Tenebrous Press, that scrappy little outfit run by Alex Woodroe and Matt Blairstone, has been slinging Brave New Weird since 2022, a series that’s less a collection and more a rebuke to the sanitized, predictable sludge clogging up horror’s arteries. The Brave New Weird anthologies aim to bottle the raw, unfiltered essence of New Weird Horror, where the grotesque and the existential crash into each other like drunks at a bar fight. It’s not just about scaring you; it’s about making you question the meat sack you’re trapped in and the world that’s trying to chew it up. Volume Three is their latest swing, and it’s a wild one. Uneven, occasionally brilliant, and unapologetically bizarre.

The anthology’s mission is clear from the jump: unearth stories that don’t just push boundaries but set them on fire and dance in the ashes. Woodroe and Blairstone aren’t here to coddle you with jump scares or tired tropes. They’re curating a space for voices that don’t fit neatly into the horror mainstream, pulling from a global pool of writers who’d rather carve their initials into your psyche than churn out another vampire romance. This volume, like its predecessors, is a snapshot of the weirdest, most daring short fiction from 2024, selected through a process that feels like panning for gold in a sewer. Messy, but you might find something shiny.

Let’s get to the meat. Brave New Weird Vol. 3 packs 24 stories, plus a shortlist of other notable works and a smattering of “Bravest, Newest, Weirdest” picks across novels, comics, and games. The stories range from cosmic dread to body horror to straight-up unclassifiable madness, and they’re not afraid to get under your skin, sometimes literally. The editors’ intros set the tone: Woodroe’s musing on tending a “garden of Weird and wonder” is earnest but sharp, while Blairstone’s nihilistic optimism reads like he’s shouting into the void and expecting it to shout back. Both make it clear they’re fighting for art in a world that’s trying to drown it in AI-generated slop and corporate gatekeeping.

Here’s a rundown of some of my favorites:

• “A Contract of Ink and Skin” by Angela Liu: Holy shit, this one’s a gut-punch. Liu’s story is a masterclass in body horror that doesn’t just revel in the grotesque but uses it to explore sacrifice and identity. The premise, ink made from the blood of the Cursed, injected into your eyes, fingers, and lips to form a “Contract” with shadowy entities, is hauntingly vivid. Liu’s prose is like a scalpel, precise and merciless, cutting through to the raw nerve of what it means to lose yourself to something bigger. The imagery of “black globes of your eyes” and “a hurricane of dark light” will stick with you like a bad tattoo. This is the kind of story that makes you want to check your own skin for stray ink.
• “Vining” by Emmett Nahil: If Liu’s story is a scalpel, Nahil’s is a sledgehammer wrapped in moss. This tale of a botany and medical student duo grafting psychoactive plants into human flesh is equal parts tender and horrifying. The Root Oracle, a mandrake-belladonna hybrid that speaks in cravings, is one of the most unsettling entities I’ve encountered in fiction this year. Nahil’s ability to blend visceral body horror with the intimacy of a doomed relationship is fucking exquisite. “I felt more lush than ever; I wanted to fuck him” is the kind of line that makes you pause and rethink your life choices. This story is a standout for its fearless dive into the primal and the profane.
• “The Man Who Collected Ligotti” by Erik McHatton: This one’s a love letter to Thomas Ligotti’s bleak philosophy, wrapped in a meta-narrative that’s as creepy as it is clever. Told through four perspectives (Performer, Paranoiac, Dreamer, and Collector) it’s a descent into obsession and cosmic nihilism. McHatton nails the Ligottian vibe without aping it, creating a story that feels like staring into a void that’s staring back. The Collector’s final monologue, with its talk of distilling the “Tsalal” from Ligotti’s acolytes, is chilling and quotable: “I will bring the Void to us.” It’s a rare story that makes you feel both insignificant and complicit.
• “The Tangle (Did Not Kill Kitsault)” by K.A. Wiggins: This story is a slow burn that pays off with a creeping sense of dread. Set in the ghost town of Kitsault, it weaves together multiple perspectives—truck drivers, kids in the woods, a fire chief—to hint at an ancient, unknowable force. Wiggins’ prose is dense but evocative, painting a landscape where the forest itself feels alive and pissed off. It’s less about jump scares and more about the weight of something watching you from the shadows. The fragmented structure might frustrate some, but it mirrors the chaos of a town unraveling.
• “Gravitational Pull” by Susan L. Lin: A quieter entry, this one’s about an astronaut facing a mysterious bleed-out on the moon. Lin’s restraint is her strength, letting the horror build through subtle details like “tiny droplets of blood suspended inside my helmet.” It’s a story that captures the isolation of space and the fragility of the human body without overplaying its hand. It’s not the flashiest, but it’s haunting in its simplicity.

Not every story hits these heights. Some, like “Mad Studies” by [sarah] Cavar, aim for cerebral weirdness but get bogged down in academic jargon, feeling more like a lecture than a story. “Pig House” by Kay Vaindal has a killer concept, self-induced abortion in a grotesque setting, but its execution feels rushed, like it needed another draft to really land the punch. Others, like “You Can Leave Your Helmet On” by Tehnuka, lean too heavily on whimsy, diluting the horror with a nudge-wink tone that doesn’t quite gel with the anthology’s darker vibes. The collection’s diversity is its strength, but it also means you’ll hit a few duds among the gems.

The shortlist and “Bravest, Newest, Weirdest” sections are a nice touch, pointing readers to other weird fiction worth checking out, like Premee Mohamed’s The Siege of Burning Grass or the game Animal Well. Definitely going to be digging into the stuff I haven’t heard of.

Brave New Weird Vol. 3 is a bold, messy love letter to the fringes of horror. Some stories are derivative, and the anthology’s ambition sometimes outstrips its cohesion, but when it hits, it hits like a fucking freight train full of nightmares. Compared to the broader horror fiction landscape, where too many books play it safe with recycled zombies or haunted houses (for the love of god, please stop it with the fucking haunted houses), this collection takes risks that mostly pay off. Its peaks flirt with greatness. It’s a must-read for anyone who thinks horror should unsettle your soul, not just your jump reflex.

TL;DR: Brave New Weird Vol. 3 is a gloriously unhinged dive into the New Weird, with stories like Liu’s and Nahil’s that’ll crawl into your brain and lay eggs. It’s not flawless, but it’s got more guts than most horror anthologies. Read it if you want your fiction to fuck you up a little.