I'd just managed to forget about the exuberantly evil life of Albert Fish, when I started in on Black House, and there he was again. Except... he wasn't scaring me. He was the same twisted, child-snacking fuck he was before. So why wasn't he following me around during the day and keeping me up at night? No disrespect to King and Straub, but I don't think he could scare me. Because compared to the real Fish, their fictional fiend was just a pale shadow.
Which poses quite a challenge to writers of horror fiction. The competition is creative, energetic, beastly, and real.
I once had a "Purple Passion" houseplant - a luxurious purple-furred cascade of vines that I allowed to wander all over the living room. It flowered in brilliant yellow blooms that had the unfortunate odor of moldy cheese and had to be removed as soon as they opened. A vivid, interesting, captivating plant. One day I noticed some tendrils disappearing under the couch. I pulled them out, and found they were perfect replicas of the other vines - but they had no color. They were dead white.
All a writer can do is craft their pallid creation with care. Give it as much life as they can. Make it as real as possible.
And all I can do, is yank it out into the light.
~G
