We often view horror as a genre of fiction defined by a dark and foreboding atmosphere, a host of paranormal elements, and a suspenseful plot accompanied by bouts of unease.

As bestselling author Erika T. Wurth sees it, the genre does not exist in a silo, limited to a singular culture. In fact, much of horror fiction stems from traditional cultural storytelling.

“[With] any ethnicity, we have our stories of ghosts and creatures and monsters, and they’re embedded in our world views,” Wurth said.

In agreement with this sentiment, Wurth’s literary agent, Rebecca Friedman, does not see the paranormal elements associated with horror as being so separate from the stories Wurth was told through her Indigenous community.

“A lot of stories and myths are the lifeblood of a lot of these communities, and they live in them in a way that is different. They’re not as supernatural as we think they are, or as we’re accustomed to thinking they are,” Friedman said.

In her most recent novel, “The Haunting of Room 904,” Wurth explores a tale of history, love, friendship and, of course, horror through the paranormal investigations of Olivia Becente, who can speak with her dead sister, Naiche.

Similar to Wurth’s novel “White Horse,” the story of “The Haunting of Room 904” takes place in Denver, Colorado, which is home to the infamous Brown Palace Hotel, where Becente investigates a series of mysterious deaths.

As Wurth posits, the setting of her story — and any story, really — should be contextualized by the historical events that preceded its current state. In Denver’s case, that means mentioning the militia’s involvement in the Sand Creek Massacre, in which Cheyenne and Arapaho people were brutally killed by the United States Army.

“I grew up where the Sand Creek Massacre occurred. I don’t care what your ethnic background is; if you grew up somewhere, I think it really matters to talk about Indigenous peoples and voices and to put them into a contemporary perspective, while still including a bit of the history,” Wurth said.

However, Wurth claims that opening conversations about diversity should also discuss the minutiae of human life.

“Being Indigenous isn’t all about being bad. It’s also about vibrancy and survival and light, and in ‘The Haunting of Room 904’, it’s about being a paranormal investigator, it’s about getting a Ph.D. in psychology or other ethnic studies. It’s about having brunch and talking with your friends who also had to beat a lot of odds,” Wurth said.

A friend of Wurth’s and fellow author, Cynthia Pelayo agrees with this sentiment, claiming that diverse voices are needed to increase representation in unconventional spaces.

“Sometimes the narrative isn’t necessarily about their diverse makeup. Sometimes it’s about them being people and navigating the world, but they are diverse,” Pelayo said.

Although Wurth has always tried to promote Indigenous voices and has had a fondness for reading horror, fantasy and science fiction, her path to writing and time as an author have had some trials.

“It wasn’t the most celebrated thing to be a reader where I came from, and my parents were very worried about this potential profession for me,” Wurth said.

In pursuing a doctorate, publishing stories and becoming a professor at Western Illinois University, Wurth stuck by her love for reading and writing. Even so, she continued to face additional pressures stemming from the norms within the publishing industry.

“What people considered serious literature was the only thing they thought I should write … for a long time, that’s all that I read and all that I wrote. And at a certain point, I realized how much I missed the ghosts and the dragons and the spaceships,” Wurth said.

As she points out, the publishing industry is, at its core, still a business. As is the case with any business, one needs to know their target audience.

“They understand that Americans have buttons. If you’re queer, they’ll say you’re a groomer. If you’re Black, they’ll say [your writing] is about race hatred. If you’re Indigenous, they’ll deny that you’re Indigenous. I mean, they understand what people respond to,” Wurth said.

To combat these pressures, Wurth finds that endurance is key.

“I think you have to take it in stride,” Wurth said. “You ignore it. But I think there are times in which you do have to speak out so that you can move the conversation forward.”

As Pelayo contemplates her own work, she attests to Wurth’s willingness to take a stand for her community and be bold in an industry dominated by what should “sell.”

“I feel like I’m much more reserved, and I wish I had that [initiative] from her because she takes the risks, and she understands that with risks there’s always going to come critiques when you’re creating one type of work … and she’s fine with that. She’s like, ‘I’m going to write what I want to write,’” Pelayo said.

As Wurth’s literary agent, Friedman is also inspired by Wurth’s commitment to diversity.

“She’s always lifted up other people in the community and made sure that she’s a voice for underrepresented authors,” she said.

To Friedman, Wurth’s writing is equally compelling as it is important.

“It’s like you’re learning but you don’t feel you’re learning at first; you’re just reading and totally immersed in the book, and then you come away with a lot of knowledge … you can just sit there and read the book in one day because you get so engrossed,” Friedman said.

As both Pelayo and Wurth expand their writing repertoire toward more speculative spaces, Pelayo says she is excited for the future of Wurth’s work.

“When you see an author who’s excited about something, it’s going to translate into the work,” Pelayo said.

Wurth will be a panelist for “Mysterious Dimensions of the Human Mind in Mystery and Horror Fiction,” on Sunday, April 27, at 3 p.m. at Stark Family Theatre at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.