Asian Monsters

Once again the editor went out of her way to find authors and artists from Asian countries to contribute to this collection. A fantastic collection of horrors. 

Edited by Margret Helgadottir

Cover art by Daniele Serra


A Hundred Ghosts Parade Tonight by Xia Jia, translated by Ken Liu
Good Hunting by Ken Liu
Blood Like Water by Eve Shi
Blood Women by Usman T. Malik
Golden Lilies by Aliette de Bodard
Grass Cradle, Glass Lullaby by Isabel Yap
Unrestful by Benjamin Chee (words and art)
Datsue-Ba by Eliza Chan
Let Her In by Eeleen Lee
The Poacher of Qingqiu by CY Yan
Aswang by Fran Terminiello
The Vetalas’ Query by Sunil Patel
Kokuri’s Palace by Yukimi Ogawa
Vikurthimagga by Vajra Chandrasekera (words) and Dave Johnson (art)


A Hundred Ghosts Parade Tonight, Good Hunting, Kokuri’s Palace by Cindy Mochizuki
Blood Like Water, Blood Women, The Vetalas’ Query by Vincent Holland-Keen
Golden Lilies, Datsue-Ba, Let Her In by Kieran Walsh
Grass Cradle, Glass Lullaby, The Poacher of Qingqiu, Aswang by Imran Siddiq

Author Blogs
Margret Helgadottir, on Asian Monsters
Eliza Chan, on the monster who breaks the ice
Eve Shi, in which doors make a great analogy
Yukimi Ogawa, on folklore monsters 

Opening Paragraphs of Asian Monsters

A Hundred Ghosts Parade Tonight by Xia Jia, translated by Ken Liu
Awakening of Insects, the Third Solar Term:
Ghost Street is long but narrow, like an indigo ribbon. You can cross it in eleven steps, but to walk it from end to end takes a full hour.
At the western end is Lanruo Temple, now fallen into ruin. Inside the temple is a large garden full of fruit trees and vegetable patches, as well as a bamboo grove and a lotus pond. The pond has fish, shrimp, dojo loaches, and yellow snails. So supplied, I have food to eat all year.
It’s evening, and I’m sitting at the door to the main hall, reading a copy of Huainanzi, the Han Dynasty essay collection, when along comes Yan Chixia, the great hero, vanquisher of demons and destroyer of evil spirits. He’s carrying a basket on the crook of his elbow, the legs of his pants rolled all the way up, revealing calves caked with black mud. I can’t help but laugh at the sight.
My teacher, the Monk, hears me and walks out of the dark corner of the main hall, gears grinding, and hits me on the head with his ferule.
I hold my head in pain, staring at the Monk in anger. But his iron face is expressionless, just like the statues of buddhas in the main hall. I throw down the book and run outside, while the Monk pursues me, his joints clanking and creaking the whole time. They are so rusted that he moves as slow as a snail.
I stop in front of Yan, and I see that his basket contains several new bamboo shoots, freshly dug from the ground.
‘I want to eat meat,’ I say, tilting my face up to look at him. ‘Can you shoot some buntings with your slingshot for me?’
‘Buntings are best eaten in the fall, when they’re fat,’ says Yan. ‘Now is the time for them to breed chicks. If you shoot them, there won’t be buntings to eat next year.’
‘Just one, pleaaaaase?’ I grab onto his sleeve and act cute. But he shakes his head resolutely, handing me the basket. He takes off his conical sedge hat and wipes the sweat off his face.

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