I've been thinking about Spring Horror.
Autumn Horror is a given, and Summer Horror is its own genre. Winter Horror acknowledges the expected dangers of the cold and dark.
Spring Horror is a bit of a rare breed, spring being dominated by the association of new life and rebirth, but before the rebirth, there is the hungry gap, the starving time. It comes after all the provisions stocked for winter have run out, and the new growth has yet to begin. Animals are pregnant but have yet to give birth, birds are still returning, fish are half under ice. Early spring is when you find the bottom of the barrel. Winter of course will kill you in its serene way, but where the dead stay frozen in the snowy months, they must eventually be revealed by the thaw. The dead leaves from autumn are a carpet of slime yet to be reclaimed by soil; carrion that has been desiccating under the snow emerges again as husks and bones, sleeping where they last rested still wearing their skin like a loose costume; rivers unlock the sodden corpses of the unlucky, anything that had stumbled and was claimed by frozen currents under the ice. The spring ice will claim even more victims as it thaws, when the solid sheets across lakes are no longer trustworthy, and the rivers burst with snow melt. In the spring, water is at its most treacherous; things that were missing return changed. Whatever was hidden, floats up.
Snow becomes rain, icy ground becomes mud, old vegetation becomes mold, cold becomes wet; clothes that kept you warm in winter may be less suited to keeping you dry, and the firewood is damp. As the sun gradually returns, staying in the sky longer but with no more heat than in December, the first things to grow are mildew and fungus; the first flourishing crop of the year is spores, the second is illness. Whatever solidarity or peaceful isolation came from the necessity of sheltering through the winter is less pleasant when fasting becomes a regularity. The outdoors remains hostile, but the home is where madness and melancholy have been fermenting through the longest nights. By spring, habits may have become obsessions, and any small repeated annoyances will have long since grown intolerable. What has grown tight must snap.
Spring will always bear an association with birth and rebirth; it goes without saying that birth can be a source of horror, and before there can be rebirth there must first be a confrontation with rot. Spring Horror is about gnawing the bones that winter left, scouring the empty cellar to find the last shriveled apple; it's finding the corpses you buried staring you in the face, your bloated crimes rising to the top of the old well; it's about watching the world digest the dead; its about planting sins and picking the flowers that come up wrong.
