It Started with a Ghost: An Interview with Ann Dávila Cardinal
By Bianca Viñas
It’s a late night in College Hall, a nearly 200-year-old building constructed in deference to the Victorian Gothic and bloodied Renaissance, and a pipe organ the breadth of the second floor stares down floor length curtains. Once a seminary and war hospital, the blueprint gives way to artist-witnessed hauntings. I do not use the basement restroom because it is said there’s a soldier mid-hallway that reaches through walls with a glass stare. I work in a bookstore, wedged between the grand entrance and staircase, and, tonight, I am staying late to do inventory, though the possibility of writing under lamplight, off the clock, when all is quiet, motivates me deeply.
Mid-fall is the season of “book seances”—when one creates a winding pendulum of open books, writer at center, summoning what I believe to be the spirit of some ancient poetic soothsayer. The custodian pokes his head through the door to let me know he is locking up, that I will be alone with “Ann.” I pause.
Café Anna, at the opposite end of the first-floor art gallery, is named after the ghost of Anna Wheeler, a woman shot dead in 1897 by her fiancé’s spurned lover who was later committed to a psych ward after her failed suicide attempt. Anna’s last image before she bled out was the College Tower where it is said she muses at sunset. He clarifies: “She usually stays late. Her office is on the top floor.” I nod. Ann Cardinal he means, a faculty member who recruited me and gave me my first job as a writer: a sensitivity reader for her debut novel, Five Midnights. I close the bookstore door and begin working. Two hours pass, and it is silent. Then, I hear a rumbling through the storage closet wall. I put a box down and hear a toilet flush. I ignore it, continue stocking. Not five minutes later, I hear the plumbing vibrate once more as it flushes a second time. I walk outside the bookstore and peak my head up the staircase.
It’s pitch-black. I call out and don’t get an answer. I walk up the stairs and hear talking. When I get to the second floor, the door is wedged open, and all I can see through the floor-to-ceiling curtain, slightly parted, is a grand piano in the shadow of the moonlight. I turn around and tiptoe towards the restroom. Something tells me not to open the door, but I do, the width of an inch, and hear what could only be described as white noise at the lowest volume. My descent down the stairs is fast—I take more than two steps at a time. I lock the bookstore door behind me and find Ann’s contact. She is an astounding writer who deals in myth, horror, and murder. As I wait for her response, I hear more commotion upstairs, further towards the wall behind me. Whatever is moving has left the bathroom and is in the grand hall. Ann responds politely, excusing Anna’s penchant for flushing toilets, and says not to be afraid. After a little silence, we both decide to leave for the night, joining for coffee later that week at the appropriately named Café Anna. For the remainder of the year, I let the soldier and the lover have the two restrooms. I run through the snow to my studio, until Anne tells me another tale of that building that makes my mind run wild.
To say Ann Dávila Cardinal has guided me as a writer and curious ghost adventurer is an understatement. A sequel, several anthologies, and two novels later, with a second nomination for the International Latino Book Award since her last win in 2020, she has not only traversed the genre of horror and young adult fiction, integrating queer culture, tales of the island of Puerto Rico, and tough topics like racism, ageism, religion, and environmental crisis within her works, but she also shows up for her past students and colleagues the same way she showed up for Anna: with compassion, understanding, and a bit of magnetism towards the unknown.
Recently, we caught up over Zoom. Find our conversation below:
You have the most grounding writers’ nook, surrounded by your work and the authors you love. What opens the door to horror in your writing, that jump from light to dark, here? How do you transport (Candles? Book circle? Ambient Sounds?)
You know, my office is an important part of it. A lot of people say they need a pristine, no-clutter [space] to be of clear mind. Obviously, I am not of that school. This is how my mind is: it is filled with [lots of] color and things going on. There are some things, in terms of mood… I do have incense—I use palo santo and other kinds of incense—but in general, it is less magical and more of a deal I make with myself.
For instance, right now, I am working on the first draft of a middle-grade novel, and first drafts are very hard for me. I have to force myself to kind of sit there because first drafts are always shitty. That’s the rule: the shitty first draft. And, so, it’s a dilemma, but, you know, you have to go in there and at least do a scene. I will sit down and do it, [one scene]. I definitely need my things around me: the colors, the items, the weird [relics]. You can see the Jason mask with the flag of Puerto Rico, which is perfect for a horror writer, but in terms of summoning it, it’s really sort of boring and very much like, “sit your ass down and write.”
It doesn’t feel quite as mystical, but when I revise—that is my favorite. Those second and third drafts are where you’ve made the material and now you are going to make the art…it’s where you spin it into something meaningful. Though, I do light my incense and always have to have a drink! Beyond that, it is not terribly ritualistic, but much more practical [because] I am trying to make this something I can do and survive on.
Gilbert and Gubar wrote about the proverbial Mad Woman in the Attic in Victorian literature, a lady either self-starved or crazy. The first line in your novel, The Storyteller’s Death, reads: “there was always some old woman dying in the back room when I was a child.” I sense the weight of that line in questioning female representation…the generations of trauma emanating from that one sentence. You, of course, felt it. How did you continue to write this novel knowing the tremendous task you were undertaking?
It was not that I was consciously aware, in terms of that line. It actually started in conversation about how different cultures treat their elderly and I said to a friend, “you know, in Puerto Rico, there was always some old woman dying in the back room when I was a kid.” And she was like, “that is your first line!” It was more about respect than about putting this woman [away] in a place as if she is something to be embarrassed of. Those old women in the attic, in the back room…those stories died with them. And there are a lot of stories. God. I don’t even know how many stories died with those generations of my family—that I regret not at least documenting. So, the ones that I did hear became very important and that is what The Storyteller’s Death was born from. It’s about how much you have to offer when society thinks your invincible… when you have gray hair [and they think] you have less to offer. As a member of society, it’s kind of the opposite…not kind of! It is the opposite. I think about the treasure troves that died with these women, so this book is about honoring that.
In Puerto Rican culture, when something painful happens, we don’t talk about it. Those generations die with or dispense a cautionary detail, not quite the full story. Our children get an even smaller snippet until it dwindles down to nothing. For us, we know what silence means in our culture. I sense the heaviness of the task: you have to gather all that information and blow it wide open.
It’s not just the heaviness of the task; it’s almost like it’s forbidden. My family also circled the wagons. You do not air your dirty laundry in public. We don’t talk about Bruno! It is very much about that—“We do not talk about that?”
Why not? Bruno is very much a part of the family. I think that is where the gringa part of me and Puerto Rican come up against one another. I am very much about truth telling. This book is about truth telling. I definitely brush up against my family in that. I needed to tell these stories to process them and move forward.
It gives you renewed magic to go back to the island and write—especially about myths like El Cuco, ghosts of generations past, the underworld. Are there other myths now fighting for your attention?
The island is so rich with myths and stories. I was in this great anthology, Our Shadows Have Claws, which was all Latinx writers from different parts of the world, and we would choose our myth. The one I had to choose from Puerto Rico was “Los Desmembrados,” the dismembered, this particular highway in the west part of the island where it was said that dismembered body parts of people that died on the highway walked at night. I said, “I have to do that.” There are myths I don’t even know about that I am desperate to learn—the aliens of El Yunque [rainforest], for one. There is so much I have heard over the years that’s always calling to me, especially because I enjoy writing horror.
Amparo Ortiz just did a beautiful graphic novel, Saving Chupi, so I think the Chupacabra has been covered. Now, I might make up my own, one that has its own magic to it. My mother didn’t tell me about El Cuco. It was something that I found in adulthood, and I was really interested in the fact that he appeared in all of these Latinx cultures all over the world. He had different names—El Cucuy, El Coco—but it was all something that parents threatened their kids with. First of all, why? What a horrible thing to do to a kid. It was one of the reasons why I was so anxious when I was trying to sleep. It fascinates me when they transcend boundaries of countries and continents.
Climate change. This is so important to you and something you wish to continue to create awareness about, both in Puerto Rico and abroad. Tell us about this discovery and how it lit a fire in you.
I have spent the last few months researching and thinking [about a] world where the polar icecaps already melted, and the temperature has risen. You can see it in Puerto Rico. My uncle has a condo in Luquillo, and I said something to him about wanting to buy my own. He [responded], “why would you want to do that? This [place] has an expiration date.” He is a very practical man, so when he said that it really hit me. “Look out there! That shore is five feet closer than it was when I bought this place.”
So, it is here. Now, with the temperatures rising around the country, you can’t deny it anymore. I made it a goal, several years ago, that this topic is in every one of my works in some way or another. Now, “Cli-fi” (climate fiction) really interests me. I am working on a scripted podcast with a group of producers about eco-horror, and it takes place in Puerto Rico. It has to do with pharmaceutical waste dumping—really alarming stuff. Nobody talks about these things. Even the temperature! We are going to the movies to see Barbie and it’s like, “the planet is burning!”
It interests me to explore [climate fiction]. For two books, I have been lost in that research and imagining what Puerto Rico is going to look like. It will still be there, but it will be smaller after the icecaps melt. [I think about] what Vermont is going to look like: we are already getting climate refugees coming here. What is it going to look like when this happens…when the edges of our country are under water? That is what fictional horror is about. The real stuff that truly scares me has a basis in truth. Some books [in the past] were prophetic. Feed by M.T. Anderson was a brilliant one. Basically, everything he wrote twenty-something years ago has come true. I'm finding wisdom in those kinds of books and some earlier books about climate change that have called forth a lot of this. It’s creepy to me. It’s interesting. And it’s its own form of horror. I made a deal with a friend many years ago to always have a queer character in my book because there was not enough representation at that time. Now, this is the other topic: I have to do climate issues, particularly in books for kids. I am in deep these days.
What is it going to look like when this happens…when the edges of our country are under water? That is what fictional horror is about. The real stuff that truly scares me has a basis in truth.
In an earlier conversation, we had talked about The Last of Us and how it wasn’t the zombies that did it for the show—maybe it gave it that initial flare the first few episodes—but afterwards, it was really the human reactions that shook us. Bringing up topics like climate change and depicting it in novels, YA in particular, readers used to ask the question, “how will we react when this happens?” It is happening, right now, on a grander scale.
It is definitely happening at a faster pace. The whole theme of fungus in The Last of Us is terrifying, yet fascinating. Imagining novels that are tied to science is really interesting. Particularly when you think about middle grade, which I just started writing in, because they are the ones that are going to have to deal with this. I doubt they are going to be able to fix it. They are the ones that are going to have to live in this their whole lives. So, to write that for them, these truth tellers and 11-year old’s that say what they think, this honesty that they have… I think it would be dishonest to not have these [conversations with them] and have these topics represented in some way shape or form, because that is going to be their reality.
Still from The Last of Us
It’s also important to put the hard work of including the solutions in these novels, because if they are going to go to these novels for joy or horror, it is so rewarding to know that you did your research. “This is scary, but this is how you deal with it.” So, when they get older and delve deeper into these solutions, they can have hope.
Hope. This is one of the differences, for me, between writing adult horror and writing horror for teens or kids—that there has to be hope. There are some adult horror novels that have hope, but for kids, there really has to be an element of hope. That is what we want to give them. We don’t want them to think “well, zombies are coming, so I might as well give up hope.” I like the idea of having an element of hope in a horror novel.
We spoke about the Stanley Hotel in earlier conversations, the ultimate horror scape for writers, and you mentioned confined spaces…a grave. Tell us more about that.
Haunted hotels, things like that, aren’t as frightening to me. I don’t know whether it’s because of years of exposure and working in College Hall at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, which was haunted, but for me, it [fear] is small spaces. There is a great middle-grade horror novel, Small Spaces (Katherine Arden), which scared the bejeezus out of me. It’s about not having anywhere to turn, not having anywhere to go, not having anyone but yourself. I am fascinated by that idea of being stuck somewhere.
I did research for a project (that did not come to be) about people being stuck in a cave system underwater. I do not dive. I am asthmatic. So, the thought of it makes me panic. I watched all these movies, and read these books and stories, about being caught in a cave system with some sort of threat—and that undid me. It has to do with breathing, since I have dealt with asthma since I was five years old, and also about small spaces where there is nowhere to turn.
The trick with horror is to find things that are universally frightening. I haven’t written about dolls yet. As a child, I hated baby dolls, and when I told my mother that, she said, “Oh I did too! I used to think they were dead babies dipped in plastic.” To tell a seven-year-old this is just horrifying. No wonder I grew up to be who I am!
It’s about not having anywhere to turn, not having anywhere to go, not having anyone but yourself […] The trick with horror is to find things that are universally frightening.
There are things that scare me that I have not quite written about and one day want to write about, like mascots. They creep me out. Who would want to do that? What is under there? Is there really somebody under there? There are things I want to explore in the future, but to find those universal themes that resonate with people is the trickiest thing about being a horror writer. You just have to be true to yourself. The thing is, I think the things you were scared of when you were eleven sticks with you in some ways as an adult.
Breakup from Hell was hailed a paranormal rom com with equal parts wit and rebellion, challenging religion, and everything we thought about quaint small towns. What genre norms do you want to challenge next in your writing, especially in YA and middle-adult horror?
I loved writing Breakup from Hell. A lot of that had to do with challenging my own feelings about the Catholic Church, because I was raised Catholic. Also, how do you adapt that for a modern generation, a world that is being exposed to the Catholic Church? Millennials and Gen Z are not going to trust it the way that we were forced to. I sort of like challenging those norms, as well as keeping those things that interest you. I have written a couple of Saint books. That interests me.
In terms of what is going to come, I like the idea of taking something that should be innocuous and turning it on its head—like dolls, the church, rituals. Midnight Mass is a show that I believe has some of the most brilliant writing ever. It has a slow burn…but when it starts! When that fire takes off? Whoosh! I like turning things on their head and looking at them from a different perspective.
For me, at this point, pretty much everything is going to be climate-related because it is so top-of-mind for me. “Enjoying,” is not the right word. I have been living in this kind of world for months and I can’t say that I enjoy it, but creating something out of it is fulfilling in its own way.
What happened in Montpelier, VT, the flood…I never thought that would happen there.
The week before the flood, I was very cocky in terms of natural disaster and how Vermont felt very insulated, especially where I live, in Lamoille County, where I am surrounded by mountains and valleys. Then, the flood happens a few days later, and reality hits. You are never immune, and you never see these things coming. The thing is, Montpelier has been there before, and to see it happen again, especially with small businesses, it’s really awful. The last time it flooded, a colleague of mine told me about H.P. Lovecraft’s short story, “The Whisperer in Darkness.” [In it, there was] a flood in Montpelier, and there were dismembered tentacles being found in the water as it rushed by. There was something about it that never quite tells you why it really haunts you. So, maybe, that is in the future as well—writing about the flood.
Okay. Last question. You write screenplays and podcasts with your son, Carlos Victor Cardinal. You teach and guide writers, even making them personalized felt-creatures to take on their writing travels. Your cousin recently hosted a gathering for Puerto Ricans in Vermont where you bonded with all manner of creative hearts. What artist collaboration do you hope to nurture next?
My son, Carlos, and I, are writing scripts pretty actively. Right now, because of the strike, we are focusing on unscripted audio podcasts. We are looking forward to getting back into television once the strike is over. Writing with him is great. We think a lot. In his mind, he is a Gen Z-Millennial, so his mind works in a different way [than mine].
I am also fortunate to be friends with Luis Guzman, the actor that lives in Vermont. Whenever I tell him about a project I’m working on, he asks, “Is there a part in there for me?” That is a future goal of mine: to be able to have one of those things happen. I do write parts for him, and I would love to work with him. He is such an amazing actor and human being. He’s just there in the supermarket. He’s just a regular person—and a very good human.
I have done a couple of anthologies, which is another fun way to do projects. At the start of my career, I cowrote a book, Sister Chicas, published in 2006, and I did that with two Latinx poets. It was an amazing experience, but I feel like, at this point, I am going off into writing my [own] things, and it is amazing to me how much I have learned about my own writing in the last year. I did an MFA program, an MA program in writing… all of these things. If you are doing it right, you learn things all the time.
I like talking about the untalkable.
Right now, my focus is experimenting with new forms. I am doing this new podcast, and it keeps my mind fresh. With the scripted podcast, you are telling a story entirely by sound. It is not an audio book. It is a serial, like they used to be, and you are painting that picture with sound. It’s like a writing exercise on steroids. I really have been enjoying that.
I like the idea of trying different forms for different age groups. I’m trying middle-grade and am surprised to find that I love the eleven-year-old voice. That is what keeps it interesting for me. I’m sure there will be a collaborative project in the future. I get together with writer friends and make a point of doing it every week. I have a friend, a horror writer in Wales, and we talk every two weeks on Zoom—she is a Gothic horror writer, a beautiful writer, and we share work with each other. More importantly, we talk about the [writing] life and making it happen. Nobody talks about the business of writing. It is one of those faux pas on the college level, the MFA level. It is so not encouraged to talk about the business, but like you said earlier, so many of us want to make a living out of this.
I like talking about the untalkable. I have these friends and we can just sort of let it out and talk about the details. It’s refreshing and it’s necessary—if not, you go out and don’t know what to expect. You’ve spent all this time learning about the craft, but the business part of it is a necessary piece. So, to have a community of people you can sort of talk to about the daily workings of the business-end of writing is invaluable. I wouldn’t be where I am without my community, and my mentors are very often twenty-years younger than I am…I could be their mother. Mentors don’t need to be older than you—that is a myth. These people are further along in their careers and incredibly helpful to me. I will ask for help. I will ask for information. I listen. I pay attention. It keeps me young.
Find out more about Ann Dávila Cardinal and her published/forthcoming works here.
Interview conducted by Bianca Viñas (@uncategorical_love).