Bulimia Tulpa

CW: bulimia, eating disorders

The drone of traffic carries on the damp breeze as late May earwigs die on the wet concrete. When the clouds hang low with rain, Nadine and I look for worms in the backyard. Mostly we find dog shit in the grass and deflated balloons from her quinceañera. But, buried under the oak tree, we also unearth from the soft dirt a stash of porno mags. 

They belong to her oldest brother, a lanky teenager whose legs in skinny jeans make me so jealous that it physically hurts, like a pang of hunger between the ribs. Last Sunday, her family took me to their favorite buffet; I watched as he ate a whole plate of scrambled eggs with refried beans and chorizo. 

I had to look away, but I couldn’t stare at the bowls of salsa being passed around or they’d offer me more chips. I traced the grain of the wood table, the scratches in the vibrant green vinyl cover. My eyes were on the framed prints of Mexico on the pink stucco as her family folded tortillas, dipped them into hot cheese, and laughed from deep in their bellies. 

“Mija, slow down,” they joked at Nadine, beautiful Nadine, round as a summer peach. “Te ves gordita!” 

She smiled but they could cut her into pieces sometimes, as if she’s only an overripe plum. Be more like her, they said to Nadine in secret, while I squished food into my napkins and chewed ice. 

We show our love by sharing food, and then we criticize each other for it. 

I used to love that buffet. Nadine and I would make “potions” out of salt and sugar packets, watermelon rinds and lime juice, stirring them into our sodas like witches

over our cauldrons. We’d dare each other to try our concoctions, never knowing what the other snuck into her drink. 

I told her that we were too old for that game now, that I wanted plain black tea instead. I didn’t tell her that I ached to know how her brother managed to eat so much without getting as fat as I am. Or that I didn’t want her to come to the bathroom with me because I wasn’t actually changing my pad in there. 

In the shade of the tree, Nadine points at a woman on her knees and says, “I know a trick like that. First you have to pull your hair back…” 

For a moment, I worry she’s figured out how I make food disappear. But instead, she shows me how to keep water in my open mouth while facing down as blowjob practice. I feel stupid doing it, but I’d do anything to make her smile. We grew up together. When she bites her bottom lip, I feel a deep warmth rear inside me like bile. 

And sometimes, I wish she would kiss me. Sometimes, I wish she would grab me by the shoulders and beg me to eat. I wouldn’t, but I still want her to ask. 

The magazines are like old bones. I don’t want her to think I’m a pervert, so I gasp when she turns a page. I doubt that she, who knows how to be a girl better than I do, has spent as much time in front of a computer as I have. I’ve seen it all before, so I watch her closely for signals that I’m supposed to react. 

The bodies seem alien to me, all of them white. The women confuse me because I can’t imagine ever looking like that, so fleshy and soft. I want to measure their collarbones and wrists. I don’t ask Nadine, but I think I’m looking the wrong way at the men, at the flat contours of their chests. I don’t have words for it, but it must be bad. 

We hide the porno mags under the air mattress in the basement. Now, as Nadine snores besides me, I hold my breath and slither into the cold night. I love sleeping next

to her, skin flushed against mine, but with the house quiet and still, I have a few hours to myself. 

My parents took away my Internet privileges when they found my account on the forums. They think they can stop me? Nobody can. 

The leather office chair creaks, and the computer in Nadine’s basement whirs awake. I gnaw my fingernails, but she doesn’t move. 

The townhouse where everyone in her family lives – brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, cousins and grandparents on both sides – is close to the highway. The stink of hot rubber and car exhaust comforts me; it reminds me that I’m not at home, where it’s just my parents and I avoiding each other as much as possible. 

Whoever used the computer last left a tab open. At first I assume the grainy video must be weird porn her brother was watching, but then I notice it was uploaded today, with just one view. The title is a random string of numbers and asterisks. 

There’s a man in an empty room, staring open-mouthed into his webcam. I can only see his face and upper torso, disembodied, almost floating. His teeth glow from the aura of the screen like sour candy, and his big eyes reflect a bright green, the way an animal looks in a dark photograph. 

It starts as a throbbing panic that builds at the base of my spine and spreads throughout my trembling body. Every limb quivers with fear like a sore muscle, stretched to its limit. 

Slowly, I realize – he looks like me, as an adult man. He can’t be a younger version of my dad, who has lighter skin than my mom and I. It’s definitely me, with my eyebrows if I didn’t obsessively pluck them and my nose which is too big for a girl.

And he’s so skinny. It isn’t flattering. He’s as gaunt as a prisoner. The longer I look, the more excited and terrified I am, like the before-and-after threads on the forums. 

I feel a pit in my stomach. It opened when I was younger and weaker. It’s been growing and growing as I get smaller and smaller. Never small enough. I’m always lightheaded these days, but this is different. 

I plug in my headphones, every noise I make like a thunderclap. Behind me, the loose latch on the window rattles, clank-clank, and the distant howl of neighborhood dogs echoes in the night. 

I unpause the video. 

“My name is an incantation that once spoken will hasten the end of the world as you know it and the beginning of mine.” He speaks so fast and low that I have to max the volume to hear him. “There is no forgiveness. What happens between us goes unspoken. It is an empty plastic shell. It is cold and toxic. It scintillates, pink and sharp as a razor blade. You and I – we just want to be loved. Wanting and wanting.” 

His voice is so familiar. It’s me. It has to be me, as a man. This is how I will sound when I grow up. Except… it’s unnatural, how he speaks. Not like he’s reading a script, but as though the words aren’t coming from his mouth. 

“Please, do you recognize me? Do I move on the screen like blue motes in your vision when you stand too quickly? Or does your malnourished brain scramble me into a glittering three-lobed squid or a pulsing gunmetal sea anemone? Can you even comprehend what you’ve done to me?” 

It isn’t dubbed in. His thin lips move in sync to the strange ramblings. I can’t discern why, but he doesn’t talk like a normal person. The cadence is wrong.

“One misclick, and you touch my invisible skin, shuddering past the membrane like unknown pathogens through your tender pores. The light reveals, in the crackling vibration, my body geometry.” 

Nadine turns over in bed, mumbling. Upstairs, someone wanders in the kitchen, a younger sister or a niece, judging by the little footsteps. 

I lean closer to the man until our foreheads touch, rippling his image like an oil spill and distorting the liquid crystal molecules between us. 

“I listened when no one else would. I was with you when you were alone, and I kept you that way. I fed into your anxieties when you refused to eat. I functioned when you couldn’t think, as your hippocampus sunk into a haze. I could crush your skull like soft pink styrofoam.” 

I’m not afraid of that, and he knows it. I’ve been waiting to die since puberty. I think of my dead grandmother, kissing her string of beads, burning red and gold Our Lady of Guadalupe candles. We used to bake conchas together on Sundays. I remember the warm fragrance of dough turning into a sweet yellow crust – how effortless it once was to eat. But she, too, put me on a diet before I learned long division. 

“You can’t blame me for it all. I was made for you, and now I’m stuck, too. What shape would I take as the space between us shrinks? I can only see how swollen I am like an egg sac from which a new Internet will hatch and spread.” 

The monitor goes black and I suck in a sharp breath. Was this some elaborate prank? I turn towards Nadine, and in that moment, the face of the man changes. I flinch, but there’s nothing on the monitor again. I tilt my head to the side, and I see it – her, a child. Me, before bulimia.

I think that word, bulimia, without doubting myself. It slips out so easily. Usually I don’t feel sick, not how the girls on the forums are. 

I shut my eyes, and he continues. 

“We hold hands until the bones of our knuckles pop through the skin, bloodless, painless. Nothingness. This is not real, unless you want it to be. I feel the future squirming in my lower intestines: doomsday tastes like burnt sugar and peppermint vomit. I wish I was skinnier, too. But the spasmodic omens make me bloat.” 

The girl and the man are layered like an optical illusion. She sits in the same anonymous room, round-faced with long greasy hair. I’m half her size now. This is worse than any technicolor horror he described. 

“I’m a boy, I think. I don’t know if I’ll ever be a man. I used to be a girl. I tried to delete that information, but I’m incapable of repressing memories. All those the sparkledogs you let starve – I take care of every single one. For them, I download a cake with every flavor of the rainbow: vivid lemon-lime frosting, creamy strawberry gelato, triple layers of milk chocolate. Hear the honeycomb song of teeth and code. For myself, I run simulations of the chemical process of happiness. It leaves an aftertaste like diet soda and sugar-free jello. Remember the soft, fluffy texture of cake as it melts on your tongue, all that sweetness and death? Cake, cake, CAKE.” 

I wish I could see the man staring back at me, instead of my reflection. My eyes are two bruises and my cheeks are swollen. My hair is falling out in loose clumps like fiber optics. I almost expect the computer to resist when I exit the video, heart pounding in my throat – maybe send an electric shock through the mouse or blast music to wake the entire household. It would be so simple if it would punish me.

The image is gone, but I hear him through my headphones. The basement suddenly smells of the buffet’s spices and herbs, grilled onions and ground beef. I churn with hunger and the premonition of a purge. 

“It’s coming. You could be me. I could be you. Or you could be better than me. So speak my name, and let me go. Because it has to be you. No one else can say it.” 

“I’m not ready,” I whisper. “Everyone will make fun of me. I’ll be even more alone.” 

“Then one day, you will be online forever.” 

The computer transforms. I see the squid, the anemone, the twins of myself. It isn’t me on the screen. It’s something else, from inside me, taken on new life. In pain and writhing. Asking for help and hating it at the same time. I don’t understand it yet. I can only tolerate the briefest glimpse. 

When I blink away the tears, I see Nadine, motionless but awake. 

“What did it look like to you?”

Pasiphae Dreams is the alias of an imposter poet. As an emerging trans writer, he uses speculative fiction and poetry to explore gender and trauma. He publishes chapbooks and short horror stories on itch.io. You can invoke his curse on Twitter or directly through ko-fi.

The Break-Up

The Bethany Arms. The kind of place where they keep a donkey inside a barb-wire enclosure. Chickens chased each other through the rising dust.

“Do you think that’s our supper?” said Jean, trying to make me laugh.

She’d spent the trip sulking. We were on our way to see my dying father and I could have used some support instead of Jean’s black moods. At first she had charmed me – her quick wit, even her temper – but now I knew that she wasn’t the right companion for this kind of thing. If she sulked in the car, God knows what she’d be like when we finally reached the hospice.

For now, the sight of the mundane – a desert motel, the dirty animals – had restored her good humor. To her, the livestock was a charming novelty. But I’d grown up in a town not far from here and my childhood had schooled me well in small cruelties. Unlike Jean, I could spot the whip-marks across the donkey’s back. If this place was a joke, it came at the expense of the voiceless.

The motel office stood locked and empty, ringed by cheap outdoor furniture. We sat in silence, drinking warm soda from our cool-box, suitcases at our feet like loyal dogs. The local fey, finger-length, fluttered around us, cursing in mouse-squeaks until I opened a third can for them.

“They set traps for them. I saw one outside the manager’s office,” offered Jean.

“They don’t like magic around here.” I fumbled across the table for her hand but she crossed her arms and stared into the distance.

“They don’t like magic here? So where does something like you come from?”

“My father had Old Blood. Just a trickle. It didn’t breed true in him. But with me-” my voice trailed off at the sight of a man slouching towards us.

“The manager. You should carry your own luggage,” I mumbled. “We don’t want people to talk.”

Jean’s scrutiny made me clumsy; my suitcase banged my shins. Instead of anger in her gaze, there was something worse. There was judgment.

*********

The manager had wet brown teeth.

There was something anachronistic about his poor dentistry; rotten teeth are almost unknown in an era of cosmetic spells. But as I’d told Jean, they don’t care for magic this far South. His eyes darted from me to Jean, assessing. He took in our superficial resemblance and his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Sisters? Passing through?” he guessed.

Jean opened her mouth to correct him.

“Yes,” I interrupted smoothly, “Just passing through.”

*********

Our room was narrow and smelt, for some unknown reason, of apples. The air buzzed with raised voices. It took me a few seconds before I recognized one of them as my own. I experienced a strange sense of detachment, as if I was standing outside myself, studying the fight with clinical disdain.

“Why the hell did you want me here? If you’re ashamed of me?” hissed Jean. In anger, her face became smoother, her features less defined.

She glared up at me. Lonely as I was, I still wasn’t stupid enough to whistle up something taller than me. And of course, she was shrinking now. A safety measure of sorts. When I first created her, I’d sworn that this one wouldn’t go wrong but God knows, I’d made those sorts of promises before.

“Why am I here if you don’t need me?” she whined “What happens to me then?”

“I make another,” I said.

Her hand – barely larger than a child’s now – struck me. Without thinking, I hit her back as hard as I could. Something – not blood – flew out of its mouth. Then the homunculus collapsed at my feet.

Drained of magic, its corpse was smaller than a drowned kitten. It looked like a half-formed fetus, something born dead. The only sound in the room was my own breathing. I was alone again.

*********

That night I didn’t sleep. Instead, I thought about my mother’s illness. By the time she died, she didn’t even look like a person.

After the funeral, my father came into my room for the last time. He was a lean, gingery man; his Old Blood manifested in his unusual eyes, a foxy cast to his features. He spoke in a beery gasp, somewhere between a sob and a growl: “Did you do something to her?”

I studied him with pale eyes – his eyes – and offered him the lie, carefully rehearsed at her graveside.

“Yes. And if you touch me again, I’ll do something to you too.”

He ran from my room and I heard the sound of spasmodic vomiting. A week later, I left home. Now I was less than a day away from the man who had raised me, sometimes violently, less often with love. I couldn’t face him alone.

On the pillow beside me, Jean’s corpse was a hard leather lump. Briefly I cradled the spent thing to my chest, my lips parting in a reedy whistle. But it was no good. My magic needed living flesh to sculpt. My thoughts strayed to the motel donkey.

There was no one else awake when I approached its enclosure. The animal shifted uneasily but settled down when I reached through the wire and petted its nose. I started to whistle. In the middle of nowhere, a miracle unfolded beneath my touch.

I slipped away before dawn, my new homunculus at my side. Everything fascinated her – the rumbling car, the caress of Jean’s shirt on her skin, me. We touched constantly. In a few hours, she’d be capable of speech. In a few months, she’d be bored with the world and me. Soon she’d look at me with the same disappointed eyes as Jean.

Might as well enjoy my new relationship while it lasted.

The End

Lee Jacob Phillips is a former art lecturer who has had 4 solo exhibitions. His short fiction and articles have appeared in a number of collections and anthologies. He was selected multiple times as an Ambassador of Words by the César Egido Serrano Foundation and recently received a Shortbox grant for his comic work. His previous occupations include toy salesman, bartender and bodyguard. He currently lives in South Africa. To find out more about his art, writing and other projects, you can visit his Twitter https://twitter.com/smokefurandsto1

Our posts are 100% Patreon funded! If you want to see early posts, full resolution art, and WIPs, please consider supporting us on Patreon!

See You.

The streets of the city were never deserted. Eva may only have been at the university for a month but her newly found friends on the campus had already picked out their favourite eating and drinking spots and, in the interests of Anglo-Franco co-operation of course, had insisted she join them. She could hardly refuse and so each Friday night, she found herself sitting at their table in Coco Banane. Eating, drinking and looking intensely at each person, grim determination hidden in her smile, a façade and nothing more as she tried not to watch as the little creature, skin like tendons knitted into a misshapen form, wrapped its delicately boned arms around the performers neck. Copper-scented slick oozing from the gaps in its weave and sluicing onto the floor. Twisting its hands in a deliberate, flexing movement as it pulled the singers jaws apart and reached the spindle-like fingers towards their tongue.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Nor did the ancient dirt-clad woman who dragged herself upright from behind a log. Covered in a torn robe of hardened mud that was strewn with leaves and twigs, her face so wan that it glowed beneath her scowl, the woman’s eyes were of glittering coal and were fixed intently on a shadow in the trees. She lumbered forward toward it and her tattered robe hem dragged in the dirt. Her breathing was ragged, her steps slow and unsteady. As she passed in front of Eva she stopped suddenly, her robe faded and her skin collapsed to ground, a swirl of leaves. Her pale, etched face hung for a moment, her eyes viewing Eva with unconcealed contempt before falling to mix with the pebbles on the footpath.

Continue reading “See You.”

Interview with Time’s Fool, Wilfred Earl

“No-one believes in ghosts,” said Steven, and leaned back against the booth, “that was my point.”

Described by the author, Time’s Fool is a novel about monstrosity, about desire and communication. It’s about the self we present to the world and the needs we whisper to ourselves in the darkness. It is about honesty and the fear of honesty. It is about the things we refuse – refuse to say, refuse to seek, refuse to believe – because sometimes, ignoring those things is all that keeps us sane.

GenderTerror had the fortunate ability to interview Wilfred Earl about their novel, their experience marketing the novel as an out trans person to a non-LGBTQ crowd, and about crowdfunding their novel.

GenderTerror: Tell us a bit about Time’s Fool.

Wilfred: Time’s Fool is a contemporary Gothic novel in the Victorian tradition – so it is about repressed desires, the need for change, and the terror that change brings with it – but it brings those concerns and fears in to our pragmatic and postmodern world.

It is also, essentially, a dark, gripping story about what happens when a bunch of students who break into a vampire’s house and – not knowing his secret – wind up starting a friendship with him. I’ve been calling it my love song to the gothic, a queer homage to Dracula – but really its a smart, sexy, and darkly comic book for everyone who ever has wanted something more, without quite knowing what that thing might be. It’s about why we love the night, and why we fear it.

GT: What were your experiences crowdfunding the novel, especially marketing something that may not appeal to non-LGBTQ people?

W: Crowdfunding was a very interesting experience, and I’m aware that might be taken as a reference to the curse – may you live in interesting times. It was at once very frustrating, and incredibly rewarding. People were so generous, and keen to read this book, and it felt awful constantly dogging people who you knew had a lot of stuff going on in their lives.

Talking of stuff going on in people’s lives – during the crowdfunding process I also transitioned, socially and made the first steps towards medical transition. I’d come out as non-binary about 6 months before signing to Unbound, and the two things happened very much simultaneously. I absolutely would recommend no-one try to replicate this.  Ever. It was a very foolish move. Just from a logistical perspective – it’s difficult if you’re simultaneously trying to persuade people to buy a book a written by Alys Earl, while getting them to call the person who’s written it Wilfred.

Continue reading “Interview with Time’s Fool, Wilfred Earl”

Two Dead Queers Presents: GUILLOZINE the Interview

Shock. Gore. Sacrilege. And more! GUILLOZINE contains art and stories that dare to push the boundaries. Available both for free online and for physical purchase on Amazon, GUILLOZINE is really a no boundaries zine.

GenderTerror had the good fortune of being able to interview both parts of Two Dead Queers, K.M. Claude and R.E. Hellinger, about not only the zine and the future, but also about their creative process.

GenderTerror: Let’s start off with the obvious, what is Two Dead Queers?

K. M. Claude: You’ve got Two Dead Queers the brand or institution or whatever you want to call this overarching beast and then the zine series Two Dead Queers Present which’re two separate but interrelated, symbiotic entities. Two Dead Queers as a whole is about creating art and stories without shame, without silence, and without censorship, and strives to deliver works by queer horror creatives for anyone and everyone who’s interested — or at least who dares.

R.E. Hellinger: With Two Dead Queers Present, we wanted to be able to offer something we made and enjoyed making for free. It’s a sort of love letter to those who already love Claude’s art and to those who love weird horror. We want people to find our zine and go “hey! This is neat!” and not only get excited for our next zine release or other projects we may be separately working on, but also encourage them to put their own wonderful weirdness out into the world.

Continue reading “Two Dead Queers Presents: GUILLOZINE the Interview”

The Perfect Cut

“Do you want to add a mystery key?” The screen on the key machine asked.

Anita brushed a lock of jet black hair behind her ear and shrugged. It never hurt to have too many spare keys. The machine whirled back to life depositing another heavily against the rest. Anita reached down shoving the others into her pocket, and paused at the mystery key. It didn’t look like any key she’d ever seen before. The blade extended out twice the length and ended in a set of teeth on either side. Three loops entwined around the bronze bow and along its base a name had been engraved: Wainwright.

“Well, I guess they weren’t kidding about the mystery part.”

Just then, the buzz of her phone reminded her why she needed keys in the first place.

“Hey baby. Yeah, I got the keys. Be home soon,” she answered.

The gravel driveway crunched underneath the car as Anita pulled up. Sasha sat on the porch steps with an exasperated expression on her face. Before Anita could get out of the car, Sasha was already mid explanation.

Continue reading “The Perfect Cut”

Silence

I watched the stars blink out one by one.

I let the silence overtake me then, as space and time grew quiet and alone. A dark void surrounded and filled me as the black grew into existence, and I knew that we had done this. We had stirred this darkness, stirred it and fed it and made it grow, and it consumed us. Slowly, desperately, and terribly, it consumed us.

And then we set it free. Continue reading “Silence”

When You Walk By Night: An Interview with Paul Bridgeman

Take a walk with me to the end of your street, where the lampposts end and the darkness hides dancing, skipping horrors. Waiting for us are a Copy-cat killer who picks the wrong guy to copy. A strange epidemic that is not quite what it seems and has consequences for us all. An ancient Djiin who trades in souls and loves a twist in his deals. A girl plagued by nymphomania who is going through some deep changes. An exclusive, high class brothel with an interesting charging policy. Inter-dimensional horror on a human farm. A collector of cursed books and Objet D’Art, with a very nosey wife. A group of flatmates terrorised by a possessing spirit with murderous intentions and a sweet girl who would do anything for love. Oh! And Vampires. I can see them now. Come on, take my hand they are getting impatient…

When You Walk By Night is the newest book by horror writer and artist, Paul Bridgeman. The book features nine different stories, all with their own twists and turns. GenderTerror was lucky enough to interview Paul about not only his book, but his influences, his art, and why he feels queer horror is important.

Continue reading “When You Walk By Night: An Interview with Paul Bridgeman”

Werewolves Versus: GenderTerror

Werewolves Versus is a semi-annual pay-what-you-want zine that pits werewolves against various themes. So far werewolves have fought against (not always in a literal sense): the 1990s, Romance, Music, Space, and Facism. Each issue has 15 completely new works by various artists, writers, poets, and other content creators exclusively for the zine. Many (but not all) of the creators fall somewhere on the LGBTQ spectrum, making this most definitely a queer celebration of werewolves!

While werewolves are always the stars of the piece, each piece has its own unique twist and voice. These differences range from typical horror flair, to comedic undertakings, to downright heart-wrenching moments.

Continue reading “Werewolves Versus: GenderTerror”

Happy One Year Anniversary!


Art by Tsi-bi, who has also done The “Thing”!

In the beginning of August in 2016, I began to rebrand my personal blog into a queer horror community. As someone who has always loved horror, I felt there was a significant lacking in queer horror coverage as well as in showcasing queer horror creators and their particular works, some new, some old. I wanted to create a place for people to be able to share their love of horror, discuss their love of horror, as well as support the uniquely queer type of horror created by artists and writers.

Thus, on August 28 2016, I re-launched the site with Monsters Of Our Own, a piece on trans identity and monsters that continues to be extremely popular to this day. GenderTerror became it’s own special place in the queer horror world that is continuing to grow and expand.

In one year we’ve had:

  • 27 unique contributors
  • 15 exclusive art pieces
  • 20 exclusive short stories/interviews/reviews
  • 37,530 views
  • 25,081 visitors
  • all from all over the world from every continent (except Antarctica).

The following are the top 3 posts in each category. This does not mean there is not other fantastic work on the site! Please use these as a stepping stone if you are new here and wish to explore the wonderful area of queer horror!

Top art posts:

  1. Devilbabes n Jawboys by Francine Queen
  2. Fairies by Haley/Ivan Kasof
  3. CHEWTOY by Murphy

Top fiction posts:

  1. Sunflower Blood by Espi Kvlt (link contains 18+ material)
  2. It’s Creaking Up Above by Jacalyn
  3. All The Hungry Ghosts by Jade S.

Top non-fiction posts:

  1. Monsters of Our Own: Monster Symbolism in the Trans Community by Lucian Clark
  2. Queer Ghosts and Those Who Find Them: An Interview with Queer Ghost Hunters with Queer Ghost Hunters
  3. How to Be A Werewolf: Interview with Shawn Lenore with Shawn Lenore

And as always, none of this would have been possible without the kindness and generosity of our Patreon supporters! Without them, we would not have had as many wonderful artists, writers, and contributors for the site. It is with Patreon support that we will continue to grow.

Please check GenderTerror out on Patreon!

This week will have posts as well as ending with an exciting announcement! Please celebrate with us on Twitter, Tumblr, and Facebook!

Creator Profile: GRYPT

Their Twitter bio reads an “unholy trinity based in LA creating music + interactive”. Having been together since 2013, GRYPT is more than just a band. They are also writers as well as sound designers. Their music is available on Spotify, with the first chapter of their monthly horror serial available on Bandcamp.

This mysterious trio is made up of Romie Romak, their vocalist, writer, and narrator. The other members, Taylor Shechet and Myrrh Ka Ba, are much more mysterious as to their roles. Fitting for the band, their eerie sound, and the content they create.

Eerie is the best way to describe GRYPT, in my experience. From listening to The Blob Stares Back, to listening to their first album Thy Flesh Consumed, an eerie tone and sound is pervasive. It drips and oozes this eeriness in sound and word. As eerie as one would say a glass crypt would be.

Below is a small interview with front woman, Romie Romak, about the band, their work, and her influences.

[Interview appears as was written by Romie with minor corrections]

As most interviews start, what is GRYPT?

GRYPT is a horror themed multimedia project. At the core we are a band, making tracks and playing shows and such, but we also create fiction and other audio media.
We’ve recently been working on an audio drama that I write and narrate each month, accompanied with sound design and scoring by GRYPT.

Why GRYPT? Why interactive horror media?

GRYPT, the name, is a made up magic word we coined by combining the words ‘glass’ and ‘crypt.’

Having been brought together by the shared influence of the Horror genre, it was unavoidable. Being horror themed as a project, I mean.

As far as creating original multimedia Horror, We wanted to show the scoring capabilities of GRYPT, as well as an experiment with bringing my story ideas to the table. Our recent audio fiction piece is an exercise in channeling the classic Americana of War of the Worlds or EC comics.

What are some of your influences?

Musically, we (GRYPT) are varied but all come from a place of having been into industrial, IDM or trip hop or whatever at some point or another..

We harbor a semi-secret plan to make nu metal influence cool, in a myriad of different ways, varying in directness.

Fiction writing wise, personally, I’m a total retrophile. I have a passion for the time period of whacky, cash-in, increasingly obscure VHS horror. I’m just drawn to stories where the concept itself is the only real character in the movie. And, as I think I mentioned, I live for old horror comics. There is a certain magic to those things I try to recapture.

The Blob Stares Back. I listened to Chapter 0 and I must say the combination of your [Romie] voice and the soundtrack is absolutely amazing. How long does it take to do a chapter?

Thank you.
We do each chapter the month before it is released.. I go in, record my narration, then Taylor and Myrrh Ka Ba the score and sound design landscape.

I have no idea how the story will end. I’m writing each chapter as I go.

Will people be able to get the full story anywhere? Like an audio book of sorts?

We plan to release The Blob Stares Back, when it’s finished as an album and perhaps a companion book of illustrations would be in order.

In the meantime, anyone can subscribe to receive the next chunk of the story each month if they support us on Patreon. There is no minimum donation required to get The Blob Stares Back.

Also, the first 7 chapters will be aired October 13th on KXLU. We’ll be there on the air with our homie Jarrod from Girl Pusher.

Where to go from here?

We have new music to succeed our last album, Thy Flesh Consumed, which will be released soon.

In the meantime, we’re also figuring out how to finish The Blob Stares Back..

 

If you enjoy spooky tunes or a good old school style audio serial, check out The Blob Stares Back. Chapter 0 alone is filled with wonderful ambiance that matches Romie’s perfect tone for this type of work. Taylor Shechet and Myrrh Ka Ba provide a wonderful soundtrack that could be released alone. The Blob Stares Back matches the worlds and feeling of old school horror VHS, making you feel involved even if you aren’t.

If you want more on GRYPT you can find all the necessary information on their Patreon or Twitter.

Support GenderTerror and its creators by becoming a part of our Patreon! Every dollar counts!