Bio

I was born Elaine Marie Stanley on September 10, 1970 in
my native state of Connecticut.

As a child, I spent many hours in the woods behind my
house, exploring in a world of make-believe, where stick
forts were fortresses against the enemy and snaky vines
could turn ordinary kids into Tarzan.

Years later, my private wood was cleared in favor of grass. I
swear that, for me, the magic and mystery of childhood
came tumbling down with each tree that fell. That's when I
knew that all my adventures would have to find a new home
if they were going to survive. They've lived safely in my
imagination ever since.

My first published work was a limerick dedicated to a noisy
neighborhood boy--a dare devil, Evil Knievel wannabe, who
was often in hot water with his mother.

I wrote many poems that year in Mrs. Dempsey's fourth grade class. (The fact was that we'd miss
recess if we didn't produce our assigned poem or story.) Even so, it was the first time a teacher
had put the idea in my head that everyone had a story to tell and that we were all writers.
Wherever you are, Mrs. Dempsey, I thank you. What you gave me that year was worth missing
recess (only one, I swear!) and I still have my mimeographed copy of our collective class works.

I had an early introduction to thrillers and loved a good ghost story. I subsequently developed a
deap-seated fear of the dark because of it. It wasn't the darkness so much, I suppose, as what
might be lurking there. I would watch scary movies like "Rosemary's Baby," "The Exorcist," "The
Shining," and "Jaws" and then check behind every piece of furniture and under my bed before
turning out the lights. Rule number one after watching horror flicks: Never let your foot dangle out
from under the covers because you never know what or who might grab it.

To me, the scariest moments in movies are the small things that build the anticipation for
something worse: Mia Farrow's slow walk to the cradle, Linda Blair's revolving head, Jack's
manuscript with 500 pages of "All work and no play make Jack a dull boy." And who could forget
the first victim of that famous menacing Great White shark, who reached down during her swim
and couldn't find her leg. Ouch.

I like horror because there's something about a scary story that stays with you, long after you've
left it. It's pops into your head when you wake up in the middle of the night to a strange sound. It's
there in the shifting shadows in your room, in the creepy cellar you played in as a child. A good
horror story truly haunts you. It lives in the dark corners of your mind and jumps out at you when
you least expect it.

And, let's face it. No matter how scary the story is, we always go running back for more.

E. M. Alexander began working at the age of six, delivering newspapers up a steep, and decidedly
creepy, hill called Robert's Rd. She has worked as a student library aid, a pizza maker, a
tee-shirt maker, as well as a receptionist and bill-collector. Currently, she is a freelance writer for
a local community newspaper, The Reminder. One of the 2006 recipients for the Barbara Karlin
Grant, E. M. Alexander resides in Connecticut with her husband, Phillip, and her son, Ethan.
"Death at Deacon Pond" is her first novel.