Soren Narnia is the author of two podcasts consisting entirely of his original fiction: Knifepoint Horror and Those Snowy Nights You Read to Me, They’ll Never Be Forgotten. Counterweight has adapted several of his works for the stage before (Bride, Groom, Sunday, Forever and Dream By Day, both in 2021), and we’re thrilled to be staging an adaptation of The Copper Cup in November 2024, a thoughtful and unsettling story about ghosts, memory, and family.

He was kind enough to answer a few questions about this story, his writing in general, and horror as a genre.

Where did the idea for this story come from?
“This was an ode to the experience of listening to tiny voices coming through the radio late at night, when the room is dark and you’re half asleep and people far away are speaking softly through a faint crackle of static. I wanted to write a long two-way conversation simulating that feel, and I’ve always been interested in the idea of certain childhood moments dissolving into murky, half-understood, mysterious snapshots we often process incorrectly. I hope I’m not the only one who has several odd childhood memories that seem less and less reliable as the years go on…”

How do you define "horror"? Do you consider this story part of that genre?
“To me, a horror story is one in which the reader is brushed against the strange, ominous forces in the universe that they hope to hell don’t really exist. The Copper Cup is certainly a horror tale to me. I’m very much hoping there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Is there anything about or in this story that connects with your broader body of work?
“I do turn back once in a while to the late-night radio motif, unable to resist the allure of the sounds and rhythms and soothing vibes that come with it. There’s a lot of nostalgia for me there. But in terms of the specifics of the story, this one exists in its own universe, crossing no boundaries.”

Are there specific themes/images you find yourself returning to?
“So much of what I write focuses on the intense frustration and loneliness of a narrator who is struggling desperately to figure out just what is happening to them, and why, and can find pitifully few answers, leaving them mostly alone and defenseless against the darkness. The other 40% of what I write seems to be imagery of wind, snow, rain, fog, mist, and ice. In my fictional world, no one can ever catch a break with the weather!”

Why did you set the story in Georgia? What would change about it if it were set somewhere else?
“For me it wasn’t so much the state itself as the sort of rural landscapes I’ve seen passing through it. I love horror stories set in out-of-the-way towns where finding help is not always just a matter of stepping out your door or picking up a cell phone.”

This story, like some of your other work, involves mental illness. How do you see the role of mental illness here? How do you see the role of mental illness in horror as a genre?
“It must be a terrible thing to begin to question your own mind and lose trust that you’re in full control of it—to doubt whether it can keep you safe and productive anymore. The Copper Cup does depict such a moment, but what that sort of mental stress truly feels like is pure conjecture on my part. Like so many writers, I sometimes use certain properties of mental illness as an engine for telling grim and suspenseful stories, and I can see where some might think this is somewhat cynical and even irresponsible. It’s one of many harsh aspects of life that are fodder for popular entertainment in this age, along with crime, violence, tragic accidents… I do think it’s good that all genres, even horror, deal openly with the disturbing truths that surround us and affect us, but I really do sleep a little easier after writing purely about supernatural visitations as opposed to the interior chaos that can make good people do troubling things.”

Do you have much experience or history with theatre? If so, has that experience influenced or affected your writing?
“In my teens I was often riveted by stagey, dialogue-heavy character pieces I would sometimes catch on public television, amazed at the skill it took to write them. That took me towards the work of people like Chekhov, Pinter, Mamet, Beth Henley, Spalding Gray, Alan Bennett, Eric Bogosian… there’s still nothing I find more awesome than an actor alone on a stage interpreting a great solo piece, and with the first-person horror stories I write and narrate, I think I’m always chasing the feeling of performing a black box theater piece before an audience. I just lacked the discipline and guts to go whole-heartedly in that direction.”

As someone who writes much of their work to be performed, how do you find that the medium influences or affects your writing?
“There’s so much that can be suggested with inflections, pace changes, silences, and attitude that I often don’t need to laboriously describe things in a piece meant to be performed. It’s beautiful, how much the human voice, divorced from any visual component, can infuse a story with shadings of meaning, and I write completely towards what I think my voice, and the voices of others, can do. I think my horror writing is generally ineffectual on the printed page because the intended voice which provides so much is utterly gone from it.”

We've been describing this as a gothic horror story, putting it in the same genre as works like The Turn of the Screw or The Haunting of Hill House. Do you feel like this is accurate? If so, what about this kind of story made you want to write your own?
“The Copper Cup certainly feels to me like it fits in the gothic realm—at least how I loosely define it for myself. We have a big, old house on a property with a murky past… we have sinister actions in history calling out darkly to the living of the present… we have unseemly family drama… and we have ghosts. Hell, in the original story there’s even a coachman. The blending of these elements wasn’t intentional, but probably inevitable given how much time I’ve spent in my life pleasantly ensconced in the works of great gothic writers. Looking over at my bookshelf I can immediately see copies of Carmilla, The Collected Stories of M.R. James, and The House With a Clock in Its Walls. It’s great fun being totally derivative of the masters…”