Questions that go unasked hide the heaviest answers.
But some answers arrive without being asked for.
Four stories that embrace the unknown. Not the kind people search for, but the kind that searches for people.
A man courts a primordial presence.
An email reveals another world eroding from unseen entities.
A child receives stories from opposing forces.
A man descends into the depths, where ancient eyes reside.
Yet the heart of these tales is not the unknown, but how humans attempt to push through it.
A collection of stories where horror not only unsettles, it shows what it means to be human.
For fans of horror, science-fiction, and emotional stories.
Questions that go unasked hide the heaviest answers.
But some answers arrive without being asked for.
Four stories that embrace the unknown. Not the kind people search for, but the kind that searches for people.
A man courts a primordial presence.
An email reveals another world eroding from unseen entities.
A child receives stories from opposing forces.
A man descends into the depths, where ancient eyes reside.
Yet the heart of these tales is not the unknown, but how humans attempt to push through it.
A collection of stories where horror not only unsettles, it shows what it means to be human.
For fans of horror, science-fiction, and emotional stories.
…The car door was ripped off, and I was carefully removed.
“Sir? Stay with me, everything is going to be okay – hey somebody get the stretcher now!”
It was all a blur: I was driving and I wasn’t even going that fast. Where was I coming from again… a date?
“Careful! Be careful!”
What was it… a deer? Yes, I think a deer… a buck ran out, and I did the thing they told me not to do, I swerved to avoid it.
“Sir, don’t try to move. He’s still conscious, let’s go!”
The bright lights of the ambulance were painful to my unfocused eyes which felt like malfunctioning cameras. My whole body was a prison of pain. They told me not to move; I couldn’t even if I had tried. They tended to me, made sure that I stayed alive because that was their job: I would live. Not because of their efforts, but because they were allowed by the woman in the truck with us. The woman they couldn’t see wearing a hooded, black gown with a thin veil covering her face. She stood among the EMTs as they worked their procedures and stared at me. I couldn’t see her eyes because of the veil but I knew I was the focus of her gaze. Her appearance was unsettling, but her presence felt soothing. I felt calm and despite my injuries, I felt at peace at my core. This was not the first time I had seen this woman. The first time was at my grandmother’s funeral, four years ago.
My grandmother was an incredibly nice woman, but she was not mine by blood. She was my grandmother by my stepmother and so while I did feel remorse for her passing, I admittedly didn’t feel as torn as the many others who were there that were attached to her by blood. The death of a great matriarch to a family should be accompanied by a myriad of tears; but she wasn’t the matriarch to my family blood. However, I went to support my stepmother – whom I’ll just refer to as my mother from now on – because she is one of the most genuine people I’ve ever known. She married my father when I was only six. My father and birth mother got into a vicious divorce and my dad kept custody of me; my birth mother displayed a lack of care for me in the grand scheme of things. So, while I wasn’t the age to automatically see my stepmother as my mother, being that I’m now twenty-eight, I’ve had plenty of time to bond with her. My father was away on a business trip, so I took it upon myself to take off work to tend to my mother’s emotional needs. During the mass and the somber melodies of the choir, I saw her. Up on the balcony of the church, I saw the veiled woman looking down upon the gathering. You’d think she was a mannequin if not for the fact that her head moved ever-so slightly to look around. I didn’t ask who she was at the time because… well it wasn’t the right time. Something about her just made me stare… who was she? I had never seen her before. Why was she up high when everyone else was down below? When I looked at the choir and back up, she was gone.
The burial wasn’t any happier, obviously, but among the attendees all dressed in black, she was there again, behind my step-uncle. As the casket was lowered and roses were being handed out, she was skipped as if she wasn’t even there, nor did she offer a hand to take one. It was truly as if no one saw her. What added to the mystery was when people began to leave, she just stood there, staring at the ground. She stayed there as I walked away with my mother, and the people responsible for sealing the hole just walked around her. During the car ride, I had to ask, “Hey Mom, who was the lady who wore the hooded dress with the veil covering her face?”
She was silent for a while, before answering through a struggling voice, “Um, I don’t think there was anyone there that looked like that.”
I pressed on. “She was on the balcony in the church and behind your brother during the burial.”
She just shook her head, keeping her eyes on the road, “I’m sorry… I didn’t see anyone like that.”
I decided to stop there because her red eyes told me to let her have her peace.
Those same red eyes greeted me on the hospital bed. I went unconscious during the ambulance ride and was asleep for four hours. It was sleep for me but keeping me in the realm of the living for the medics. My left shoulder dislocated, my right subluxed. Fractured rib cage, bruised left wrist, skull fracture, concussion, twisted right ankle, collapsed lung… all because of a tree. I was stable enough for my mother to briefly visit and I did my best to ease her worries. If I’m being honest, while I didn’t tell her this joke, I’d have rather died because I did not want to see the medical bill from all of this. I spoke with a raspy voice, “Mom, you look tired, you should go home. I’m fine now.”
She shook her head, “No, I’m staying as long as they’ll allow me.”
I felt guilty because I caused this to happen and I was putting her through this emotional roller coaster. “I’m honest. Go home, please. For me. You’re making me feel bad.”
She sat back and looked at the television, “I’m not leaving until you sleep… and stop talking, you’re not in the condition to talk.”
I obliged and allowed her to fulfill her self-imposed duties. Next thing I knew, I woke up, but not during the day, it was during the night… or early morning? Either way, it was dark out. The lights were dim and there was the sound of faint walking from overnight hospital workers. I looked in the corner of my room and nearly jumped, if only my body were physically able. Standing there staring at me was the veiled woman. She slowly walked forward, the sound of her footwear audible on the hard floor: clop clup clop clup. The darkness of the room didn’t help with her intimidating stature as she loomed over me. Suddenly, just like in the ambulance, I felt calm and peace wash over me. My urge to yell was replaced by a feeling of content, but I had to know who or what she was. I mustered the strength to speak, “W-who are you?”
The woman was silent for a few seconds before bending down and getting close to my face, speaking in a soft, alluring whisper. “I am death, and I will walk from you, child.”
Child? I was twenty-eight. Somehow, that got my attention more instead of the fact that this mysterious woman appeared in my room giving herself ominous titles. All sense of alarm and timidness didn’t exist in her presence; she gave off an aura of calm. Before I could ask what she meant, she stood back up and backed off into the darkest shadow of the room. Clop clup clop clup. I assumed she wore boots of some kind, but when she went into the shadows, her figure seemingly dissipated; the vague outline of her figure was no longer detectable by even a trace.
Why are we drawn to horror? Why has this genre endured for centuries, captivating generation after generation of readers? I don't think it's merely the thrill of being frightened, the desire to escape the monotony of everyday life, or the craving for an adrenaline rush. More than perhaps any other genre, horror has a unique ability to explore profound questions through compelling storytelling.
These questions are not simply about the paranormal, the uncanny, or the mysterious—those elusive things we sometimes like to believe exist just beyond the fragile boundary separating our world from another. They are, above all, questions about the eternal: the mysteries that have long haunted inquisitive minds determined to peer beyond the veil of human knowledge—a veil that conceals far more than humanity has yet discovered. The longing for immortality in Edgar Allan Poe's work; Lovecraft's ancient gods; Mary Shelley's exploration of existential doubt, humanity's challenge to God, and the burden of responsibility for one's own creation; Stephen King's fascination with humanity's attempts to defy the natural order and bring back those who have crossed the threshold between life and death. These are far more than stories meant to frighten us before bedtime. They are works that entertain while inviting readers to reflect on how little we truly understand about the world—and how close the unknown may, at times, be.
A. R. Terry's collection of four stories, We're All Colors, came as a genuine surprise to me. More than that, it reminded me of a style of writing I had almost begun to believe no longer existed.
Writing a short story is no easy task. Unlike a novel, it offers an author very little space in which to develop ideas and convey a meaningful message. Horror, in particular, demands not only originality and imagination but also the ability to create atmosphere and sustain a growing sense of unease within remarkably limited confines. In my opinion, A. R. Terry succeeds on every count.
Perhaps the collection's greatest strength lies in its variety. Rather than confining himself to a single niche, A. R. Terry explores an impressive range of themes, ideas, and perspectives, demonstrating both intellectual curiosity and remarkable creative breadth.
The collection opens with an almost philosophical fable built around a simple yet intriguing premise: what if Death could not only be seen but spoken to? Death is the other side of Life, and that means every one of us will meet it sooner or later. But should we be the ones to summon this silent visitor? I have always admired authors who search for unconventional images and unexpected perspectives. Mikhail Bulgakov's portrayal of the Devil in The Master and Margarita, for example, broke with literary tradition in a way that felt almost revolutionary. Terry takes a similarly original approach, presenting a vision of Death unlike the one we have come to expect. His Death is pale and sorrowful, shrouded in dark widow's veils, almost beautiful in its mystery. Its, her, presence inspires neither terror nor awe, nor the crushing despair we so often associate with mortality, but instead a profound sense of peace and quiet acceptance.
Another story evokes the spirit of the Golden Age of science fiction. For reasons I can hardly explain, it brought to mind the darker, more pessimistic novels of Arthur C. Clarke and John Wyndham. Once again, A. R. Terry managed to surprise me. The story unfolds against a backdrop of strange cosmic phenomena, invisible horrors, and a world standing on the brink of apocalypse. Yet its greatest strength lies not in these unsettling images but in its central idea. Rather than simply imagining parallel worlds, A. R. Terry envisions countless alternative versions of the same reality, diverging like reflections in an endless hall of mirrors, each separated by millions of tiny variations and possibilities. The story's elegant structure reaches its full potential in a beautifully circular ending that brings every element into place.
At first glance, the third story appears to be a familiar tale: a little girl facing monsters lurking in the basement and the attic—creatures that, as is so often the case, only she can see. But A. R. Terry once again subverts expectations by shifting the reader's perspective, reminding us that the human mind remains one of the greatest mysteries of all.
The fourth story is perhaps the most recognizably rooted in the traditions of horror and adventure fiction. Its themes echo the works of Jules Verne, Alexander Belyaev, and, to some extent, H. P. Lovecraft, as well as countless films exploring the hidden mysteries of the deep sea. After all, who has never wondered what might be concealed beneath the silent waters of the world's oceans, in those vast, uncharted depths where no human eye has ever reached? It is an exceptionally beautiful story, touched by a quiet melancholy—a gentle, luminous sadness that lingers long after the final page.
Beyond the diversity of themes A. R. Terry explores, each story stands as a complete and carefully crafted work in its own right. Every element—plot, structure, pacing, suspense, composition—is meticulously balanced, with each serving the story's central idea. Despite their brevity, these stories possess the scope and emotional weight of much longer works, each with a compelling beginning, a satisfying climax, and a memorable conclusion. They are wonderfully concentrated pieces of fiction, free of anything superfluous. The narrative dynamism does not overshadow the emotional dimension. Engaging concepts, inventive storytelling, and vivid imagination exist in perfect harmony with the inner lives of the characters and the psychological nuance that A. R. Terry gives them.
I would also like to highlight A. R. Terry's remarkable ability to end a story. Or, more precisely, to craft endings that are genuinely unexpected—ones that can completely transform your understanding of everything that came before. In horror fiction, the ending is often the weakest part of the narrative. A. R. Terry avoids that pitfall entirely. His conclusions feel both surprising and inevitable, fitting seamlessly into the larger design of each story while reshaping the reader's perspective. I have always admired fiction whose endings compel you to revisit what you have just read and see it in a new light. This collection offers exactly that experience.
What impressed me just as much was A. R. Terry's determination to move beyond familiar horror conventions. Rather than dwelling on fear for its own sake or relying on the grotesque and the disturbing, he shifts the focus toward the metaphysical. These are stories of contemplation as much as stories of imagination. Their purpose is not merely to frighten but to invite reflection. There is no evil for evil's sake here, no gratuitous bloodshed, no grotesque monsters, no tired curses or demonic clichés. Instead, A. R. Terry presents something wholly other—something that exists beyond the limits of human understanding without being inherently malevolent simply because it is different.
I would also like to mention the poetic quality of A. R. Terry's prose and imagery. It not only creates the atmosphere these stories require and evokes the spirit of works that have long since become classics, but also lends the writing a quiet, understated beauty.
A. R. Terry's stories are distinguished by their elegance and intelligence, by imaginative ideas brought to life with remarkable skill. Each one leaves behind a distinct aftertaste, inviting the reader to close the book, sit quietly for a while, and let the mind wander somewhere far beyond the familiar—toward other worlds, other dimensions.
We're All Colors offers a refreshing perspective on horror fiction. While its stories are not entirely without literary predecessors, and attentive readers may recognize echoes of works that came before, A. R. Terry's voice remains unmistakably his own. He is not interested in frightening his audience for the sake of fear itself. Instead, these stories gently encourage us to pause, to reflect, and perhaps to catch a glimpse of the pale shadows of another reality gliding along the fragile boundary that separates our familiar world from the abyss of the unknown lying just beyond.
Sometimes, out of the corner of the eye or in fragile pre-dawn dreams, when the veil grows thin—the most perceptive among us catch a faint movement, a quiet whisper that sounds almost like the universe itself asking:
"Hey... do you wanna see something?" (C., quoted)
And like the heroine of one of A. R. Terry's stories, we can answer either no... or yes.