India-Rose Bower: 'Horror is transformative, it is interested in the hidden and the daring'
BY Katie Smart
10th Feb 2026
In this interview India-Rose Bower, author of the debut novel We Call Them Witches, shares her advice for incorporating horror into your writing and her 'femgore' reading recommendations.
'There are two equally important strands that weave together to make horror. The first is fear. Darkness, terror, sweaty palms and gasping breaths. The second is hope.'
We caught up with India to discuss her tips for entering a writing competition, her approach to worldbuilding and the inspiration behind her debut novel.
We Call Them Witches follows Sara and her family as they fight for survival in a dystopian Britain where most people have been devoured by eldritch creatures. Do you remember when you first had the idea for your interpretation of these ‘witches’?
I spent a lot of time as a kid in the woods near my house. They were massive and also full of old crumbling infrastructure from a hospital that used to be there. You’d be following a trail through brambles and find half a wall, just about standing still, or spot strange little panels nailed to the trees. It was a place where nature had crept back in and wrapped itself around the remnants we’d left behind, often in odd, discomforting ways. I think my witches always sort of existed in my head from all the times I’d been out in those woods and seen strange shapes in the way the trees had grown around humanity.
When I first started writing what would eventually become this book, I started with the fear of something. I wasn’t sure what that something would be, until I thought back to my old childhood fears. Standing in those woods, staring at an ivy covered lamppost and trying to decide if it had moved closer while I wasn’t looking, if the twisted tree with the nails sticking out of its bark was actually a creature, hungry and watching. There’s very little scarier than something normal becoming something unrecognisable, and that’s what the witches are. They’re the old oak at the end of your garden, your favourite teddy bear, the tripping tap in your kitchen, twisted into something horrifying.
Your post-apocalyptic world draws on mythology, paganism and folklore – how did you approach worldbuilding for your novel?
A lot of the folklore that went into the book is from stories I was told growing up, about spells and small rituals of protection. That was the foundation for Ma’s beliefs. I’m sure some of it isn’t accurate at all, but I was always taught that intention is the most important part of any spell, and Ma has intention in spades. In terms of the apocalyptic setting, I did a lot of research into gardening, seasonal changes, how livestock fare when they’ve been abandoned for long periods of time. I looked at images of ruined places or forgotten villages. Most of my actual research was into survival, rather than folklore, since the folklore I drew from was simply stories my grandfather and mum told me, and much of that was made up on the spot to keep me entertained on long car journeys!
That said, Lilian’s small protection rituals, like her bracelet to protect against Nazr, are not beliefs I grew up with. They’re things I’ve learned from my partner, who is Pakistani. I think that’s the important thing about folklore - it was never one strict set of rules or stories. It changed, adapted with every new person who told the tale. Folk stories are fluid, like a pair of worn boots gathering dirt and leaves and holes. Well-loved and well-patched.
What advice would you give to a writer incorporating horror into their writing? How do you balance the scales between unsettling your readers and keeping them turning pages?
There are two equally important strands that weave together to make horror. The first is fear. Darkness, terror, sweaty palms and gasping breaths. The second is hope.
A story that is only made of fear may be frightening for the first few chapters, but soon you’ll become apathetic. We’re not designed to handle unrelenting fear and, eventually, we acclimatise. This is why horror films have difficulty with prolonged series. By the fifth time you watch Lorraine Warren’s face go pale or Ghostface appear from behind a door, you’re expecting it. You’re not scared anymore, and there’s only so much upping the ante that can be done.
If you read a terrifying scene, though, and in the next chapter you see softness between the characters, see them laugh or talk about their imagined futures, the horror becomes so much more personal. You know them now. You’ve been invited into their hope, so when the monster comes crashing through the window, claws razor sharp, their deaths feel like your death. You don’t care about the stranger in the first five minutes of a Buffy episode, but you do care about Buffy.
There’s a renewed appetite for horror, particularly ‘femgore’ stories told through a feminist lens and narratives with queer representation. What draws you to the genre?
I used to hate horror. When I was fifteen, my friends showed me Sinister, and I had to sleep on the floor in my mum’s room for three nights. I actively avoided horror books. I hid Thomas Olde Heuvelt’s Hex in a pillowcase because it scared me so much.
I can’t say for sure what changed, but one day I put on Scream as a way to kill time, and it changed everything. I started devouring any horror I could get my hands on. I kept finding strange, unique stories, tales that felt fresh and new and daring. It’s such a rich genre, and it’s one of the few (along with comedy) that relies on a visceral audience reaction for its success. There’s nothing you can’t explore with horror, and nothing that horror shies away from. I think that’s why so many women are drawn to it, and to writing particularly gory books, books that deal in body horror and cannibalism and blood. We can explore things that are usually taboo for women to explore; pain, anger, lust.
Horror is transformative; it is interested in the hidden and the daring, the themes and people that are usually rebuffed by society. It’s no wonder that queer people and women are so drawn to it, nor that marginalised groups are having such a ‘moment’ in the horror world. Black horror is on the rise, as is horror that explores the experiences of trans people. Horror has always been, and will always be, a genre from the underrepresented and oppressed.
What books would you recommend to readers who are interested in reading more dystopian horror stories?
Whittling down this list is not easy. There’s so much amazing dystopian horror out there. Gather the Daughters by Jennie Melamed and I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman are both gorgeously told, unsettling stories about girls navigating a dark, lonely future that has no place for them.
Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt isn’t exactly a dystopia, in that it takes place in a modern day UK, but I’d argue that we’re not far from living in a dystopia. It’s also a deeply difficult read, managing transphobia and racism and imperialism and national pride.
If you’re looking for short stories, Gemma Files’ This is How it Goes is an honest look at survival post-apocalypse. Or if you’re more interested in graphic novels, James Tynion IV’s The Nice House on the Lake is a good place to start, in that you won’t be able to sleep entirely well for a good while after you finish reading.
An early draft of your debut was longlisted for Discoveries 2023 – how did your time as part of this writing development programme help you grow as a writer?
The two week Discoveries Writing Development course, led by Charlotte Mendelson, was actually one of the things that helped me get in control of my characters. I was having a hard time getting to grips with some of them – I even went so far as to do Myers Briggs personality tests for all of them, just to see if that would help. It didn’t.
But Charlotte’s advice really made me look at the core of who my characters were. What they wanted, what they needed, and how those things could be in opposition. Silly things too, like what colours they made me think of, or smells, or tastes. Knowing that your character reminds you of apple pie might not seem very helpful, but it really helped me connect to them, and see them as fully formed people rather than ideas. This was also the time where we were able to share our work with each other and receive feedback. Getting advice and praise from the rest of my Discoveries cohort, who are all incredible and dedicated writers, was invaluable in giving me the confidence I needed.
Do you have any tips for the people reading this who are preparing to enter a competition for unpublished writers?
Just do it. Don’t overthink. No one is looking for, or expecting, perfection. They’re looking for a voice that’s clear and unique and wholly you. I very nearly didn’t submit my work to the Discoveries competition, because, after years of entering competitions and getting nowhere, I didn’t see how this one would be any different. It’s hard to see the potential in your own work, so don’t waste your time trying to be someone else’s idea of perfect. Write what you care about, what you’d love to read, and be brave.
Get your hands on a copy of We Call Them Witches, out now from Penguin Michael Joseph.
India studied on our Discoveries Writing Development course after her debut was longlisted for the Discoveries Prize in 2023.
Discoveries is an annual novel-writing competition for unpublished women writers currently residing in the UK or Ireland. It is run by the Women's Prize Trust in partnership with Curtis Brown Creative, Curtis Brown literary agency and Audible. Find out more.
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