QSFer Alex Silver has a story in a new LGBTQ+ gothic horror anthology (bi, gay, lesbian, non-binary, trans FTM): Listen: The Sound of Fear.
A knocking. A ringing. A steady drip-drip-drip. These are the sounds that haunt us. Drive us mad. Draw us in like the songs of sirens, hypnotic and deadly. And we must either give in, or resist with everything we have…and hope it’s enough.
Listen: The Sound of Fear offers ten stories written exclusively by trans and nonbinary authors that explore the chilling, perplexing, terrifying nature of sound.
Kill Your Darlings. When two shop workers in 1894 New York discover a haunted phonograph, they must race to solve the mystery of its tragic past before it’s too late to save their budding romance—and their lives.
Exhibition. A performance artist inspired by the inhumane treatment of refugees finds her gallery transformed into an equally inhospitable environment. Trapped inside the confines of her Plexiglas box, she struggles to piece together what is happening—and how to keep herself alive.
On the Other Side of Sound. A ringing in the ears; a coded message from beyond explanation. It will only ruin your life if you let it.
Her Little Joke. When Mave Kitten is asked to investigate a creepy phenomenon, little does she know to what depths the trail will lead: Ghosts, a haunted well, ignorance, a flapping bird. What of the woman in green?
M/other. I am alone. I do not know exactly how long I have been alone. My husband and child are…gone. Aren’t they? As a storm rages outside my decaying house, I begin to hear and see things that cannot possibly be there. Or can they?
Holy Water. Adolescence can be hell. Adolescence in an all-girl’s Catholic school as a trans teen surrounded by mean girls is a special kind of hell—especially when your school is haunted.
Snipper-Snapper. Cats make the best pets—loving, thoughtful, and loyal. Amour even brings home his own takeaway meals. Except for the stains, and damage to the shag pile, Mummy couldn’t be happier. Everyone needs a playmate.
The Knocking Bird. Knock three times to keep yourself safe. Follow your love across the sea. Obsession threads through nearly every aspect of Steffi’s life. But what happens when it drives her to do the unthinkable?
Bride of Brine. Sylvie hasn’t heard the song of the siren in years. But when she’s called home to help her estranged father find her brother, she’s faced with an impossible choice: save him, or save herself.
Haunt. When Kevin inherits his family home and decides to fix it up with his partner, he quickly discovers that the past can haunt you in more than one way—and he must choose, once and for all, exactly who he is.
Warnings: This book contains sexually explicit content, depictions of violence with knives, blood, gore, haunting, voluntary confinement in a small space, panic attack, historical homophobia, discussion of abortion, unwanted pregnancy, loss, body dysphoria, death of infant, mold and rot, car wreck, semi-graphic description of a dead body, ghosts, water/drowning, thunderstorm, discussion of infanticide and postpartum depression, school bullying, homophobia, lesbophobia, misgendering, ableism, implied CSA, dead cat trophies, dark, kidnapping/abduction, OCD, self-harm, morbid ideation, animal death, death, depression, codependency, obsession, injury.
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Excerpt
THE RINGING ISN’T a real sound, echoing in my ears. It’s the reverberating silence when the power cuts out, and we’re alone in the old house that used to be a home. Once, the high ceilings sang with children’s laughter. My laughter. Mine and Levi’s. The tall windows let in summer sunshine, and the door was open to anyone who needed shelter.
Now, that’s ancient history. Dated furniture molders under moth-eaten dustcloths. Every surface is piled high with the detritus of a lifetime and the evidence of my father’s precipitous decline in health over his final years. Flaking paint covers the walls. Water damage from a longstanding leak in the roof traces brown furrows in what used to be cheery pale yellow. The pretty facade, ravaged by time and neglect, is like looking in a mirror. Lucky for me, I have decades of practice not looking.
Still, the absence of sound burrows into my eardrums and won’t stop. I get up from the sagging mattress, redolent with disuse. We brought clean bedding, at least. The bed squeaks under my weight as I stand. The floor creaks under me. I used to have the squeaky floorboards memorized.
Bert doesn’t get up, but his hand finds my wrist, tries to pull me back down beside him. “Come back to bed, love.”
I shake him off. “Just checking something.”
I pad along the once familiar path to the kitchen. The silence is worse here. No buzzing hum from the fridge’s motor, keeping our food cool. No bustle of my mother presiding over the stove. No chatter of family gossip or rehashing of the family secrets. No more acrimonious words yelled over the dinner table. No stomping feet on the stairs or slamming doors. Nothing but the all-encompassing silence lingers here.
I didn’t think I’d miss the noise, but I do. Even the midnight clink of ice in my father’s nightcap after a late shift at the hospital, where he worked a second job as a janitor. The snap and fizz of my brother opening a fresh can of beer after Mom was asleep hasn’t graced these walls in years. And come morning, not even the steady drip of coffee into the carafe will break the silence of the dead.
The kitchen hasn’t been the heart of this house in a long time. The steady pulse that once drove the family who lived here has long since stopped. Shrouded in predawn stillness, the house feels like something long dead. I used to think Bert and I could bring it back to life, but more and more, it feels as though we’re just maggots. Parasites under the skin, giving the place a semblance of the life it once held.
This isn’t a home, and with the way the old place is falling down around us, I don’t know if it will remain much of a house for long. Bert says it’s just the grief talking. I’m not so sure. This place isn’t fit for the living when all I can see within its walls are the ghosts of its dead. My dead.
Author Bio
Alex Silver (he/them) grew up mostly in Northern Maine and is currently living in Canada with a spouse, two kids, and a lovebird. Alex is a trans guy who started writing fiction as a child and never stopped.