MASTERS OF HORROR: RYAN THOMAS LABEE
1. What first drew you to horror—and was it something you experienced, feared, or imagined?
Horror was in my life before I even knew it had a name. My mom was a horror person—at least when she was younger. She read Stephen King religiously and had a habit of taking me to scary movies way too early. One of my earliest memories is her sneaking me into a dollar theater screening of The Hand That Rocks the Cradle—probably not age-appropriate, but unforgettable. Those early exposures left a mark. Horror became the lens through which I processed fear, curiosity, and imagination. It’s always been around, like a weird older sibling I couldn’t stop tagging along in their shadow. And they say write what you love to read, so for me, it was always going to be horror.
2. How do you tap into real fear when writing—do you draw from your own nightmares, or do you create new ones?
I grew up in poverty and in a pretty chaotic home. Things were unstable more often than not—emotionally, financially, sometimes even physically. There was a lot I couldn’t understand or control. But for whatever reason, horror and genre fiction always felt like a reprieve. Escaping into those worlds, where the monsters had rules, where fear had shape, gave me something real life often didn’t: structure, catharsis, even weird comfort.
As nerdy as it might sound, my childhood felt like living inside a Stephen King novel. There was an addict dad and an angry stepdad, plenty of small-town dysfunction, and this constant tension humming beneath everything. Horror didn’t just reflect my reality, but made it feel survivable. In a strange way, it made the unknowable feel knowable.
3. Have you ever written something that disturbed even you—a moment where the story took a darker turn than expected?
Interestingly, not really—not in the sense that it shocked me. But I’ve had moments where I was surprised by how others reacted. My first novella, Killing My Flesh Without You, actually started as a short story for a creative writing class. I didn’t think it was that disturbing at all when I turned it in. Then a classmate looked me dead in the eye and said, “This is the most messed up thing I’ve ever read. I hated it.”
When I eventually published it, some readers said the opposite—" This isn’t scary at all.” That really taught me something: horror is wildly subjective. What devastates one person might leave another totally unmoved.
For me, the truly disturbing stories are the ones where you care about the characters. Gore for gore’s sake doesn’t stick with me. But something awful happening to someone you’ve connected with? That lingers. I think about Georgie Denbrough in IT—by today’s standards, it’s not the most graphic scene, but emotionally? It’s a gut punch. You feel for that kid. That’s the kind of horror that haunts. I hope I can write something that lands like that someday.
4. If your stories had the power to summon something into the real world... what do you think you've already unleashed?
That’s a fascinating question—and honestly, I’m not sure I’ve fully unleashed anything yet. But I can feel something stirring. Lately, I’ve discovered a deep love for historical fiction, especially stories rooted in forgotten places and people. I’ve been thinking more and more about how I can marry that with my lifelong love of horror. The result, I think, might be something like the hidden truth.
And what’s more terrifying than that? Not the monster in the shadows, but the real story buried under years of silence, shame, and revision. If my writing has the power to summon anything, I hope it’s the kind of horror that drags forgotten truths into the light, kicking and screaming.
5. How do you keep horror feeling fresh and terrifying when so many tropes are well-trodden?
Ah, the age-old question. Tropes have endured for centuries, and they’re not going anywhere. In a way, every story has already been told. But what keeps horror fresh isn’t the trope itself, but what you bring to it. Your personal history, your obsessions, your fears, and lived experience—that’s where originality lives.
What excites me most about modern horror is how many voices that were once silenced, whether due to gender, sexuality, race, or class, are now taking center stage. Those perspectives are putting electrifying spins on familiar archetypes and breathing new life into the genre. That’s what makes the future of horror, and literature as a whole, so damn thrilling.
BONUS: Tell me about your latest project and where we can find it.
Right now, I’m deep in my MFA creative thesis—a dark short story collection all centered around the strange little town of Peculiar, Missouri. It’s a mix of Midwest Gothic, small-town horror, and cosmic dread—basically, everything I love in fiction. I’m also in the early research phase of a historical horror novel set in the late 1930s and early ’40s, during the Great Depression and New Deal era, in a small Ozark town. It’s shaping up to be a story about buried secrets, folk beliefs, and the high cost of survival. It's also a bit of a love letter to my late grandmother, Anna Bell. So it's near and dear to my heart.
While those projects are still cooking, readers can check out my horror novella, Killing My Flesh Without You, or my Halloween-themed collection, The Halloween Party: And Other Tales of All Hallows’ Eve Terror—both available on Amazon and wherever books are sold.
As always, a big thank you to Ryan for agreeing to take some time out of his busy schedule and do this interview with me. I truly appreciate it!
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