I'm Andy. I write short horror stories that take place on the wet, narrow, claustrophobic soil of England.
Most American horror relies on the luxury of infinite space—abandoned highways running five hundred miles through sagebrush, endless forests where no help can reach you. But England is small. Every square foot has been fought over, bled on, buried in, and dug up forty times. When horror happens here, it happens under your floorboards, in the municipal drain behind the council depot, or six feet under the soil.
My work takes that raw, unapologetic, visceral momentum and marries it with dark English lore: the ancient earthen dread of Neolithic barrows, the drowned whispers of the marshlands, and the slow, poisonous rot of forgotten industrial waterways.
My ethos boils down to this:
Horror isn't an intellectual exercise. It’s a sensory assault. If the reader doesn't feel the room get colder or taste copper on the back of their tongue, you haven't written horror.
So, join me, take I walk into the shadows...