Utagawa Hiroshige, Full moon, morning glories and autumn flowers
My dear weirdlings & kindred spirits,
For two decades, I’ve been living a double life. By day, I’m a dedicated office worker, diligently clocking in my 9-to-5. But in the stolen moments between meetings and after hours, I’m a published author, a prolific blogger, and a passionate creator. While my heart lies in the latter, it’s the former that actually pays the bills.
Today, I’m reaching out to you, not just as an author or a blogger, but as a fellow traveler through life’s rich, vast, sometimes terrifying, oftentimes beautiful weirdness. If you’ve found yourself nodding along to my musings on art that makes your pulse quicken, or music that stirs the shadows in your soul; if you’ve felt seen when I’ve written about the anxieties that keep us up at night, or the grief that colors our days; if you’ve lingered over my words about fashion that tells a story, or perfumes that evoke memories we thought long lost – then this message is for you.
My writing has always been a way to explore the intersections of beauty and fear, of life and death, of the mundane and the supernatural. I’ve poured my heart into examining how horror seeps into our everyday lives, how the ghostly and the gothic inform our culture, and how we can find meaning in the face of mortality. These contemplations are not always easy to ponder upon or fun to write about, but I believe they’re necessary. And I’ve chosen to keep this space – our space – free from ads and sponsored content, to maintain the purity of our conversation.
Let me address the elephant in the room: I know no one asked me to write about these things. And yet, here I am, not only writing but now asking for your support. Is it presumptuous? Perhaps. But here’s the thing: there’s no surer way to make me not want to do something than to feel obligated because someone asked me to. I write because I must, because these words and ideas demand to be expressed. And I share them hoping they might resonate with kindred spirits like you.
Today, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone to share how you, my wonderful readers, can support my creative endeavors if they resonate with you. It’s not easy for me to make these requests, but I believe in the power of community to nurture art and literature. And many, many thanks to the individuals who have supported me in some way over the years.
Utagawa Hiroshige, Autumn
If my unquiet explorations resonate with you, if they’ve ever made you feel less alone in your fascinations or fears, I’m deeply grateful. And if you’d like to support this work, to help keep this little corner of the internet a sanctuary for the uncanny, the poetic, and the profound, here are some ways you can do so:
Financial Support:
Buy my books: Whether you prefer a personalized touch with a signed copy directly from me or the convenience of your favorite bookseller, every purchase is deeply appreciated.
Join my Patreon: For the fragrance enthusiasts among you, I offer a special Patreon where I share my quirky thoughts on perfumes. Certain tiers even receive scented letters – a truly immersive olfactory experience!
Use Amazon affiliate links: When you shop through the Amazon links on my site, I receive a small commission at no extra cost to you.
I have also curated a little Amazon shop with all of my favorite and most-used things!
Browse my Pango bookshop: Looking for gently used books at fantastic prices? My virtual bookshelf is open! You might just find your next favorite read while helping me clear my bookshelves.
Non-Monetary Support:
Leave reviews: If you’ve enjoyed my books, consider leaving a review. Your words can help others discover my work and make a significant impact.
Request my books at your local library: This not only makes my work more accessible but also supports our vital public libraries.
Share on social media: Found a blog post intriguing or a TikTok perfume review entertaining? Sharing, retweeting, or reblogging helps spread the word and reach new audiences.
Engage with comments: Your thoughts and reactions in the comments sections of my various projects are invaluable. They provide encouragement and spark discussions that often inspire new ideas.
I want to emphasize that while financial support is helpful, it’s not the only way to contribute. Your engagement, whether through sharing a post or leaving a thoughtful comment, is equally precious. Remember, behind every book, blog post, or creative project, there’s a person pouring their heart and soul into their craft. Your support, in whatever form you choose to give it, helps keep the words flowing and the ideas percolating. I mean…I’m probably going to be wordy and weird anyway, but support truly does make it easier!
Thank you for being part of this journey. Your presence in this community means more than you know. Together, we’re nurturing a space for creativity, imagination, and shared experiences – one that remains free from advertising and sponsored content.
So, whether you decide to pick up a book, join the fragrant adventures on Patreon, or simply share a post that touched you, know that you’re making a difference. You’re not just supporting me; you’re championing the arts and helping to keep the literary world vibrant and diverse. But you are also showing this weird misfit who doesn’t always feel like a human person in this world, a bit of human kindness and connection. And I love you for that.
Here’s to many more years of stories, scents, and shared weirdness. I know I sound like a public radio fund drive here, but it’s true: your support makes it all possible.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I have been blogging in some form or another for over 20 years, but this thing, this Unquiet Thing here, came to be in 2014 or so. I don’t recall when exactly, so I am calling today an anniversary!
(It’s been a stressful month and I need something to celebrate, okay??)
For ten years, I’ve thought of this blog as a portal to excavate and explore the mysterious, the macabre, and the magical – a place where we’ve unraveled artistic enigmas, explored the artistic depths of gothic romance, and even found the tender side of cartoon villains. We’ve delved into obscure traditions, celebrated forgotten artists, and contemplated the profound meaning hidden in the mundane. As we reflect on our journey through the shadows and wonders of art, literature, and life, let’s revisit the ten most popular posts that have captivated readers and sparked curiosity.
From unsolved mysteries in children’s literature to the dark corners of occult art, from winter fashion to webcomic monsters, these articles represent the chimerical/phantasmagorical/numinous/eldritch/uncanny spirit of Unquiet Things. Join us as we embark on a twilight stroll down memory lane, where shadows throb and thrum in the candlelight, where whispers of forgotten lore mingle with the rustle of tattered book pages, and where the veil between the mundane and the marvelous grows gossamer-thin. We will also look at some cheese maggots!
Together, we’ll revisit the stories and discoveries that have made this blog a sanctuary for those who find beauty in cobwebbed corners, meaning in misty legends, and wonder in the wildly weird. Each step will unearth treasures both unsettling and sublime, inviting you to lose yourself once more in the labyrinth of curiosities that is Unquiet Things.
About Skeletor Is Love An unexpected exploration of the softer side of everyone’s favorite Masters of the Universe villain and the journey we embarked on together
The Christmas Service of the Dead A haunting yuletide tradition that bridges the gap between the living and crusty Christmas skeletons.
These posts represent just a fraction of the strange and wonderful blogulations I have shared over the years. They’ve taken us on journeys through haunted yuletides and sun-starved winter days, introduced us to artists both celebrated and obscure, and invited us to look at the world around us with fresh, curious eyes. From the pages of bargain bin gothic romance cover art to the canvases of controversial painters, from the panels of clever webcomics to the whispers of forgotten traditions, Unquiet Things has always sought to illuminate the hidden corners of culture and creativity.
As we look back on a decade of exploration, I am filled with gratitude for every reader who has joined us on this unconventional adventure. Your enthusiasm, your questions, and your own unquiet thoughts have fueled my passion for uncovering the extraordinary in the ordinary.
But the journey is far from over, and I would love to hear from you. What topics would you like to see more of in the coming years? Which of these top ten posts resonated with you the most, and why? Perhaps you have your own favorite post that didn’t make this list? Or maybe there’s an unexplored area of the strange and beautiful that you think deserves some attention here?
Share your thoughts in the comments below. Your input will help shape the future of Unquiet Things, ensuring that we continue to delve into the subjects that fascinate and inspire you. Here’s to many more years of asking questions, challenging perceptions, and celebrating the wonderfully weird world around us!
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
The backyard was finally mowed, and I didn’t have to do it.
Confession. I have never watched Lawnmower Man. I haven’t the slightest idea what it is meant to be about. But in my imagination, it’s a man who magically turns into a lawnmower? But less magical and more body horror? Sort of a cross between Usagi Tsukino turning into a magical girl Sailor Guardian, and Optimus Prime transforming into a semi-truck, but with more lawnmowers and directed by Takashi Miike? Don’t spoil it for me.
Anyway, I’m standing in front of the mirror, tugging on canvas overalls with cute little vegetables dancing on them, in contrast to the heavy, ugly socks already on my feet. Outside, the morning sun burns off last night’s thunderstorm, steam rising from our overgrown lawn. I’m waiting for it to dry, but truthfully, I’m stalling.
Today, I have to mow the lawn for the first time in my life.
For days, I’ve been in a fog, fixated on this looming task. The thought of pushing that snarling machine across our yard has consumed me. What if I do it wrong? What if I leave drunken paths crisscrossing the lawn, a clear beacon to our neighbors that I have no idea what I’m doing? And then there’s the machine itself – all I can picture are whirling blades waiting to catch my fingers or toes–what if I mow my hands right off?
The thermometer already reads 92 degrees. I’m going to be a sweaty, nervous wreck out there.
This isn’t just about mowing a lawn, though. It’s about how quickly life can throw you out of orbit. Adding to my anxiety is the ticking clock of our Homeowners Association, a cabal of faceless enforcers I live in constant fear of. Any day now, I expect a passive-aggressive email reminding us of our “community standards.”
As I’m suiting up, a bittersweet realization hits me: at this very moment, Yvan and I were supposed to be on a plane to Denver. Our first real vacation since 2017, a trip now canceled due to his broken foot. Strangely, I find myself less upset about the missed vacation and more anxious about the impending lawn mowing task. This realization puzzles me – shouldn’t I be more disappointed about our canceled plans?
But beneath all of this surface-level stress lies a deeper, more primal fear. Yvan, my partner-in-crime, maybe even my handler, you could say (I am very high-strung, and he is so good at calming me down) – he’s injured. Aside from our simultaneous contraction of Covid back in the autumn of 2022, for the first time since we’ve been together, I’m faced with the stark reality of his vulnerability. He can be hurt. He’s mortal. He’s gonna die. We’re all gonna die. This is the part where I start disassociating.
But life has a funny way of surprising you. As I stood there, I glanced out the window to see my neighbor’s lawn service arrive. The neighbor herself, out on her driveway, talking to the guys. She’s the sister of the woman who we bought the house from, so I am actually more afraid of her judgement than the HOA (she is actually on the HOA, too, though!) To my amazement, though, she wasn’t complaining about us; she was sending them our way! One of the crew members strolled over to our property and started edging our lawn. Soon after, a man on a riding mower appeared, making quick work of our overgrown grass jungle.
When they finished, they left their boss’s business card. With shaking hands, I passed it to Yvan. He made the call, and just like that, we were on their schedule for the next two months.
In that moment, I felt like I could finally breathe again. I could think again! The fog that had been clouding my mind began to lift, and I realized just how much this one task had been affecting me. It wasn’t just about mowing the lawn – it was about feeling overwhelmed, out of my depth, and scared of failing.
This experience has made me reflect on how we cope when life throws us curveballs. I’ve found myself thrust back into the role of caregiver – a familiar position from caring for my grandparents, who were quite old, but one I wasn’t ready to revisit so soon, especially with my partner, who is four years younger than I am! There’s a fog that descends, clouding thoughts and making even simple decisions feel overwhelming, it’s like trying to navigate through pea soup while also juggling chainsaws. The fatigue that comes with this domestic role reversal is real and pervasive. Tasks that were once shared now fall squarely on my shoulders. I’m learning to adapt, but the stress of this rapid adjustment is palpable.
Perhaps most challenging is the discomfort of being pushed so far out of my comfort zone. I’m constantly aware that I’m operating in unfamiliar territory, reminded of how much I relied on Yvan’s knowledge and skills in these areas. I don’t know if he’s a better driver than me (I mean, probably), but he is certainly less nervous. And now I am the one driving to the grocery store, to doctor’s appointments, to family dinners. Much like the thought of having to mow the lawn is almost incapacitating, knowing that I have to drive us somewhere at the end of the day takes up every spare bit of brain space I have and leaves room for absolutely nothing else. I can’t hold a conversation or make a decision; I can barely get out of bed and get dressed in the morning–my anxiety takes up so much room.
This leads to a maddening paradox now in my daily life. For example, despite being a pretty decent cook, I’m ordering out more frequently than I’d like, which is neither good for our wallet nor our health. Or how we’d trained ourselves to wake up at 5 am and walk for 2-3 miles several days a week, and now I just fitfully sleep in, ignoring the alarm and the only form of exercise I even like to engage in. I mean, obviously, Yvan’s not going to hobbling around the block in the pre-dawn hours with his unwieldy boot and crutches, but I’ve got no excuse! This discrepancy between what I’m capable of and what I’m actually doing has led me to a realization that both fascinates and frustrates me: the routines we build and the self-care habits we practice should, in theory, serve us best in times of stress. They should be our lifeline when life gets chaotic, a form of muscle memory kicking in to ensure we take care of ourselves when our minds are overwhelmed.
Yet, I’m finding the opposite to be true. These habits, so easy to maintain when life flows smoothly, seem to crumble at the first sign of turbulence. It’s as if the neural pathways I’ve carefully constructed for self-care short-circuit under pressure. Why is it that precisely when I need these routines most, they feel the hardest to maintain?
There’s a cruel irony in how effortlessly I can stick to my habits when life is easy, only to watch them dissolve when the going gets tough. It’s like I’ve been training for a marathon on a treadmill, only to find myself stumbling on the actual, uneven terrain of life’s challenges. This disconnect between intention and action, between what I know I should do and what I actually do in times of stress, is disheartening.
I can’t help but wonder: am I failing my habits, or are my habits failing me? Perhaps the way we approach building these routines is flawed. Maybe we need to design our self-care strategies not for the calm days, but for the storms. Because it’s in these moments of crisis, when all sense of self-preservation seems to go out the window, that we need our good habits the most. And yet, it’s precisely then that they feel the most elusive.
As the day winds down, I realize something that’s been lurking beneath the surface all week: today marks the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. The realization hits me with a vicious pinch, and suddenly, all the stress and anxiety of the past few days takes on a new dimension. Had this been simmering in my subconscious all along, adding to my sense of unease and displacement? I had a hard time grieving my dad because we didn’t have much of a relationship, but the connection between my current struggles and this anniversary isn’t lost on me. Perhaps my fixation on the lawn, the driving, and the mundane tasks of daily life was a way of avoiding the complicated feelings that this day brings. It’s easier, after all, to worry about grass and left-hand turns than to confront the permanent absence of a father-daughter relationship I now will never have a chance to repair.
This realization brings a new layer of complexity to my emotional landscape. It reminds me that our reactions to life’s challenges are often influenced by factors we’re not even consciously aware of. The fact that I was more anxious about mowing the lawn than disappointed about our canceled trip suddenly makes more sense – in the face of grief and mortality, everyday tasks can become both a distraction and a lifeline.
As I sit here, rereading what I’ve written, I find myself wondering about the purpose of this exercise. Why did I feel compelled to put these thoughts to paper? Perhaps it’s an attempt to make sense of the chaos, to find patterns in the seemingly random series of events that have upended my life. Or maybe it’s simpler than that – a need to externalize the swirling thoughts and emotions that have been consuming me.
I don’t know if these experiences have official names or if psychologists have studied them, but putting words to these feelings—maybe “Routine Disruption Syndrome,” “Caregiver’s Fog,” “Adaptive Stress Overload,” “Domestic Role Reversal Fatigue,” or “Comfort Zone Exodus Syndrome”—makes me feel less alone and less crazy. Maybe by naming these experiences, I can start to understand them better and, in understanding, find some measure of peace.
I don’t have any profound conclusions to draw, no neat resolutions to offer. The lawn is mowed, but my anxiety lingers. Yvan’s foot will heal, but the reminder of our fragility remains. The anniversary of my father’s death has passed, but the weird emotions it stirs up aren’t so easily tidied away.
What I’m left with is a messy, scarily honest snapshot of a middle-aged life. It’s not pretty or inspirational, but it’s real. And maybe that’s the point – to acknowledge the struggle, to give voice to the discomfort of change and loss, without trying to sugarcoat it or wrap it up in a bow. It’s not about finding answers, but about sitting with the questions, allowing myself to feel the full weight of this moment. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but also so very, very human. And you have no idea how often I have to remind myself that I am actually human, or how comforting it is to believe.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
(I know I said I was taking a digital breather, but I think we all know what that really meant was a break from social media. Writing and blogging is totally different!) (Or so I assure myself!)
It’s a July morning, a weekday at 7 am, and I’m curled up on the sofa with my coffee, lost in the pages of a book. The house is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the AC. I don’t have to work today – it’s the 4th of July, and my office is closed. I’m lingering leisurely, savoring the rare luxury of unhurried time, yet I presently find myself here at my desk anyway, in this familiar routine.
Today’s book is Stephen King’s If It Bleeds, and as I read, my mind wandered. I can’t help but notice how his writing feels increasingly tinged with a sort of nostalgic melancholia. It makes me think of when I first read IT, published in 1986, though I probably devoured it in 1987 when I was eleven. In my memory, that’s when I read everything. Back then, the kids in his books felt like real kids to me. They had outrageously horrifying adventures, of course, but their words and thoughts weren’t always dripping with reflections and portents.. were they? O…r were they? I was only a kid, too. Perhaps I didn’t observe or internalize that vibe; perhaps I couldn’t have recognized it even if I had.
I found myself glancing up from my book, taking in my surroundings. Here I am, a middle-aged person, reading on a comfortable (and not inexpensive) sofa. Morning light stipples through the lace curtains of the house I now own outright. The AC blows on my sockless feet, chilling me even in midsummer – it’s very robust; we just had a lot of duct work done! This dawn-light ritual has become so vital to my day, a cocoon of comfort I’ve carefully crafted.
But as I sit here, I can’t help feeling it doesn’t quite measure up to those vivid memories of my eleventh year. I can still see myself, a chubby preteen growing out of my clothes, sprawled on a vinyl chaise lounge on our dusty screened porch. Hour after sticky hour, I’d sit there, plowing through stacks of lurid paperbacks. Sweat trickling down my back, thighs peeling off the seat when I shifted. I’d gulp down endless icy cups of Crystal Light (the horrid red kind, probably full of now-banned dyes). It was gross and uncomfortable, and yet… I loved it fiercely. When I think back on my childhood, it’s these humid afternoons of feverish reading that stand out as some kind of high point. The kind you can’t recreate, no matter how hard you try.
I’m feeling pretty maudlin lately, and I can’t pin it all on Stephen King. I keep asking myself: as much as I enjoy my cozy morning reads, why don’t they ever quite match up to those sweaty summer afternoons? Is it because at eleven, my whole life stretched out ahead of me, full of unknowns? While now, I feel like I’ve already lived the bulk of it?
Which is ridiculous, right? I’m not even 50. There’s still plenty of road ahead.
I find myself hopeful that every phase of life has its own peculiar charm? Yes, childhood had its magic, but adulthood has its own wonders, too. The ability to create a space that nurtures my passions, the depth of understanding I bring to my reading now, the quiet satisfaction of a life built on my own terms – these are not small things. There’s something to be said for this life I’ve pieced together. It’s not nothing, is it?
I wonder if instead of trying to relive that childhood intensity, I could find a way to tap into that openness, that hunger for stories, right here in my present. There are still worlds to explore, both in these pages and beyond them.
Those memories of reading marathons in muggy, mosquito-filled Florida summers – they’re part of me. But I don’t want to get lost in them. Maybe they can serve as a reminder of why I fell in love with books in the first place. What if I could bring some of that raw enthusiasm to my reading now? What strange new territories might I stumble into? What might I learn about myself in the process?
Who’s to say the most vivid moments are all in the past? (Notice I didn’t say “the best moments,” ha! Not over here trying to say I ever had any glory days.) There could be something waiting in the next chapter, or in a random Thursday morning like this one. This might just be the pinnacle of joy I’ll be nostalgic for decades from now.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
As July unfurls its sticky, sweltering tentacles across Florida, I find myself once again at odds with summer’s exuberant cheer. For those more attuned to autumn’s melancholy or winter’s quiet introspection, this season can be… challenging, to say the least. To say the most, it’s really fucking awful.
It’s a peculiar form of reverse seasonal affective disorder if you will. While others bask on the beach and barbecues and patio pool brunches and trips to Disneyland — you absolute freaking psychos– I find myself yearning desperately for cozy layers of clothing and the rustle of falling leaves, and a more benevolent sun that can actually read the room and doesn’t hang out in the sky until 9 o’clock in the evening. And in this state of summer-induced ennui, I’ve come to a realization: I gotta get out of here.
In the spirit of self-care and creative rejuvenation, I’ve decided to step away from the digital realm for a spell. I’m embarking on a digital sabbatical for the month of July. A respite from the noise, a chance to recalibrate. In the grip of July’s oppressive heat, all those nasty social media feedback loops become a cacophony I can no longer ignore. And knowing this, I’m going to shut it down. Quite literally! Logging out of all the things.
(And yes, I realize this isn’t my first rodeo with the whole ‘social media break’ thing, and it probably won’t be my last. It’s become something of an annual tradition, hasn’t it? Like my own personal digital detox festival. I’m not pretending I’ve discovered some revolutionary concept here. It’s never easy, but I’ve found it’s good for me – a necessary reset for my overheated brain.)
So, instead of losing hours to the infinite scroll, I’ll lose myself in the pages of neglected books and the flickering frames of films long on my watch list. Maybe I’ll start knitting a shawl (or, let’s be realistic, maybe I’ll add another row to that sock I’ve been working on for the past four months.)
This isn’t goodbye, merely a brief intermission. I look forward to returning in August, hopefully refreshed, possibly vitamin D deficient, and with new stories to share. Until then, may you carve out your own shadowy refuges in this sweaty, noisy world.
Lou Marchetti, The Tentacles, paperback cover. Gouache on board
The following is something I have been thinking about for years and years.
It first started percolating back in the days when blogs were more prevalent, and I’d see lots of bloggers getting burnt out and fretting because they’d niched down to the point where they felt trapped, and they wanted to write about other things–but worried their audience wouldn’t follow. Now that blogs have been replaced by YouTube and TikToks, I see lots of baby creators asking questions like, “I want to start an account, but what if I don’t get lots of followers and no one ever comments?” Or, “I want to be an influencer but don’t know where to start!”
While I can’t speak to the “influencer” phenomenon (and would prefer they all vanish into a dark cave), I have some thoughts on authentic self-expression online.
In the ever-shifting landscape of social media, where trends tend to flicker and fade, and the FOMO is very real, it’s easy to lose sight of one’s own creative north star. Recently, a passage from Courtney Maum’s newsletter caught my eye, resonating with the quiet rebellion I’ve long harbored in my heart:
“…as long as you’re not posting hateful content, you should take the same ‘me first’ attitude to all your social media (‘me first’ as in, this is my life, my pleasure, this pleases me and brings me joy). Trends change so quickly, they’re really not worth following unless you want to be on a hamster wheel next to a dirty bowl of water your entire life.”
This resonates with how I’ve always approached my online presence. Honestly, just about every creative endeavor I embark on is in service of amusing myself. Call it selfish if you will, but when it comes to my own creative endeavors and social media sharing, I tend to put my own interests first. Being selfish with one’s creativity isn’t about ignoring the audience entirely. Rather, it’s about trusting that by being authentically oneself, one will naturally attract kindred spirits. It’s about creating a space where like-minded individuals can gather, drawn by the genuine passion that shines through every word and image.
Lou Marchetti, She Came Back cover art 1966
It’s easy to get caught up in the despair cycle of likes, shares, and the endless pursuit of virality, but instead, I try my dangedest to find joy in curating my online presence as I would a secret garden. Each post, each shared thought or image, is a carefully tended plant, chosen not for its popularity but for how it resonates with my own heart, guts, and soul. It’s like planting a garden of perennials while everyone else is frantically scattering annual seeds. Sure, their blooms might be flashy, but they’re gone in a blink. (Or planting a poison garden in a graveyard while everyone else is growing daisies? This is a choose-your-own analogy adventure.) Meanwhile, your garden grows steadily, attracting those who appreciate its unique charm. And so, some may find beauty in this garden, others may pass it by without a second glance, and that’s perfectly alright. In a world where everyone’s frantically chasing the latest brightly blooming fad, there’s a quiet revolution in tending your own weird, wonderful sanctuary
For writers, creators, and sharers-of-things, this selfishness is not just a luxury – it’s a necessity. It’s the wellspring from which our most vital and engaging work flows. When we create and share from a place of genuine interest and joy, our work remains fresh, our enthusiasm infectious.
So here’s a thought: what if we treated our online spaces like a curated exhibition of our interests? Not in a pretentious way, but as a genuine reflection of what makes us tick. It might not garner millions of likes, but it could lead to more meaningful connections and a body of work that stands the test of time.
This is really just a long-winded answer to someone who asked the question I referenced up further above. The individual asked about likes and follows, as a new creator, on a bookish YouTuber’s page– and by way of response, I shared a very brief version of these thoughts over there. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since and felt compelled to expand on them. They’re never going to read this…but maybe someone will.
And I think that’s the whole point. I am not writing for everyone. I am not even really writing for someone. I am writing for me. But if you are someone who resonates with these thoughts, who finds joy in cultivating your own unique online garden, or who simply appreciates authentic self-expression – then perhaps this was meant for you, too.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
In that shadowy and ambiguous realm between pulpy commercial illustration and fine art, there lurks a master of the macabre whose very brushwork bleeds atmosphere. I speak of the enigmatic Victor Kalin, an illustrator whose work adorned the covers of countless paperbacks, whispering dark promises of things that are gonna make you feel weird in the best possible way.
Kalin’s artistry beckons to those who find allure in the twilight of human experience. His cover designs, gracing numerous gothic romances and gritty detective tales, showcase a remarkable talent for capturing tension and mystique. The figures populating his compositions, especially the women, embody a fascinating paradox – simultaneously enticing and forbidding, vulnerable yet poised for action.
These characters peer out from jacket fronts with gazes that linger in the mind’s eye, from a pensive brooding mood to a countenance completely aghast, their expressions hinting at narratives far more complex than a single image should convey. Through masterful use of color and shadow, Kalin conjures an ambiance that skirts the edge of comfort, drawing potential readers into realms where passion and peril intertwine.
What distinguishes Kalin’s craft is his knack for distilling entire plotlines into a single, arresting scene. His subjects aren’t merely decorative; they’re vital conduits for the mood and intrigue of the tales they represent. Each illustration serves as a portal, inviting onlookers to speculate about the mysteries concealed behind those cryptic smiles and penetrating stares.
And it’s not just his portrayal of the feminine that captivates. His backgrounds pulse with an almost tactile menace – gnarled trees reach out with skeletal branches, mist curls around ankles like ghostly fingers, and buildings loom with anthropomorphic malevolence. There’s a palpable sense of unease in Kalin’s work, a feeling that reality is but a thin veneer over something far more sinister. It’s this quality that elevates his illustrations from paperback art to something approaching the sublimely disturbing.
I think one of my favorite thing about Kalin’s ladies is that they bear an unsettling resemblance to those plastic paragons of mid-century femininity – Barbie. Their faces are mask-like in their perfection, with eyes that seem to say, “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.” These ladies are caught in a permanent state of “Oh no!” or “Oh yes!” – and half the fun is figuring out which. It’s as if Wednesday Addams, in a fit of delightful malice, raided her cousin’s toy chest and staged elaborate tableaux of the weird, carnal, Hammer Horror variety.
It’s this juxtaposition – the wholesome, all-American doll-woman thrust into scenes of Gothic horror – that gives Kalin’s work its frisson of unease. It’s a subversion of the suburban ideal, a glimpse of the rot beneath the perfect lawn. One can almost hear Wednesday’s deadpan voice: “This is Barbie. Barbie has just realized her dream house is built on an ancient burial ground. Run, Barbie, run.”
This unsettling blend of the banal and the bizarre, the plastic and the phantasmagorical, endears this artist to me enormously.
Or…picture, if you will, this fever dream of 1950s domesticity gone delightfully wonky. Our housewife, a vision of mid-century perfection with her coiffed curls and strands of pearls, gazes down at her cupped palms with an expression of serene bewilderment. There, purring contentedly beneath her manicured scarlet fingers, is a kitten that looks as though it’s been rolling around in the most lurid shade of shocking candy pink paint imaginable.
Is this feline anomaly the result of some clandestine government experiment, a Cold War attempt at weaponized cuteness? Or has the tranced-out houswife imbibed a bit too much of that “special” punch at the bridge club, resulting in a technicolor hallucination? One can’t help but wonder if this image isn’t a sly commentary on the artificiality of the American Dream – the pink kitten a garish intruder exposing the hollowness of picture-perfect suburbia. Or perhaps it’s simply evidence that even the masters of the macabre occasionally need to indulge in a bit of psychedelic silliness.
The genius of this piece lies in its stubborn refusal to explain itself. It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma, frosted with a layer of cotton candy creepy-quirkyness. I like to think that Kalin is reminding us that even in the midst of whips and skulls and gothic castles and feeling weird ways low in your innards about all of it, there’s always room for a touch of the absurd.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these little life updates, and as we’re sliding past midsummer, it felt like the right time to share some thoughts and recommendations with you all.
It was almost a year ago that I learned of my father’s passing. It was complicated. But whomst among us doesn’t have a complicated relationship with a relative? Both of my parents were complicated situations for me. My father and I hadn’t spoken in two decades, but his influence on my younger self during one pivotal summer in Houston still echoes through my life in unexpected ways. From word games that sparked my love for language to a treasure trove of Heavy Metal magazines that forever altered my perception of art and storytelling, those memories have become a strange sort of inheritance.
As this anniversary approaches, I’ve found myself seeking comfort in the small rituals of everyday life – tending to my garden, discovering new scents, and losing myself in music. It’s funny how the things we surround ourselves with can become anchors in turbulent times, isn’t it?
So, I thought I’d share some of these anchors with you today. A bit of this, a dash of that – the odds and ends that have been keeping me grounded and inspired lately. Consider it a belated midsummer offering of sorts, from my strange little world to yours.
SUNFLOWERS
I’ve got a bit of a confession to make – and it might surprise you! Despite my love for all things dark and spooky, my absolute favorite flower is… the sunflower. Not very on-brand for someone who writes about gothic literature and horror, and dark fashion, I know, I know. And I know you know. I struggle with this disparity a lot, and it spills over into this blog quite frequently.
There’s something undeniably magical about these towering golden giants, these brazen yellow blooms, their faces turned unabashedly towards the light. They’re like nature’s own version of a Rorschach test – to some, they might represent pure, unadulterated joy. To others, they’re a reminder of the delicious contrast between light and dark, a symbol of life’s stubborn persistence in the face of entropy.
Plus, let’s not forget their slightly creepy ability to track the sun across the sky. It’s like they’re a botanical army of solar-powered sentinels, always watching, always turning. Sorry, had to make it weird. So there you have it, friends. My not-so-dark secret is out. Anyone else out there have any unexpected favorites that don’t quite fit their usual aesthetic?
TWO INGREDIENT BAGELS
So: two-ingredient bagels. No, no, no, I have not joined the ranks of the protein-obsessed gym rats or the preservative-phobic crowd, nothing like that. Sometimes you just want a bagel. Not those sad, freezer-burned discs masquerading as bagels from the grocery store. And definitely not the overpriced, underwhelming attempts at bagels that Florida tries to pass off as the real deal. Sorry, Florida (Bagel) Man, but you’re no Local New Jersey (Bagel) Man when it comes to bagels. And sure, I could spend hours crafting an authentic, complicated bagel recipe. But sometimes, you want a bagel without feeling like you’re auditioning for a baking show.
Enter the two-ingredient bagel: just flour and Greek yogurt. And seasonings and toppings, so it is not technically two ingredients, I suppose. It’s not terrible! It’s not going to win any awards in New York, but when the bagel craving hits, and your options are limited, it’s a surprisingly satisfying solution. I make extra to slice and freeze, and it’s a nice treat when you find a bagel buried at the bottom of the freezer underneath the frozen peas and the dubious pork chops!
I DON’T BELIEVE IN SEASONAL FRAGRANCES, BUT I DO BELIEVE IN SUMMER PERFUMES
I’ve always scoffed at the notion of seasonal fragrances. I wear what I want when I want! You can’t tell me nothin! Resinous incense and mossy stone castles and suffocating spices year round, please!
…Yet here I am, a prisoner of the merciless Florida hellscape, finding myself yearning for fragrances that offer respite from the relentless heat.
It’s not so much about capturing a bottled atmosphere as it is about survival. Those earthy autumnal and woodsy winter perfumes that once brought such cozy comfort and delicious decadence now feel like a weighted blanket in this sweltering humidity. They cling, they smother, they overwhelm – much like the soupy miasma of these endless summer days.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the ephemeral and the ethereal. I reach for scents that evaporate almost as quickly as they’re applied, leaving behind only the ghost of a proper perfuming. Fizzy floral effervescence, a fleeting joy in the sticky air. Crisp, soapy musks offer the illusion of a fresh start, even as the humidity threatens to undo their work. Citrus and ginger provide zingy, zippy zhuzh, their bright notes cutting through the muggy haze. And those elusive spa-like fragrances – all gauzy lavender threads and misty eucalyptus veils – conjure a spectral coolness that’s more memory than matter.
These aren’t summer scents in the traditional sense, with their sunscreen notes and tropical fruit medleys. They’re more like… olfactory air conditioning. These subtle, refreshing fragrances I once overlooked now feel like small mercies, in a season that shows no mercy.
Elizabeth W. Té smells like a gorgeous glass of Southern sweet tea
Jones Road Shower is good mostly because it reminds me of BPAL’s discontinued Danube, which smells like sinking to the bottom of the coldest, bluest swimming pool on the hottest day of the year, and seeing the sun’s glimmer wavering through the rippling water and thinking ha ha ha, screw you, sun.
Kyoto from Comme des Garçons is actually my all-time favorite, number one, anytime, anyplace scent. It’s the scent everything has to measure up to, and so far, nothing has ever surpassed it. It smells like a cool shadowy prayer in a dark forest temple, and it is especially nice on brutal summer nights.
LOUDERMILK, LISSIE, MOTHER, CHEESDUST
I recently traveled to Philly, where I spent a much-needed long weekend with my Best Good Friend. We, of course, did some urban exploration and perfume shopping and conveyor belt sushiing and some long drives in the countryside, and, weirdly enough, a surprise visit to Warby Parker for very gleefully ridiculous new glasses! (Ývan thinks I look like this guy in my new specs, but everyone else is pointing to her.) But the best part was just vegging out together, doing nothing. We basically barricaded ourselves in their living room for a solid 24 hours, binging the entire season of Loudermilk, decimating an unholy amount of Herr’s jalapeño popper cheese puffs in the process. My fingers are probably still slightly orange.
A blonde musician showed up in one of the later episodes, and it hit me: isn’t that the singer from the 2017 Twin Peaks: The Return? Isn’t that Lissie?! I was obsessed with that Wild West song, and then I was obsessed with her PERFECT cover of Danzig’s “Mother” forever, and now, thanks to this show about the misadventures of misfits in AA, I’m equally fixated on her song “When I’m Alone.” And also the beautiful kimono she is wearing in that scene!
The funny thing is, it’s over a decade old at this point. Isn’t it weird how you can re/discover music like that? One minute, you’re stuffing your face with cheesy puffs; the next, you’re having a moment with a song from 2011 that you never knew you missed out on way back when, but now you love it like you’ve loved it forever.
Anyway, I’ve been playing Lissie non-stop since I got back. It’s like my brain is trying to recreate that perfect moment of kinship, junk food, and unexpectedly poignant television.
REVISITING MY STEPHEN KING PROJECT
In early 2020, the world is still blissfully unaware of what’s coming, and I am armed with a Google Docs spreadsheet and a mission. The goal? To immerse myself in the Stephen King universe – reading the unread, re-experiencing the familiar through audiobooks, and diving into television and film adaptations I’d somehow missed.
For 80s horror kids, he was practically a god. The master of terror, the guy who could make a clown in a storm drain or a voice in a closet the stuff of lifelong nightmares. But if I am being thoroughly, painfully honest – as an adult, reading him can sometimes feel like listening to your out-of-touch dad try to be “hip.” You love him, but occasionally, you just want to gently suggest he stop talking before he says something so embarrassing you could die.
That said, there’s still this undeniable magic to his work. It’s comfort food for the horror soul. When he eventually shuffles off this mortal coil, I’ll be devastated. More upset than when my own father passed. Stephen King’s been more of a constant presence in my life, for better or worse.
Anyway, I’ve been picking up the threads of this project lately, diving into the Mr. Mercedes books and related stories. It’s been… interesting. There’s still that undeniable King charm, the way he builds a world and populates it with characters that feel both wonderfully and uncomfortably real. I’ve always loved the way he writes the relationships–the interactions, the dialogue, the bonds– between siblings, for example. I first read IT thirty-seven summers ago, but I still get shivers when I think of Bill and Georgie Denbrough. But there are also moments where I find myself thinking, “Oh, Stephen King, no…! When was the last time you talked to a 44-year-old woman? And have you EVER spoken with a Black teenager??”
So that’s where I’m at with the project right now. Detecting with Bill Hodges, solving crimes with Holly Gibney, and watching Stephen King try to navigate the modern world with varying degrees of success. It’s a strange experience, this literary time travel. Part nostalgic joy, part critical assessment, all wrapped up in the complicated emotions of revisiting a childhood hero with adult eyes.
As I sit here, writing these words, I’m acutely aware of the passage of time. It’s been a year since I learned of my father’s passing, a man I barely knew yet whose influence echoes through my life in unexpected ways. The games we played then shape the words I write now. The Heavy Metal magazines I pored over still influence my aesthetic sensibilities. And that tiny bird I cradled during the Harmonica Convention? Perhaps it was the first stirring of the caretaker in me, the same part that now tends to sunflowers and crafts imperfect bagels. Maybe that’s a stretch. Maybe I just like flowers and bread.
(Totally unrelated–I also like creepy antique dolls. The one above was a birthday gift to myself last month.)
As I navigate this midsummer, with its oppressive Florida heat and the bittersweet onslaught of memories, I find myself grateful for the small joys: the scent of lemon and ginger on my skin, the cackles shared over junk food and trash television, the rediscovery of a singer-songwriter that speaks to my soul. It’s funny, isn’t it? How life can be simultaneously mundane and profound, filled with both small pleasures and big questions. I’m learning that it’s okay to contradict myself sometimes, whether it’s in my fragrance choices or my relationship with authors I’ve loved since childhood.
As we head deeper into the feverish, overheated, and everlasting days, I’m looking forward to more unexpected discoveries. And Halloween! Always that. Summer can fuck right off straight into the sun.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I mean, who wouldn’t be, just look at that face! Swoon!
In the book, the caption for the image reads:
“Annie Stegg Gerard has been painting whimsical illustrations from early childhood and her works encompass a wide variety of mediums, including both two and three-dimensional forms. Specializing in character design and development as well as a masterful atmosphere of enchantment, Annie creates unique images populated with enigmatic figures and lively creatures.
This transportive effect of emotion and imagination is undeniable, such as the dear little Scowl above, eyes gleaming sweetly, a tender paw adorably curled in mid-thought. A viewer can’t help but coo in delight at the thought of those magical toe-beans!”
The Gift, Annie Stegg Gerard
Moonlit March, Annie Stegg Gerard
Her paintings are like a gilded invitation to a secret greenwood garden party, gossamer confections spun from sugar and moonbeams. Every surface shimmers with the beauty of magics most decadent, the kind that offers gleaming jeweled fairytale fruits and secrets sleeping in the shadow of a raven’s wing. I’m almost tempted to refer to her style as glamorous, yet, that word conjures associations of a distant chilliness and a definite, distinct lack of fun. Maybe even something a bit wicked.
Which couldn’t be further from the truth in the case of this artist’s creations! For all the romantic enchantments and radiant glamour of these scenes, there’s a disarming warmth. The faeries, with their benevolent smiles, wouldn’t dream of causing actual harm, and the woodland creatures, even the mischievous ones, seem more interested in puckish pranks than actual malice. There’s a sense of merriment in the air, a joyous abandon!
A world that invites exploration without ever truly feeling threatening.
The Serpent, Annie Stegg Gerard
Journey’s End, Annie Stegg Gerard
Even the dragon chasing the thieving band of forest folk, arms loaded with loot and treasures, feels more like a scene from a whimsical ballet than a terrifying encounter. There’s a sense of playfulness, a twinkle in the dragon’s eye that suggests it’s all part of a delightful game.
On Velvet Wings, Annie Stegg Gerard
Changing Tides, Annie Stegg Gerard
Fire Wyrm, Annie Stegg Gerard
There’s a distinct lack of menace in Stegg Gerard’s worlds. Even the fantastical beasts, with their playful expressions and captivating forms, lack the bite of traditional monsters. And the monsters themselves possess a sense of playful theatricality. They’re not mean and nasty, they’re just playing a part! And everyone’s in on the delightful secret. Even the darkness seems like a friend.
Annie’s artistry is a marvel of light and color. There is warmth and sincerity embedded into every brushstroke. The colors themselves sing a comforting melody, a symphony of rose golds, soft blues, and the warm glow of sunshine dappling through leaves. The beauty here is not cold and sterile but rather a living, breathing entity, one that radiates warmth and invites you to step into the heart of its impish revelry.
Rabbat, Annie Stegg Gerard
Moth Queen, Annie Stegg Gerard
The beauty, too, lies in the sincerity of her subjects, their expressions imbued with a soulful earnestness, holding a quiet wisdom of stories brimming with wild wonder and fierce, beautiful joy. Their world is a shimmering celebration of the inherent joy in the fantastical, where the mythical and fanciful feel so utterly genuine that you could reach out and touch it, squeeze it in a big velvet-fuzzed, moth-winged hug.
But for all that innocent earnestness, it’s far from simplistic; it’s a captivating tumble of whimsy and earnestness, a world that echoes through and through with the thrum of a tremulous beating heart– making for a beauty that above all, feels real and true.
Find Annie Stegg Gerdard: Website // Instagram and see below for a further gallery of my favorites from this extraordinary artist.
Stolen Harvest, Annie Stegg Gerard
Festival of the Toadstool Dance, Annie Stegg Gerard
Enchantress of Avalon, Annie Stegg Gerard
Wish, Annie Stegg Gerard
Autumn Apprentice, Annie Stegg Gerard
Flortoise, Annie Stegg Gerard
The Cabbat Version 2, Annie Stegg Gerard
I’m Afraid You’ve Got Dragons, Annie Stegg Gerard
Penelope, Annie Stegg Gerard
Calico Calimander, Annie Stegg Gerard
Lady of the Vanir, Annie Stegg Gerard
The Boggart, Annie Stegg Gerard
The Coveted, Annie Stegg Gerard
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
R. Graves, The Ghost Story; girl reading a ghost story, c. 1874.
Have you ever stumbled upon a book that defies easy categorization? A story that blends genres in unexpected ways, leaving you both unsettled and strangely satisfied? I recently watched Elizabeth of Reading Wryly talk about the genres that define her taste on her YouTube channel, and it got me thinking about my own preferences and predilections.
Inspired, I decided to delve into my own bookshelf, unearthing a collection of contemporary tales that resonate with my peculiar tastes. These are the subgenres that keep me up all night, narratives that blend the familiar with the fantastical, the scholarly with the spooky, and the artistic with the unsettling. Think academia with a dash of the supernatural, secluded artists haunted by their creations, or media that becomes a chilling conduit for obsession.
These are all fairly contemporary titles, but obviously, stories like “The Yellow Wallpaper” or We Have Always Lived in the Castle, would probably be right at home on some of these lists. So, as always, when I make and share lists like this, if you feel there is something missing, I invite you to make your own! And I imagine it should go without saying, but I will say it anyway: I have indeed read every book on this list. I would never, ever recommend something that I have not experienced myself.
At any rate, see below for the hyper-specific subgenres that keep me turning pages…!
Engraving of a woman reading by candlelight by John Sartain, after a painting by Philippe Mercier. 1854.
The Academy of Shadows: Imagine academia’s hallowed halls, cloaked in shadows and secrets, where intellectual pursuits intertwine with the arcane. These narratives tantalize with their blend of scholarly intrigue and subtle (or not so much) supernatural undertones. Bonus points for clique-y cults and catty mean girls.
The Secret History by Donna Tartt: A murder unfolds at an elite college as a group of classics students delve into ancient Greek rituals, their dark secret binding them together.
Possession by A.S. Byatt: Two contemporary scholars uncover a hidden love story between Victorian poets through unearthed letters and journals.
Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo: A young woman who can see ghosts navigates the occult underbelly of Yale University, where secret societies wield dangerous magic.
Catherine House by Elisabeth Thomas: At an isolated, prestigious university with a dark secret, a rebellious student uncovers a shocking truth about the school’s true purpose.
The Lightness by Emily Temple: A teenager attends a summer camp where girls attempt to levitate, exploring the boundaries between reality and transcendence.
The Likeness by Tana French: Detective Cassie Maddox goes undercover as her former alias to lure out a killer whose victim looked eerily like Cassie. This painfully beautiful book is an atypical example of this genre, but I must insist.
The Cloisters by Katy Hays: A young art researcher at a gothic museum gets caught in a deadly web of ambition and intrigue surrounding a mysterious deck of tarot cards.
The Tenth Girl by Sara Faring: A young woman seeking refuge from a brutal regime finds herself battling a haunting presence at a remote Argentinian boarding school with a missing student.
Down A Dark Hall by Lois Duncan: The one that started it all! (For me, anyway!) A skeptical girl at a mysterious boarding school uncovers a dark secret behind her classmates’ newfound talents.
The Perilous Price of Artistic Refuge: Solitude breeds introspection, but in these narratives, it also invites unsettling encounters with the unknown. As artists and writers retreat into seclusion (or, sometimes, secluded retreats with a few other people) they find their creative sanctuaries infiltrated by eerie presences and mysterious occurrences. And murder! While this is not really an ordered list of favorites, “artist goes off to creation in isolation, weird shit ensues” actually IS my favorite!
The Writing Retreat by Julia Bartz: A struggling writer competes in a deadly writing challenge at a secluded retreat hosted by a famous horror author.
Fake Like Me by Barbara Bourland: A young artist, desperate to recreate her lost work, takes refuge at an isolated retreat shrouded in the mystery of a past artist’s death.
The Last Word by Taylor Adams: A reclusive woman’s negative online review of a horror author’s work spirals into a terrifying situation as she fears the author might be stalking her.
Wylding Hall by Elizabeth Hand: Decades after a British folk band’s lead singer vanishes in a haunted mansion, survivors recount the chilling events in conflicting narratives. BIG TIME FAVORITE!
The Dark Half by Stephen King: A writer’s pseudonym takes on a life of its own, manifesting as a malevolent doppelgänger bent on revenge.
Dark Things I Adore by Katie Lattari: A former art student seeks revenge on her manipulative professor thirty years after a dark secret emerged at a secluded art camp
Green Fuse Burning by Tiffany Morris: A grieving artist confronts her family’s past and the unsettling secrets of a secluded cabin residency in the swamp.
The Centre by Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi: A discontented translator achieves fluency in a mysterious program, but grapples with the dark secret behind its success.
BONUS: A few films in this vein!
The Strings:Cut off from the world in a snowy hideaway, a composer’s quest for inspiration turns into a battle against a malevolent force.
Black Lake:A red scarf, a gift, and a curse. Aarya’s escape to pursue art awakens a terrifying entity – the Churail, a South Asian witch hungering for vengeance.
BONUS BONUS: The soundtracks for both The Strings and Black Lake are fantastically haunting in very different but equally marvelous ways
Félix Hilaire Buhot Liseuse à la Lampe (Woman Reading by Lamplight), 1879
Media Maledictions: Books, films, music—mundane on the surface, yet in these narratives, they become conduits for obsession, curses, and the macabre. These stories delve into the transformative power of art and media, blurring the boundaries between fiction and reality.
Experimental Film by Gemma Files: A former film teacher investigating a lost filmmaker’s chilling work unleashes supernatural forces that threaten her family. ANOTHER BIG FAVORITE!
Night Film by Marisha Pessl: A journalist investigates the death of a reclusive cult filmmaker’s daughter, uncovering a world of dark rituals and macabre cinema.
Silver Nitrate by Silvia Moreno-Garcia: A disillusioned sound editor and a washed-up soap star team up with a cult horror director to break a curse tied to a lost film infused with Nazi occultism.
Schrader’s Chord by Scott Leeds:Estranged from his dead father, a man inherits a record store and cursed vinyl that unleashes a malevolent force from the land of the dead.
Universal Harvester by John Darnielle: A small-town video store clerk stumbles upon disturbing hidden content on rental tapes, unraveling a sinister mystery.
The Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte: A rare book dealer hunts for a legendary text while encountering characters mirroring those from Dumas’s “The Three Musketeers.” You may have seen the film adaptation, The Ninth Gate.
Ringu by Koji Suzuki: A cursed videotape leads to a journalist’s race against time to uncover its origins and break the deadly cycle before it claims her life.
Burn the Negative by Josh Winning: A journalist with a dark past as a child star in a cursed horror movie must confront the deadly remake and break the cycle.
Beholder by Ryan Lasala: A young art handler with the secret power to see the past in reflections gets pulled into a deadly conspiracy involving a supernatural entity and New York’s elite art scene.
BONUS: A few series in this vein…!
Archive 81: A cryptic trail of damaged tapes leads an archivist to piece together a filmmaker’s descent into the darkness of a hidden cult
Deadwax:A vinyl tracker is hired by a rich collector to hunt a legendary rare record that has driven all its former owners mad
Unhinged and Unraveling: Women pushed to the edge, their sanity teetering on the brink, colliding with supernatural (ish) (esque) forces that challenge their perceptions of reality. These narratives delve into the complexities of female identity, power, and the eerie intersections of the mundane and the supernatural–of, if not specifically, supernatural, just weird shit in general.
Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder: A mother’s transformation into a dog leads to a surreal exploration of identity, motherhood, and the supernatural (and art!)
Bunny by Mona Awad: A graduate student infiltrates a clique of eccentric classmates, leading to a surreal journey into academia, identity, and bizarre rituals.
Mona by Pola Oloixarac: A blunt Latina writer in California gets a chance to escape for a European literary award, but finds herself trapped amidst a pretentious competition, bizarre encounters, and a lingering threat of violence.
Mother Thing by Ainslie Hogarth: Desperate to escape a cruel mother-in-law’s ghost, a woman resorts to extreme measures to protect her husband and find a surrogate mother figure.
Maeve Fly by CJ Leede: Ice princess Maeve embraces her murderous urges after a handsome stranger awakens a darkness within her. Thinks Weetzie Bat x American Psycho/Takashi Miike x Lana del Rey
Earthlings by Sayaka Murata: A woman who copes with a traumatic childhood and societal pressures by clinging to childhood fantasies seeks refuge in the mountains to reconnect with her alien-believing cousin and fulfill their pact to survive.
Paradise Rot by Jenny Hval: A hyper-sensitive Norwegian biology student navigates a strange, decaying apartment and a possibly unhealthy relationship with her enigmatic roommate.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
