Miluna - The Dolls Mother -
How did you approach horror writing? Did you follow a specific course of study or was it a passion that emerged spontaneously?
I didn’t follow any formal academic path related to writing or the horror genre. In truth, it’s a passion that emerged very early and quite naturally. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always been drawn to anything mysterious, unsettling, or frightening. I started reading horror books and watching horror films at a very young age—even when I was probably a little too young for certain stories! Over time, what started as simple curiosity grew into a real love for the genre. I’ve always been fascinated by horror’s ability to explore deep, often hidden fears and turn them into narrative. So, after immersing myself in that atmosphere for so long, it felt only natural to begin writing my own stories. It’s been a path shaped more by emotion and instinct than by academics, but deeply formative in its own way.
For your first horror novel "The Dolls Mother", what inspired you? Is it based on personal experience or purely fictional?
"The Dolls Mother" is partly autobiographical, but heavily intertwined with fiction. The most authentic element is that I have a twin sister: the deep, sometimes almost telepathic bond between two people raised in perfect symmetry definitely inspired the novel’s central themes of identity, emotional dependence, and fear of loss. However, the actual plot—with its darker developments, family traumas, and supernatural elements—is the product of my imagination. I was intrigued by the idea of starting from something deeply real and familiar, like the love between sisters, and pushing it to its extreme—transforming it into a gothic nightmare.
The novel also deals with mental illness. What draws you to the darkness of the human mind?
It’s a theme that’s personal to me—not out of fascination, but from experience. I don’t write about the darkness of the human mind because it intrigues me, but because I’ve walked through it—or perhaps, because I still walk within it. There’s nothing romantic about psychological suffering: there’s pain, loneliness, invisible fractures. But it’s precisely from there that the stories I write are born—not to exorcise anything, but to give voice to what’s so often left unspoken.
When you write a disturbed or evil character, where do you draw inspiration without falling into stereotypes?
Always from what I know. Not because I’m disturbed or evil, but because every person carries within them shadows, inner conflicts, moments of pain or suppressed rage. When I create a disturbed character, I never think of a “stock villain”: I start instead from emotions I’ve felt, people I’ve met, or genuine human reactions I’ve observed or experienced. I try to understand what happens when a natural emotion—like jealousy, loneliness, or abandonment—is taken to the extreme, distorted over time or by circumstances.
What was the first film that truly terrified you? And why did it affect you so deeply?
"Deep Red" by Dario Argento was the first film that truly terrified me. I was still a child when I saw it, and perhaps that’s precisely why it struck me so deeply. I didn’t yet have the tools to fully separate fiction from reality, and that dark, unsettling, visually powerful world etched itself into my mind like a vivid nightmare.
I especially remember the atmosphere: those dark hallways, the disturbing Goblin soundtrack, the macabre details, and the sudden outbursts of violence. It wasn’t just fear of the “monster,” but a constant sense of menace, of something disturbed and incomprehensible lurking behind every scene. There was a kind of perverse mystery, a decadent beauty I had never encountered before.
That film left me with a feeling of unease that lasted for days, but at the same time, it sparked a strange fascination with horror cinema. It was my first encounter with something that doesn’t just scare—it seduces, captures, and makes you reflect on the deepest fears of the human soul. Looking back, I can say Deep Red didn’t just terrify me: it initiated me into the genre, and maybe even into the taste for mystery and the darker side of things.
Is there an author you consider a master of psychological horror?
Yes, I consider Stephen King a true master of psychological horror—not just because of his popularity or the horror imagery he helped shape. His brilliance lies in his extraordinary ability to delve into the human psyche and make mental spirals, obsessions, and trauma disturbingly plausible. King doesn’t rely solely on monsters or supernatural events to build fear: often, the real terror resides in his characters’ minds, in their primal fears, guilt, and the inner silences that grow until they devour reason.
Novels like The Shining or Misery are perfect examples: isolation, loss of control, psychological claustrophobia—all become tools to dig into the human being more than to scare with external elements. In The Shining, the Overlook Hotel isn’t just a haunted place—it’s an amplifier of Jack Torrance’s internal conflicts, a man on the verge of emotional collapse. In Misery, the real horror arises from dependence and the mental imprisonment between victim and captor in a disturbing, almost intimate dynamic.
For these reasons—and for the consistency with which he’s explored the fragility of the human mind over decades—I’d say Stephen King is not only a master of the genre but also a sharp observer of the psychological nature of evil and in my novel "The Mother of Dolls" there is a tribute to him in fact the two twin protagonists of the story have the names of the child actresses in the film Shining.
Do you think horror serves to exorcise personal or collective fears?
Yes, I believe horror serves a deep cathartic function, but it goes beyond simple “exorcism.” Horror confronts us with our most deeply rooted fears—personal, cultural, or ancestral—not to eliminate them, but to give them shape, a face, a story. When something has a form, it can be understood, discussed, even embraced at times.
Horror is a distorting lens that allows us to observe the invisible: the dread of death, the loss of control, the unknown, alienation. In this sense, horror doesn’t protect us from fear—it invites us to inhabit it for a moment in a safe and symbolic space. It’s a pact between viewer and fiction that allows us to cross terror without being overwhelmed.
On a collective level, horror also acts as a social barometer: it reflects the anxieties of an era. The monsters change with society’s shifting fears—from nuclear threats to pandemics, from “the other” to the inhuman. Watching horror is, in a way, saying: “I know the world is scary. But I can look it in the eye.”
Is the evil in your stories always human, or is there room for the unexplained and the supernatural?
In my stories, evil is often human—rooted in trauma, silence, and inner wounds. But there is also room for another kind of evil, one that escapes logic and manifests in inexplicable, almost supernatural forms. This aspect emerges particularly in my novel The Doll Mother, where the boundary between reality and nightmare grows increasingly thin.
In the book, evil isn’t just in characters’ actions or intentions, but also appears as an unsettling presence—something that seems to come from outside, from an elsewhere we can’t fully understand. I wanted to tell a story of evil that defies rational explanation, yet resonates with us precisely because it unsettles, destabilizes, and forces us to look into the shadows.
Do you write to frighten, disturb, or make people think? Which goal matters most to you?
I’m not interested in scaring for the sake of it. Terror for its own sake—built only on screams and gore—leaves me indifferent. What I truly aim for is to open a door—not to make the reader jump, but to draw them into a world. A dark, unsettling, sometimes inexplicable world.
I write to evoke that slow-creeping unease that gets under your skin. I’m interested in that breaking point between the real and the unknown, where certainty fractures and shadows feel more alive than light.
My goal is to make people reflect through the unknown—to feel the weight of mystery, the allure of the unspoken. I want the reader not just to finish the book or article, but to look back, perhaps with a slight shiver, and ask themselves: what if it were all true?
What horror/thriller cliché do you always try to avoid?
I actively avoid anything that falls into the splatter category, gratuitous gore, or what’s known as “torture porn.” Not because it shocks me or I question its effectiveness, but because these forms often become a mechanical display of violence, stripped of meaning.
True horror, to me, isn’t in exposed entrails or screams of pain, but in the waiting—in the slow-growing unease, in the inability to rationally grasp what surrounds us. Blood might frighten for a moment, but it’s the unknown that lingers in the mind.
I prefer horror that works beneath the surface, that unsettles you, that stays with you after the last page. The cliché of torn flesh is easy—almost lazy. It’s far more difficult, and more interesting, to craft discomfort that doesn’t need a drop of blood to make you squirm.
Have you ever had nightmares related to what you’ve written?
Constantly. Writing about certain worlds is never a neutral exercise: I carry them inside me, I dream about them, sometimes I fear them. The images I put on the page don’t stay there—they follow me, watch me from behind closed eyes. Nightmares are the price I pay for opening certain doors.
But I don’t see it as a side effect—it’s part of the process. If what I write manages to disturb me first, before the reader, then maybe it’s truly touched something deep. The unconscious doesn’t lie.
Nightmares are signals: they tell me I’m tapping into something real, something rooted in shadow. And sometimes, those roots are also mine.
Is writing your only form of expression, or do you explore other art forms as well?
I don’t define myself solely as a writer. First and foremost, I feel like an artist.
Beyond writing, I express my world through poetry, the creation of eerie dolls, and visual art. Each form is an extension of the same inner vision—dark, symbolic, sometimes disturbing.
Whether through words, a puppet, or an image, I always try to evoke a presence, an emotion that vibrates beneath the surface. To me, art knows no strict boundaries: it’s a fluid language that changes form.
