Katurian usually tried to avoid answering this question. Admitting that he wrote gruesome (and only gruesome) stories made him feel frustratingly one note, but also hyper-conscious of where all those images were coming from. That bolted-up room in his parents house. The screams reverberating off the walls. The answers he gave were vague. 'Fairy tales.' 'Short stories.' 'Stuff.'

"They're a little downbeat," he said, sheepish. Only now did he realize how much worse they'd probably sound from a mental patient. "I mean dark. Like Sweeney Todd, but with, um." He scratched behind his ear, frowning a bit. "Without any singing. I think, anyway. It's been a long time since I've seen anything put on. Not since I was little."