Disturbia is the place I go to write.
I don't live there, I simply visit. And I try not to stay too long.
It isn't a very nice place: dark, dank, sometimes a little unnerving. The sun rarely shines in Disturbia. It usually rains. The trees are black and crooked. Crows stare at me. The sky is the colour of wet ash. Lightning strikes silently and the air smells of charcoal...and something else.
But this is a place I must visit, as Disturbia feeds my imagination. There are many useful emotions there - like fear, revulsion and psychological terror. When things die in Disturbia they don't do it nicely, and they certainly don't go quietly...and sometimes they don't stay dead.
Things in this place are always hungry, even the trees.
Like I said, I don't stay too long. Disturbia whispers to me while I'm there: cold, sticky fingers of suggestion prising their way toward the front of my mind. It is trying to get out, but I must only allow a little at a time.
This place is a horror writer's paradise. And it's all mine.
