Why Supernatural Stories Annoy Me Lately

I’m done.

I’m just done.

If a story is about zombies or vampires, and the story’s title includes the word “bite” or “dead” or “undead” or even “night”, I’m done.

If a story has some fiddly-diddly pun title that wants to imply being bitten by a predator is some sort of sexy snack-time, I’m done.

If the sign over the zombie apocalypse shelter says “You don’t have to be crazy to work  here, but it helps!!!”, I’m done.

Sharks don’t take smaller fish out to dinner dates. Wolves don’t take sheep to the movies. Mongooses definitely don’t marry snakes.

I’m done with toothless monsters, neutered villains, the ineffective, useless scares that scare no one.

If I want romance, I watch Casablanca. If I want some real star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet has never gotten old.

If I want monsters, I’ll read IT.  I’ll read Frankenstein. Lovecraft is always there to scare my pants off.

Monsters don’t love YOU, they love the way you taste. A man who lives for 400 years drinking the blood of humans doesn’t have much to talk to you about over a nice chicken caesar. Monsters are not YOU.  They don’t care about how your day went, or if you got promoted, or if you have a run in your stockings. The monster only cares about whether or not you’re slow enough to catch, to tear, to rend, to devour.

You don’t love a monster. You don’t romance a monster. You don’t try to change a monster. To quote a film I love , “You have a cancer, you talk sweet to it? No. You cut it out.”  You flee it, you fight it, you kill it. You wake up the next night, shivering in the dark, covered with the black, rotted blood of last night’s monster and you do it again. And again. And again. Every day, every night, until you’re safe. Until those you love are safe. You kill and kill and kill until you’re back on the top of the food chain.

From here on out, every chick-detective with something to prove who dates the undead or sweet talks the supernatural, every time a high school cheerleader falls in love with a demon, every single mother who works nights at the blood bank who romances a master vampire is a traitor. A traitor to humanity. A traitor to our species.

Tell me the stories of the survivors. Tell me the stories of the courageous few who stand against the threat. Tell me about the struggle to reassert human dominance in a world gone topsy-turvy and terrifying.

But don’t dare tell me about hybrid vampire-human babies. Traitors.



  1. I love this and I am in full support of the dislike of popular (and I hesitate to call it this) horror/romance novels. I can’t stand books and movies like Twilight, they disgust me. Werewolves are supposed to be hunted like the vampires, with extreme prejudice. I never remember anyone living if they fell in love with classic Dracula, because they were killed by him.

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