but through sheer, brutal experience. In that way, he stands in stark contrast to the monk, who approaches the world through faith, philosophy, and internal questioning.

When I write characters, I always try to imagine them as fully realized people. This is similar to the concept of sonder—the idea that everyone you pass, no matter how briefly, has a life as vivid and intricate as your own. That belief helps me treat each character as if they’ve lived long before the story begins and will continue long after it ends.

Trost is especially interesting in that regard. His past is steeped in the violence and survival of a warrior’s life, a worldview shaped by blood and rot. His present, however, is something far different. An immense trial of the soul, though he’d likely never call it that himself. As for his future… well, that’s something I’d rather not speak of just yet. You’ll have to read to find out.

What makes him fun to write is his unflinching outlook. There’s no sentimentality in him, no illusions. He moves through the world pragmatically, and every time I write him, it’s a bit like stepping into a pair of worn boots. Heavy and worn ones suited for trudging through the worst of circumstances. His way of thinking is direct, even brutal, but it’s consistent, and that consistency makes him both dangerous and strangely admirable in his own way.

Which of your books best represents you?

I currently only have one released. It is very much the beginning of my journey. I have many more planned, some partially written, but this one, Pale Shell, has really been a practice of not holding much back. I wanted to dig into the dark corners of myself and see what I could come up with. While I wouldn’t say it totally represents me, it’s certainly a portion of myself. Bleeding on the page, as they say.

In many ways, Pale Shell reflects a blend of my interests in horror, history, and theology. I’ve always been fascinated by how civilizations, throughout time, have sought to explain the unexplainable—and how those explanations have shaped culture, belief, and power. There’s a deep anthropological intrigue in how spiritual ideas have been woven into political systems and societal structures, sometimes with troubling consequences, and those are present in the book.

“Captivating from the very beginning. Vivid imagery through the writing has you feeling like you are sitting in the middle of movie theater. Can’t wait for the next in the series!“

When I was very young, concepts like heaven and hell were presented to me as real places, spoken of with the same certainty as any physical location. That imagery left a lasting impression. While I no longer consider myself religious, those early ideas have stayed with me and continue to influence how I approach certain themes in my writing. In my stories, such places are treated not just as symbols but as vivid realities because that’s how they first lived in my imagination.

Other than the horror genre, what else has significantly influenced your writing?

Art and film have always been major influences on me. I’m a huge admirer of Ingmar Bergman, especially the quiet, bleak atmospheres he creates in collaboration with his longtime cinematographer, Sven Nykvist. Even The Tenant, which Nykvist worked on, carries that same haunting visual language. The man was a genius. I’m also drawn to older films like Onibaba and Woman in the Dunes, works that linger in the mind long after they end.

In the world of visual art, Francis Bacon and Zdzisław Beksiński have been deeply influential. Their works evoke a visceral, almost existential horror that I find compelling. Caravaggio’s use of shadow and violence, George Bellows’ raw physicality, and the surreal, fragmented photography of Ralph Gibson. All of them feel like flint sparks. They’re not necessarily templates I follow but rather touchstones of ambition. Artists who’ve reached into something dark and honest and pulled it into form.

Outside of horror literature, I’m drawn to writers who explore stark, unsettling moments with a kind of quiet restraint. Stories like Bartleby, the Scrivener, The Minister’s Black Veil, or the somber passages in W. G. Sebald’s work, they all tap into a subdued terror, the kind that festers inside the human condition. It’s a certain goal I’m always trying to reach, something bleak and beautiful at once.

The classics have also shaped me. I’m a devoted fan of Crime and Punishment, there and with moments in Dickens that carry real emotional weight have left their mark on me. The existential dread buried in Greek mythology also plays a role in what I write.

In the case of Pale Shell, the spark came after reading Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy—a piece of prison literature written while he awaited execution. That framework of confronting suffering and the collapse of one’s world while in captivity fascinated me. I wanted to explore what that would feel like, not just the philosophical reveries but the raw, experiential torment of being stripped of one’s humanity. Of being reduced to something opposite of life. To become… nothing.

Philosophy is a major influence on this book, particularly ontological dread, the fear surrounding what is and what isn’t. Since reality ultimately exists only within the fragile bounds of perception, I kept asking myself: What kind of nightmare could unfold if that perception were shattered?

The term horror, especially when applied to fiction, always has such heavy connotations. What’s your feeling on the term “horror”, and what do you think we can do to break past these assumptions?

When I think of “horror,” my mind immediately goes to the old foundations. Dracula, Frankenstein, The Invisible Man, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. These stories weren’t just about monsters, they were born out of real social tensions. Take Robert Louis Stevenson’s work, for instance. It emerged in a time marked by emotional repression and a tendency to avoid uncomfortable truths. We don’t witness the most terrible acts in Jekyll and Hyde directly; instead, Stevenson compels the reader to fill in the darkness with their own imagination. That psychological invitation is powerful.

More modern, however, I know some will think immediately, blood and guts, with a story that is secondary, and I can see how this happens. I remember when the Texas Chainsaw Massacre came out, a friend of mine described it as something almost taboo. It had to be seen. The gore. There’s nothing wrong with seeking out the impactful moments that horror can offer, but there’s also an element of the genre being observed and consumed, the media saturation, that has changed it itself.

There’s a danger of horror becoming spectacle over substance, reduced to shock value, dismissed as pulp rather than seen as a serious vehicle for storytelling. But I also believe horror resonates most when it taps into something deeper, when it holds a mirror to humanity. I believe it can—and should—return to that space.

At its best, horror doesn’t just aim to frighten—it reveals, confronts, and distills the uncomfortable truths about the world we live in. It has the power to explore what society avoids, to give shape to fear, grief, alienation, and the quiet tensions of life. If we refocus horror on the issues that truly trouble us, I think it can reclaim its place as not just an approachable genre but a lens for meaningful, even beautiful, storytelling.

Should horror be political?

I think horror has immense potential to be political, and it can do so without slipping into satire or didacticism. That said, I don’t believe horror has to be political. One of the strengths of the genre is its flexibility. It can be anything. For many readers, horror is an escape, a reflection, or a confrontation, and sometimes it’s all three at once. Imposing any rigid expectation would limit what makes it so compelling.

But when a horror story chooses to be political, when it’s crafted with that intention, obvious or otherwise, it can be a powerful tool. There’s so much to draw from in the world around us. We’ve not entered any new Pax Romana. If anything, we’re living in a time where horror feels more like realism. Horror, when used deliberately, can give voice to those fears. So no, horror doesn’t have to be political. I know that in some cases, it can be offputting to the reader if they’re seeking an element of escapism. But if it chooses to be—it’s more than capable.

Why do you think so many people enjoy horror?

I think there’s a kind of rebellious thread running through horror. It’s improper. It’s not polite. Horror allows us to lean into discomfort, to let our imaginations wander into places we’re often told to avoid. It taps into that childhood sense of wonder, when the world felt uncertain, when the rules weren’t fully written yet, and anything could be waiting in the dark. There’s something intoxicating about that feeling, like stepping into some sort of paracosm.

At the same time, I think horror makes people feel more human. There’s a primal awareness buried in us, leftover from the days when we lived as wild animals. When the dark was dangerous, when being exposed made us vulnerable. That evolutionary fear still lingers dormant in our DNA, and horror has a way of unlocking it. It’s like flipping a switch in the brain, lighting up areas that don’t get much use in daily life.

When I find something that truly unnerves me, there’s almost a sort of dopamine kick. A moment of brilliant and terrible awe. It’s like stumbling upon a gem that sits just outside the boundaries of the known world. And I think others feel that, too. When something resonates that deeply, it draws people together in a really neat way. Like any rare and precious thing, those shared moments can create a strong sense of community. One built not just around the stories themselves but around the very experience of seeking out what lies just beyond the edge.

What, if anything, is currently missing from the horror genre?

I think there’s a rich, largely untapped potential in historical horror. Particularly stories set in eras and cultures we rarely explore through a horror lens. While there’s been a growing interest in medieval horror, I’d love to see us go even further back. Imagine a horror story set during the time of the gladiators or a psychological nightmare unfolding within the Ottoman Empire. History is filled with fear, superstition, and brutality. It’s fertile ground for the genre.

I recently traveled through the old Nevşehir Province and visited an underground city carved into the earth. Naturally, the logical explanation is that it was built for protection, but I couldn’t help but wonder: protection from what? What kind of force would be so oppressive, so relentless, that it would drive an entire community to live beneath the ground, forsaking the sun and sky? That kind of historical mystery is the perfect seed for horror.

The world is full of ancient, unexplained wonders. Structures, artifacts, and traditions that hold eerie possibilities. If more horror writers approached history with the same passion that fantasy writers do, I think we could unlock whole new dimensions of the genre. The source material is practically endless. I think there’s nothing quite like the weight of ancient horror. The sense that whatever is haunting the present has been waiting in the dark for centuries, and even further, how did these origins come about?

Maybe it’s time we all dig through the archives a little more. History has served fantasy well—it might just be horror’s turn.

What new and upcoming authors should we take notice of?

To be honest, I tend to live in the past when it comes to literature. I’ve always gravitated toward older works. Those with a certain weight, a slow burn, or a philosophical depth that can be hard to find in more fast-paced modern storytelling. There are just so many books from the past that I’ve yet to read, so much I’m still discovering, (heck, I just recently discovered Gene Wolfe) that I’ve never felt particularly “current” with what’s new. That said, I do try to keep an eye out for voices that leave an impression.

One of the more recent authors I’ve come to admire is Christopher Buehlman. I know he’s not exactly up-and-coming anymore, but his work strikes a rare balance between literary elegance and visceral horror. His prose has teeth, but it also has soul, which is something I deeply respect.

I also came across Shane Stadler’s Exoskeleton not too long ago, and that one hit hard. It was raw and intense, very extreme in a way that stuck with me. There’s something admirable about a writer who’s willing to push boundaries without losing control of the story.

One of the beautiful things about horror, especially now, is how much it’s expanding. There are so many independent and self-published authors producing bold, original work. I’ve found them in the local section of bookstores and, more recently, online while dipping into this independent publishing realm. Some of the most daring horror isn’t on bestseller lists; it’s buried in small presses, niche forums, or whispered about in tight-knit communities. I’ve been meaning to dig deeper into those spaces because I suspect that’s where the next truly unique voices are coming from.

So, while I might not have a long list of names to offer, I believe there’s a quiet revolution in horror fiction driven by writers. I look forward to finding them, but I am always open to recommendations.

And who would be on your Mount Rushmore of horror?

Richard Matheson, Mary Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe, Cormac McCarthy—with honorable mentions to Christopher Buehlman, Scott Smith, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Shelley and Poe have been with me since childhood. I started reading them around age four, and their work made a deep impression on me, especially during that early stage when the imagination was so boundless. Their stories felt like secret passages, haunting and exhilarating. The really wonderful thing about them is that their writing hasn’t aged either in my growth or in time’s passing. I still enjoy returning to their work from time to time.

In college, I discovered Richard Matheson. Hunted Past Reason was intense and claustrophobic while still being in an open forest, but I Am Legend absolutely floored me. It was one of those rare books that felt both intimate and apocalyptic, stripped down to the most human dimensions of fear. The vampires calling out his name was incredible. (Don’t even get me started on the film adaptation, it is the bane of my existence.)

Cormac McCarthy might not be traditionally labeled a horror writer, but the horror in his work is undeniable. The imagery he conjures, especially in Blood Meridian, The Road, and Child of God, has burned itself into my mind more vividly than many books explicitly branded as horror. There’s a quiet, biblical violence to his writing, a sense of dread and inevitability that feels mythic and deeply unsettling.

As for the honorable mentions, I was gifted Buehlman’s Between Two Fires a few years ago and read it in two days. I couldn’t stop. Scott Smith’s work struck me in a similar way. I only wish there were more from him. And then there’s Robert Louis Stevenson. I’ve always loved the story of him writing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in a fevered state, tearing it up, and rewriting it blindly. I tried this once in the delirium of a covid fever. It did not yield the same results, but I admire his creative urge all the same.

It’s a whole mountain, we can carve more faces into it, right?

Are there any reviews of your work, positive or negative, that have stayed with you?

One review really stood out to me. It was so kind and thoughtful. As a new writer, it was really meaningful to see that my work connected with someone.

“Frank Torrent writes with such beautiful prose it is like music for the eyes. His writing is so full of haunting, descriptive words that meld into one another like a somber symphony. Pale Shell is Part One, Book One of a larger work of fiction that Torrent will continue to build upon. I received a free copy for which I thank Mr. Torrent, Pavor Art House publishing and Amazon. I also noticed that the cover was designed by Mr. Torrent. He seems to be a talented individual. I will anxiously wait for further installments of Pale Shell. The first 82 pages have me hooked.”

What aspects of writing do you find the most difficult?

Letting go of certain passages. Killing my darlings has always been one of the hardest parts for me. I’m getting better at it, but there’s still that moment of hesitation before hitting delete. With Pale Shell, I took a pretty heavy axe to the manuscript. It was necessary but not easy.

My process usually involves overwriting first. I pour everything onto the page, explore every angle, every tangent, and then I go back and carve it down. I try to find the true shape of the story buried beneath all the extra. It’s a bit like sculpting from a block of excess. Some parts string together naturally, others fight to stay. Sometimes there’s a line or a paragraph I really love, something that might even be well written on its own, but it just doesn’t belong.

I’ve started keeping a separate file for those moments. A little graveyard of “killed darlings,” not erased, just tucked away. It’s a small comfort to know they still exist somewhere, even if they never see the light of day. Maybe it’s sentimental, but it makes the cutting feel less like a loss and more like a necessary offering to the story.

Ultimately, I’ve learned that discipline in editing is just as important as inspiration in writing. The difficult choices often lead to a stronger, more focused piece, and the story always comes first.

Does writing energize or exhaust you?

Both. And while I’d love to say it’s mostly energizing, the truth leans more toward exhaustion. Writing often feels like pouring my entire brain onto the page for hours at a time. When I’m deep in it, I can go eight to ten hours without noticing how much time has passed. And by the end of it, I’m often drained. Not just mentally but physically, too. It’s a strange kind of fatigue that comes from digging and trying to shape thoughts into something coherent and meaningful.

The odd thing is that every morning I wake up ready to do it all over again. Somehow, the well refills overnight. It’s like a strange dance between depletion and renewal. The exhaustion is real, but so is the drive. There’s something undeniably energizing about knowing you’re building something, sentence by sentence, even if it costs you.

Writing wears me out, but in the same way that anything meaningful does. It’s labor, but it’s passionate labor. And there’s no other kind of exhaustion I’d rather live with.

What’s your best advice for new authors about social media?

Honestly, I’m probably not the best person to ask. I’m not much of a social media person myself. I’m an old soul who misses landlines, quiet evenings, and a world that wasn’t always buzzing in my pocket. Although, I recognize that in today’s world, having some kind of online presence seems to be part of the job, whether we like it or not.

My advice? Don’t approach social media like it’s a popularity contest. Don’t obsess over follower counts or algorithms. Instead, focus on authenticity. Try to reach the kind of people your book is meant for. Those who resonate with your tone, your themes, your world. It doesn’t have to be flashy or performative. If your work is honest and well-crafted, it will find its way to the right readers. You don’t need to be everywhere. Social media is just a bridge, not the destination.

How do you balance making demands on the reader with taking care of the reader?

I always aim to make what I write enjoyable, even when the content is unsettling, bleak, or challenging. I want the reader to feel immersed, not burdened. It’s never my intention to make the reader work so hard to decode meaning that it becomes irritating. I’ve read books like that, where the structure or symbolism is so dense it becomes a puzzle rather than a narrative, and while they can be rewarding in their own way, that’s not the kind of experience I want to offer.

There may be moments in my writing where the thread of reality frays a little, and the reader has to question what’s solid and what isn’t, but I always try to make those moments interesting, not alienating. I do believe in presenting a challenge now and then, especially when it serves the emotional or philosophical weight of the story. But I make sure that every challenge has a purpose and that it pays off.

In that sense, I try to take care of the reader by respecting their time and their trust. If they’ve chosen to walk into the dark with me, I owe them something worth finding in the shadows.

Writing is not a static process; how have you developed as a writer?

When I write, I don’t approach it like solving a problem. A younger me would think more about what the best idea for a book would be rather than starting with something interesting and exploring it. Now, I rarely know where it’s going to lead, and that uncertainty is part of what draws me in. I’m just trying to get close to whatever it is I’m circling.

That instinct of being afraid of the blank page is totally gone, and I’ve learned to linger in the uncertainty and play with it. I think what’s helped the most is keeping my notes categorized. If something pops into my head, I have a place for it, and over time, the notes start to speak to each other, and I can move them around like puzzle pieces. A line I scribbled months ago might suddenly click with something new I’ve written. It’s all connected, even when it doesn’t seem like it at first.

I’ve learned that writing isn’t about demonstrating mastery. It’s about chasing meaning, following intuition, and finding resonance in unlikely places. And when everything clicks, when all the strange pieces fall into place, there’s a quiet thrill, like I’ve uncovered something true. If I can shape that truth into something that stirs something in someone else, that’s the goal.

Of course, I’ve failed. Repeatedly. And I’ve learned a lot through those failures. But, as a painter paints, a writer must write. I’ve learned to trust the mess and let it breathe. That’s the core of it. The process is everything. And the more I lean into that, the more I grow—not by force, but by simply returning to the page. It’s a very disciplined practice to me.

What’s the most surprising thing you learned while writing your books?

One of the most unexpected things that surfaced during the writing process was how deeply the concept of epistemology (how we know what we know) began to shape my thinking. I found myself drawn to the idea that true knowledge may be fundamentally unreachable and that our drive to seek meaning or truth can sometimes become a trap of our own making. This tension—the awareness that we’re searching for certainty in a world that may not offer it—started to bleed into my work in ways I didn’t anticipate.

But just as surprisingly, something outside the writing itself also began feeding into the creative process. A lingering curiosity led me to explore my family’s ancestry, and in doing so, I uncovered a connection to English high blood. That discovery sent me down a rabbit hole of genealogical research.

While I’ve studied ancient and medieval history in academic contexts, this personal link anchored me to the past in a much more intimate way. I began to imagine the lives of those distant ancestors and the values they held, the pressures they faced, and the volatility of the world they lived in. Life was brutally short in the Middle Ages and often violently unpredictable. People could be tortured, executed, or disappeared for little more than defiance or even misinterpretation. The methods of punishment, both mental and physical, were often as creative as they were horrifying.

That volatile and unforgiving atmosphere became a kind of spiritual blueprint for some of what I’ve written in Pale Shell. It gave a new dimension to the suffering and instability I was already interested in exploring and helped ground the fictional horrors I created in a very real human history.

What does literary success look like to you?

Literary success isn’t about fame or bestseller lists to me. It’s about sustainability. If I can one day reach a point where writing alone is enough to support my life, where I can wake up each day and dedicate myself fully to the work—writing what I want to write on my own terms—that would be success. To create freely and have that creation be enough to live on, that’s the dream.

It’s an incredibly difficult balance to strike. Making a living through traditional means while holding onto the ambition of becoming a serious writer is a constant push and pull. Bills don’t wait, and time has a way of slipping through fingers. You give your energy to survive, and then try to find whatever scraps are left to create. It can be exhausting, mentally and practically.

So for me, success looks like freedom. The freedom to fully commit to the craft without compromise. To write deeply, honestly, and without distraction. If I can reach that place, even modestly, I’ll consider myself very fortunate.

What is the best piece of advice you ever received regarding your writing?

“Keep writing.” It sounds simple, but it stuck with me.

I was in my early twenties, studying writing and literature, fully aware that I wanted to be a writer, but that realization came with immense pressure. I had no interest in a conventional career, no desire to take on an office job or pursue anything that might dilute the edge I felt was necessary to create quality work. But at the same time, the uncertainty was overwhelming. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I needed to write.

One of my professors must have seen that conflict in me. Instead of offering some false praise or pushing me toward a safer path, she simply said, “Keep writing.” It was a gentle encouragement, not a promise that success was guaranteed, and not even a suggestion that what I was writing at the time was particularly good, but as a kind of affirmation: there’s something there. Nurture it.

That moment gave me permission to trust myself. It’s the kind of advice I think every young writer needs to hear. Not to expect lightning to strike but to keep building the fire anyway. Writing isn’t about waiting for someone to tell you you’re good. It’s about continuing to write until your voice sharpens, deepens, and becomes undeniable.

Do you have a favourite line or passage from your work, and would you like to share it with us?

I tend to gravitate toward the smaller, more poetic moments in my writing. The lines that are compact but visually striking. Those are the parts I enjoy writing the most. I’m especially drawn to imagery that feels dreamlike or, more accurately, nightmarish. That strange clarity nightmares can have, where every detail is hyper-real, and yet nothing makes sense. That’s the feeling I try to capture. A kind of surreal vividness. Moments where the ordinary turns slightly wrong and slips into the uncanny.

“Two looming silhouettes moved along the shadow figures frolicking on the wall with an awful becoming, their shapes as if sketched upon a mythic tomb coming to life. The darkman and the one who wielded stone. Both glided among the clawing bodies and the curl of grasping hands that groped the air, moving as if silence were their native tongue.”

Can you tell us about your last book, and can you tell us about what you are working on next?

My most recent book is Pale Shell, the first part of a planned trilogy. It’s a bleak, atmospheric piece rooted in historical and religious horror. It follows the story of a captured pagan monk forced to endure the psychological and physical torments of dungeon life. The book explores themes of suffering, faith, identity, and the loss of humanity under extreme conditions. While this first installment is now complete and out in the world, I’m looking forward to releasing the rest of it.

The next two parts in the series are already mostly written, though they need some refining. I’m working on them as time allows. Like many writers, I still have to hold down a day job to keep the lights on, which slows the process but hasn’t dulled the ambition. Once the trilogy is fully released, I have several sequels and companion pieces planned that continue the themes and expand the world.

Beyond Pale Shell, I’ve also been quietly working on two other standalone novels that fall more into the realm of science fiction horror. I’ve returned to these long-gestating projects over the years, slowly shaping them into something stranger and more expansive than I’ve done before.

There’s a lot on the horizon. I’m always writing when I can, always building, and I hope to share more soon.

If you could erase one horror cliché, what would be your choice?

If I could erase one thing, it would be the rigid formula that so many horror stories fall into. The predictable rise and fall, the recycled beats, the same setups leading to the same payoffs. There’s often a sense that horror has to follow a specific pattern: introduce the threat, isolate the characters, ramp up the body count, twist, end. And while there’s nothing wrong with structure itself, leaning too heavily on formula can strip the genre of the unexpected, which is a powerful quality.

When horror becomes a checklist, it becomes sterile. It starts to feel like a product, not art. I think this often comes from a desire to meet market expectations. Forget the urge to fit the mold. Forget the algorithm. And forget the wallets or trends. If horror is something you care about, let the story shape itself. Let it be strange. Let it be slow. Let it break the rules. That’s where the real power lies. Not in the formula but in the fracture.

If your partner was going to leave you for another author, which author would you like them to end up with and why?

This is a curious thing.

But knowing my partner, I’d have to say probably Boris Vian. There’s something about him that absolutely fascinates her. Not just the work, though Froth on the Daydream is her favorite, but the man himself. Vian was a whirlwind. A surrealist, a jazz trumpeter, a writer, a critic, an engineer, a poet, a provocateur. It was almost as if he was chasing some kind of truth through every available form.

His creative output enamors her. I think she admires how fearlessly he moved through life. He didn’t compartmentalize his art. It all bled together. His surrealism, his satire, his politics, his love of jazz. He was a man who burned brightly, left behind a strange and beautiful body of work, and died far too young. There’s a kind of melancholic urgency in that, like he knew time wasn’t going to allow him the luxury of slowing down.

She wants to learn French just to read him in his original voice. It’s not a casual idea, either. She already speaks three languages fluently, so I have no doubt she’ll get there. And maybe in learning his language and hearing the rhythms and nuances of Vian’s words as he intended them, she’ll get a little closer to him. But I’m happy to report that we have a very loving relationship and there are no plans to leave one another under any circumstance that either of us can imagine.

What’s the one question you wish you would get asked but never do? And what would be the answer?

Truthfully, I appreciate the absence of questions. Maybe it’s because I’m still new to stepping out from behind the curtain, but I find a certain peace in the silence. I’m not drawn to the spotlight, and I have no desire to play the showman. The work should speak for itself. It can and should exist independently of me.

I’m a quiet man. I enjoy quiet things. Stillness, reflection, nature, the slow rhythm of a day spent writing or reading without interruption. Standing on a shore or ascending a cliffside. Those are the moments I value most. I don’t feel the need to be constantly seen or heard. So when the world offers me a little space, I’m grateful for it.

But if someone were to ask a question, I think I’d want it to be something simple. Something human. Like, How was your day? Not because it’s profound but because it cuts through the performance of being a writer, an artist, a persona. It acknowledges the person behind the pages for being a person.

And if they asked, I’d like to answer: It’s been good. Quiet, maybe. Uneventful. But good. Because there’s a kind of grace in the ordinary. In being allowed to create without spectacle. In being left to do the work. Not because someone is watching, but because it matters to you.

Pale Shell: Book One: Part by Frank Torrent

In the black heart of a seventh-century dungeon, a nameless monk stands witness to an endless night. Branded a heretic, he is plunged into a waking nightmare of imprisonment that spills with visions so vivid they fray the edges between madness and truth.

Within this crucible of silence and despair, haunting memories whisper of betrayal, lost love, and an inevitable ruthless fate — illuminating the hidden corridors of the monk’s inner empire. With every passing moment, he grapples with unsettling philosophical revelations, questioning the very nature of divinity, existence, and the inexorable passage of time.

Darkly poetic and deeply moving, Book One challenges readers to confront the stark brutality of medieval captivity, interwoven with sinister reflections on comparative theology, notions of reality, and life’s fleeting fragility. Ghostly shapes shiver in the flickering torchlight. Chains rattle, and death hovers—both elusive and ever-present. In the depths of melancholy and reverie, this gripping narrative traces one monk’s relentless quest for meaning amid hopelessness, revealing a strange resilience in the face of utter annihilation.

Part one of three—the first layer of chaos peeled back.

About Frank Torrent

Frank Torrent grew up along the eastern seaboard, surrounded by a family deeply rooted in maritime traditions. His early years were marked by the labors of fishing and sailing and an introspective solitude immersed in the quiet company of books—often dampened by salt spray and mist.

Guided by a fascination for storytelling, Frank pursued formal studies in writing and earned a bachelor’s degree. He now devotes his solitary hours to creative interests, both literary and fine art, when he is not working at the harbor. His work draws inspiration from the sea, the strange nature of ceaseless tides, and all the odd and diverse people he’s met on boats and docks. His first work, Pale Shell, is being released serially and will ultimately become the first book in a series he is writing.

Further Reading

If you’re a fan of horror literature and cinema, then you absolutely need to check out the horror interview section of Ginger Nuts of Horror.

Firstly, the interviews feature a diverse range of authors, filmmakers, and horror enthusiasts, allowing readers to gain a multifaceted understanding of the genre. Each interview is an opportunity to explore the creative processes, inspirations, and personal stories behind the minds that produce some of the most chilling and thought-provoking works in horror today. From seasoned veterans to up-and-coming talents, the variety of voices ensures that readers can find something that resonates with them.

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Lastly, the community aspect of Ginger Nuts of Horror cannot be overlooked. Engaging with these interviews allows readers to feel connected to a larger community of horror enthusiasts. Comment sections and social media interactions often follow, enabling fans to discuss their thoughts and engage with both the interviewees and fellow readers.

In conclusion, the horror interview section of Ginger Nuts of Horror is an essential resource for anyone interested in the genre. It provides rich insights, guidance, and inspiration that can deepen one’s appreciation for horror while fostering a vibrant community among fans and creators alike. Don’t miss out on the chance to delve into the minds of your favorite horror creators!