Unquiet
Things

(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.

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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.

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Sometime in 2022, I wrote a very long and very personal and very “ma’am, this is a Wendy’s” essay review of this scent, but I am not sure that I shared it here. The gist of Soul of My Soul from Etat Libre d’Orange is that it’s soft and cozy sandalwood-y musks; the cocoon of your feet touching your person’s feet under a fleece blanket when you’re comfort-watching LotR for the bazillionth time. It’s a spot on your person’s chest sculpted perfectly to cradle your head at night. It’s their funny murmuring snore when you shift your body in bed, and your butts touch for a moment. It’s the secret language of two hearts who get it, and who got the chance to get it. It’s the miracle and magic safety and connection and all the green flags saying go-go-go, that it’s okay to be your weirdest, most authentic, very truest self with someone, and no matter how weird or hard things get–and they will get harder and weirder, make no mistake–you will always remain a soft, safe place for each other.

I picked up a bottle of Baruti Oh My Deer from Perfumology in Philadelphia earlier in the month when I was visiting my Best Good Friend. Oh My Deer struck me immediately because one, I’d never smelled anything from these guys, and two, this really does not smell like anything in my collection. This is one of those fragrances that immediately conjures an image in my mind; one of my late father’s Heavy Metal magazines from the 1980s featuring a metallic beauty on the cover, all gleaming chrome and curves, stark lines, and a strange, throbbing sense of mystery. Hajime Sorayama’s art for Heavy Metal magazine perfectly captured his signature style of future-noir and sci-fi eroticism for the machine age, and it certainly captured my attention when I first saw it at the tender age of 11. I don’t typically dissect fragrances through the lens of sexiness and sex appeal because, frankly, it feels inelegant and reductive. Perfumes can be so much more. But in this instance, it feels strangely fitting. Oh My Deer is a scent of bitter, aldehydic metallic musks, perversely both mineralic and animalic, and the olfactive dissonance of peppers that are warming and resinous but also act as a cooling, electric current. It’s a scent that also feels gritty and grungy, somehow, which brings it all back to a very personal place for me. Gritty and grungy is exactly how I felt when I first flipped through that back catalog of Heavy Metal magazines; they terrified and exhilarated me in equal measure, and those dark, techno-apocalyptic narratives may have been the catalyst for the first bit of… stirrings… in my weird little bod. Hey, we’ve all got our origin stories. Oh My Deer triggers a fascinating internal dialogue, pulling me back to those thrillingly strange magazines. It’s not what most would consider sexy, and for me personally, it isn’t either. But it’s undeniably weird, a quality I find endlessly intriguing. More importantly, it’s a scent I genuinely enjoy wearing.

A trio of scents from Heretic that I tried during that same Philadelphia trip…

Dirty Violet: dank dungeon jasmine, a collection of skeletal cypress knees, and a patchouli oil-slicked leather executioner’s mask
Dragon’s Blood: earthy, in a fantasy vegetable detritus compost-y sort of way, and also a bit smoky, like you made incense from that compost? (This was a limited edition and not available now.)
Cactus Abduction: has a sort of retro cucumber melon/cotton blossom vibe, but with an added zhuzh of effervescence, like the dream of the 90s is alive but make it sparkle!

Frederic Malle En Passant I’m a little ashamed to say that as long as I’ve been enthusing about fragrance, this is the first time I have ever smelled this one (I believe it is meant to be some kind of contemporary classic?) With notes of lilac, cucumber, cedar, and white musk, I am still trying to put into words what a beautiful creation this is. All I can say is that it’s like the gauzy childhood memory of a gentle, misty spring day, cool tendrils of fog lifting as the sun shifts through the clouds and warms the skin…but that’s not quite right. As a child, I wouldn’t have had the language for the ghostly sense of nostalgic melancholia En Passant evokes. It’s more like looking at the source of this memory through a hazy window pane as an adult, the present as it unfolds moment to moment, and becomes memory as fast as the moment unfurls. And knowing how fleeting it all is. And the sadness for the passage of time, and the joy for the child who doesn’t feel that yet. It’s that. It’s all of that.

Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Nyx, Night Goddess Imagine all the forbidden nocturnal mystery evoked by rich, smoky, brooding resins such as opoponax, oud, and frankincense, but soften it with sweetness and snuggles, make it a kinder, gentler darkness. Brown sugar candle glow, amber lantern light, the honeyed hum of a streetlamp– a companionable luminescence for the midnight soul, and a comforting balm for night owls, moonlighters, and after-dark enthusiasts.

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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.

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?

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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?

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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

Eris Parfums Green Spell smells like a mossy malachite pennywort nightmare angel

Initio Musk Therapy is an Abercrombie & Witch spell of hot people smelling hot (thanks to @eaumg for most of that description.)

Origins Ginger Essence smells like how the chorus in June Hymn by The Decemberists makes me feel

Blue Quartz from HauteMacabre x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab is a gentle summer lullaby of coconut milk, sandalwood, and lavender

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?

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You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Annie Stegg Gerard permitted me to include sweet Scowl (above) in the pages of The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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…!

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 World Cannot Give by Tara Isabella Burton: A shy new student at an elite boarding school joins a cultish choir group led by a charismatic but dangerous leader.
• 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

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.
• The Book of the Most Precious Substance by Sara Gran:  A down-and-out bookseller searches for a legendary sex magic book desired by the wealthy elite on a journey that explores dark desires and occult power.
• 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.
• Mary: An Awakening of Terror by Nat Cassidy: A middle-aged woman returning home confronts repressed memories, disturbing visions, and a resurfacing serial killer.
• 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
• Drive Your Plow Over The Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk: A reclusive animal lover in a Polish village becomes an unlikely detective, convinced she knows the truth behind a string of murders the indifferent police are ignoring.
• 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?

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While the gothic aesthetic holds a certain undeniable allure, the label itself has never quite felt like a fit for me. The truth is, my love for all things gothy – the macabre aesthetics, the haunting melodies, the lyrical explorations of mortality – exists on a curious spectrum. While I find myself enthralled by the atmosphere,  I wouldn’t exactly say I identify as full-fledged goth.  I’ve written about this a lot!

Think of me more as a whimsical wayfarer, a will-o-the-wisp who flits along the fringes of your favorite hauntings, a connoisseur of the curious and the unsettling, a gentle weirdo with an affinity for shadows and darkness. Dark art, and darker music, and the darkest humor. And, of course…dark smells! Which I have somewhat already written about before: perfume of the dead // summer scents for those who shun the sun // scents for the dark

But! This is a topic I could write at least  dozen novels about and I do have quite a few goth/gothic-leaning perfumes in my collection. So here I am to share some more!

Zoologist Bat is undeniably the strangest, most wonderfully unique perfume you will ever smell. Opening with a nearly overwhelming note of damp, primordial earth, both vegetal and mineral in execution, this immediately conjures inky caverns and pitch-black, damp limestone caves. The scent then morphs into something I can only describe as “night air and velvet darkness”; I cannot say how she has done this, I only know that it is the very essence of the vast, temperate midnight sky, the glowing moon high overhead. At this point, it becomes something quite different and–quite possibly–even more beautiful. Soft fruits, delicate musks, and resins lay at the heart of this enigmatic scent and combine to create a fragrance that lightly circles around the wearer to surprise them with a mysterious sweetness at the most surprising times. According to Dr. Covey, who has spent a great deal of time researching and studying bats, with this quality, the scent has succeeded pretty well in doing what she envisioned. This review is for the original 2015 perfume, but it has since been reformulated. You can still purchase the version I’m waxing poetic about, though; it’s sold over at Olympic Orchids as Night Flyer.

Tom Ford Oud Wood is a ghostly, glacial coniferous rosewood sandalwood melange of chilly, bitter, peppery woods. It is a tiny, sinister statue of a scent in an empty room where the temperature drops suddenly, with no explanation. The perfumed version of a little gremlin that appears in a haunting tale; one that skitters in the corners of your vision when the eye is focused elsewhere and inches eerily to your pillow when you’re at the knife’s edge of wakefulness and dream.

Mad et Len Noir Encens POV: you are a brooding pencil, prone to bouts of melancholia, that only scribbles at midnight and has only ever been used to draft architectural sketches of gargoyle-adorned gothic cathedrals and crumbling medieval monasteries and Baudelairian poetry and you listen to a lot of Bauhaus and Joy Division. This is discontinued, but it looks like you can buy samples here. Or you can buy a full bottle from me for $250 because I have an extra one!

bloodmilk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Owl Moon A symbiosis of the moon and the magnificent night owl. A dark, rooty, sweet patchouli swirled with honey. A scent steeped in mythology and magic, Owl Moon opens with the blackest, earthiest patchouli (before learning of the notes, I actually thought it was vetiver!) and calls to mind cool, moist soil at the base of a pine tree through which all of the busy little night creatures slither and crawl, the pale, ghostly light of the moon glinting off their scales and wings. A yellow-eyed owl, perched overhead, meditates briefly before silently embarking on his nightly hunt; the sour, screechy scent of his nest, littered with rodent bones and pellets, serves as a warning nearby. This is the fragrance of potent night magics, rich and ripe with darkness and feral mysticism. The sharpness of the patchouli streaked with high-pitched honey combines to form an aura that is both graceful and grotesque, sacred and profane. It dries down to a spellbinding, narcotic musk within an hour or so, and I predict many a darkling will fall rapturously in love with this bewitching nocturnal perfume. This one is sold out for at the moment, but they have been known to restock.

Lvnea x Chelsea Wolfe Pêche Obscène is glorious– but what I mean is glorious in the way that something monstrous and magnificent stalks the dead zone of night, by stealth and in the dark. This is peach, irradiated and ashen and grown over with moss and broken bird’s nests and salted against curses, curls of ferric iron to both ward away and contain within. A peach more lore and legend than it ever had life, a peach whose shadow looms uneasily far beyond its ruined flesh. Juices corrupt with the grave dirt of vetiver and patchouli and oozing with osmanthus’ strange leathery/jammy incense, Peche Obscene is an undead lich of a peach, and it is absolutely, terrifyingly, bewitching in the way that all delicious forbidden things are.

Solstice Scents Estate Carnation is a deeply gothic glamour amber, a musky murky chypre-adjacent fragrance that smells simultaneously like the figure in the white nightdress running from the manor house with the lone candle lit in the window at midnight and the surprise succubus that this figure is secretly possessed by–it’s all the iconic tropes of Avon Satanic Romance novel, and it’s perfect. This one may have been a seasonal or limited edition scent.

Arcana Holy Terror a blend of frankincense, deep myrrh, and beeswax candles, it smells of gentle resins, lofty sandalwood, and less of the fearsome spirits known to haunt certain long-deserted abbeys than it is curling up and reading about them in a horrid novel by the warm glow of candlelight.

Diptyque Tempo conjures an atmosphere of dolorous elegance, patchouli’s murky woods and dusky loam, with a wraithlike metallic chill and an herbal shiver of something green and strange simmering underneath. It carries a disquieting heaviness, the shape of a feeling impossible to give voice to; like having to climb into bed with someone and tell them they’re dead. It also reminds me of this passage from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within… and whatever walked there, walked alone.” This is a patchouli that has walked the long shadows of Hill House, has become lost in the thick, unspoken secrets of its notorious halls, and suffered its mad face in the growing darkness. This is a twisted, haunted patchouli that has seen some shit, but all the edges of that unnerving terror have been blurred by the creeping of moss, the settling of dust, and the softness of time and memory, of unreality and dream.

Chapel Factory Heresy is the sharp green metallic floral of violet leaf, mingled with cool aromatic cedar, lofty sandalwood, and the smoked leather notes of vetiver; elements which alchemize into the austere elegance and kindred glooms of a dry, peppery violet incense. If you like the dark ambiance and nocturnal aesthetic of dungeon synth coupled with spectral visionary Simon Marsden’s black and white photographs of haunted ruins and moonlit abbeys, this is a transportive scent that will spirit you away to those eerie, ominous realms.

Beaufort London Terror & Magnificence This is the very gothest thing: tarry, leathery shadows, wet, stony paths leading into the teeming dark, and moonless midnights presiding over all. Like being enfolded by bat wings, encased in obsidian, enveloped in a stark abyss. A silent secret from the mouth of one just dead. This departed speaker whom no one hears is you.

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The Book of Love by Kelly Link Three schoolmates are returned from the dead and are tasked with finding out why in this marvelously absurd, weirdly beautiful debut novel from Kelly Link, who writes in the strange, dizzy, poetic, just-on-the-verge-of nonsense language of someone trying to describe their dream to you while they are still, in fact, in the middle of the dream. This is an author who writes like no one else today–or ever!– and when I finished the story, I found myself furiously weeping, thinking, take me back. I want to go back. (provided by NetGalley)

Thirst by Marina Yuszczuk. The streets of nineteenth-century Buenos Aires thrum with the throes of transformation as a vampire fleeing from Europe seeks refuge amidst the burgeoning chaos; centuries later, a woman grapples with her own mortality, her mother’s impending death a constant shadow. Through lush, exquisite prose reminiscent of Shirley Jackson and Daphne du Maurier, Yuszczuk navigates themes of fear, loneliness, and the haunting allure of immortality, and as the two women’s lives intertwine, desires ignite, and fate plays out in interesting and unexpected ways. Thirst is a captivating exploration of female agency and the stories that happen in the shadows between life and death–and I thoroughly look forward to exploring this darkness further with this incredible, new-to-me author. (provided by NetGalley)

Incidents Around The House by Josh Malerman is one of the freakiest books I have ever read in my life. I found myself forgetting to breathe as I read it and often realized I was literally crying because it freaked me out so badly. I will give a very, very brief summary. It is written from the POV of a child about a thing in her closet that’s been paying her visits. It wants to be “let inside” her heart. Soon, she begins seeing it in other parts of the home. And then, it is not confined to the walls of the family’s house…and eventually…other people can see it too. It’s a book that reminded me what it was like to be a child, and honestly, I felt being a child was very difficult. The overwhelming thing I recall from ages 3-10 is 100% “what the fuck is even happening right now?” And never knowing what’s next or, worse, what’s expected of me. And that’s freaky. I felt that way every second of my little life, and that made for a nervous, anxious childhood. To be fair, that’s how I feel as an adult, but now I’ve had nearly 50 years of experience acclimating to it. Reading this child’s story took me back to that unsettling place of vast uncertainty; sitting with the echoing reverberations of that anxiety through the lens of a monster/haunted house/demon story/possession story, rendered those feelings doubly alarming. I didn’t actually parse in the end what was happening/what had happened, and that’s fine. That’s perfect, actually. I feel like those alarming feelings of WTFery as a story is amping up are so infrequently sustained throughout the course of a book and all the way through the end– and Malerman has executed it masterfully. Isn’t it funny, though, how those things we fear so dreadfully, eventually become those fascinations that delight us? As a child, I hated never knowing exactly what was going on, and yet, as an adult, that’s the hallmark of some of the most excellent stories for me. (provided by NetGalley)

The Scent Trail by Celia Lyttelton whisks readers away on a sensory odyssey that crisscrosses continents and cultures, driven by her extravagant quest to concoct a signature perfume. Over two indulgent years, Lyttelton flitted through France, Italy, North Africa, India, Turkey, Yemen, and Socotra, cherry-picking ingredients with painstaking precision. The book teases with snippets of her personal journey but predominantly plunges into the intricate alchemy of perfume production, merging time-honored craftsmanship with modern techniques, and immersing readers in the rich tapestry of history and cultural significance behind each component. For a perfume aficionado, this tome is a spellbinding and exquisite delight, yet it remains jaw-droppingly unrelatable. It’s nearly impossible not to harbor an intense hatred towards this almost obscenely privileged woman.

Midnight Feast by Lucy Foley Perched on the precipice of the summer solstice, heiress/influencer/It Girl Francesca Woodland is poised to make certain the whole world knows about her newly renovated, ultra-luxurious resort, where the wealthy escape to get their chakras aligned, fondle energetic, vibe-rich crystals, drink local organic free range gluten-free juices and all sorts of other nonsense that gullible people with more money than sense are into. Her doting architect husband, Owen, is at her to side to ensure everything runs smoothly and continue work on the property. Despite their best efforts to present a perfect facade to the guests and the public, unsettling and disturbing things are happening around the resort. Is it the enigmatic stranger, possibly from Francesca’s past, who is slyly disguised as just another guest, ready to exact vengeance for some mysterious event that occurred 15 years prior? Could it be the villagers who were unhappy that Francesca had begun construction in the woods, taking down trees that were sacred to the community and part of their local legend and lore? Could it be Owen himself, who we soon learn is hiding secrets of his own? Told from multiple perspectives and dual timelines, we read as Detective Walker tries to piece together how the posh resort came to be a smoking ruin, with several dead in the fire. What strangeness happened on that solstice evening, and how does an incident from a decade and a half ago fit into this narrative? There’s not a single character in this story who is not keeping a secret–from the absolutely awful Francesca to her not-quite-what-he-seems husband, from vengeful Bella to the intrepid detective, to the hotel support staff to the villagers to the haunting entities in the woods–everyone here is a bit of a riddle, has an agenda, and fits into the puzzle in different ways. One of Lucy Foley’s finest stories yet.  (provided by NetGalley)

The New Couple in 5B by Lisa Unger Rosie and Chad, cash-strapped newlyweds, inherit a dream apartment in the opulent Windermere. But the glamour fades fast. Haunted by a spectral boy and plagued by the watchful eyes of the unnervingly knowledgeable doorman, Rosie delves into Windermere’s past – a grisly tapestry of deaths, accidents, and a history built on the embers of a burned-down church. The residents, initially welcoming, become threatening ciphers with hidden, possibly occult agendas. Rosie, already a bit of a haunted character herself, begins to lean into the past she’s been running from as she unravels the truth. I enjoyed the story right up until some key things were revealed; I don’t want to say anything potentially spoilery, but for all the supernatural buildup, the motives of the people behind the nefarious shenanigans are terribly, disappointingly mundane. (provided by NetGalley)

The Devil and Mrs. Davenport by Paulette Kennedy Paulette Kennedy’s The Devil and Mrs. Davenport  explores the quiet terrors of 1950s America through the eyes of Loretta Davenport, a young mother whose life spirals into a supernatural mystery. Set in Missouri, 1955, the novel intricately details Loretta’s struggle against societal expectations and her own emerging psychic abilities, which surface following a local girl’s murder. Supported by parapsychologist Dr. Curtis Hansen but opposed by her controlling husband Pete, Loretta’s journey is a riveting tale of self-discovery and empowerment amid haunting messages from the beyond.

The Drowning House by Cherie Priest  Two childhood friends return to their hometown upon hearing of the death of their beloved Mrs. Culpepper. Weirdly, the third of their trio, who had been the one to call and inform them of the old woman’s passing, has now mysteriously disappeared. And an old house has washed up on the beach! The fright is undoubtedly what killed Mrs. Culpepper, but the history of the house wreck and the circumstances surrounding its shocking reappearance is even stranger and scarier. The Drowning House starts strong with a storm-tossed mystery, and the childhood flashbacks add intrigue, weaving a connection between the house and a dark past. However, the characters, despite their history, felt flat, and the suspense didn’t quite hold throughout. I generally really enjoy Cherie Priest’s stories, but this one, even with its unique premise, didn’t work for me.(provided by NetGalley)

Poor Things by Alasdair Gray is a darkly comedic Frankenstein remix that injects irreverence and absurdity into the classic tale. Meet Bella Baxter, a captivating yet unconventional creation with a child’s whimsy, a woman’s wishes, and an absolute wild streak. The narrative unfolds through a dual lens: the pompous Dr. Archibald McCandless and Bella herself, offering a multifaceted exploration of female agency, societal constraints, and the battle for autonomy wherein Gray gleefully skewers Victorian propriety, taking aim at everything from class structures to scientific advancements.

Everybody Knows by Jordan Harper plunges you into the dark underbelly of LA’s glitz, where our morally compromised protagonists, Mae and Chris, find themselves embroiled in a dangerous game. Mae, a fixer for a PR firm, uncovers a scandal involving a high-profile client, while Chris, an ex-cop turned private investigator, gets entangled in a case with connections to a powerful crime syndicate. As they dig deeper, they realize their cases are intertwined, leading them into a labyrinth of corruption and deceit.

Rainbow Black by Maggie Thrash blends a chilling murder mystery with a moving coming-of-age narrative, all set against the backdrop of the 90s Satanic Panic. The novel follows Lacey, whose world is turned upside down when her free-spirited parents are wrongfully accused of satanic ritual abuse involving the children at their home-run daycare. With her parents thrown in jail, Lacey leans on her badass sister Eclair—until Eclair is brutally murdered. Thrust into the foster system, Lacey’s only solace is her friendship with Dylan. After years apart, they reconnect as teenagers, only to face another murder,  forcing them to flee to Canada. Fast forward several years, Lacey and Dylan, now under new identities and thriving in their careers, live in constant fear of being discovered.

The Invisible Hotel by Yeji Y. Ham A slow burn that transcends genre (though it is labeled as horror) The Invisible Hotel gives us glimpses into the surreal dreamscapes of an infinite hotel through the windows of Yewon’s suffocating reality. Yewon’s life is a tapestry woven with family distress: a mother fixated on ancestral bones, a brother stationed near a tense border, and a sister wrestling with her own demons. The cryptic hotel bleeds into her waking hours, forcing her to confront the unspoken traumas that have haunted generations. Yewon’s dreamlike haze can be frustrating to navigate, but I think it amplifies the story’s unsettling undercurrent. This isn’t quite traditional horror, but a queasy, uneasy exploration of grief, and the legacy of war on a family and community, and the fragility of self and identity in the face of these traumas. (provided by NetGalley)

How To Keep House While Drowning by KC Davis offers gentle, compassionate guidance for anyone overwhelmed by the chaos of everyday life, and looking to get a handle on things. Davis’s approach is empathetic, emphasizing self-kindness and practical strategies over perfection. Even if you’re not suffering from severe depression or have an ADHD diagnosis– maybe let’s just say you are easily overwhelmed and sometimes the world feels like it’s all too much–her insights create a nurturing space to redefine your relationship with housekeeping, making it an act of self-care rather than a source of stress.

The Angel of Indian Lake by Stephen Graham Jones I honestly don’t remember much about this final chapter of the Lake Witch trilogy, except holy hell–has ever a character endured more than Jade? I recall thinking more than once that this poor woman is so physically messed up and scarred that I don’t think her body could make it into another book, that would be even more unbelievable than more ghosts and monsters.

Diavola by Jennifer Marie Thorne Anna, a fed-up, burnt-out millennial with nothing left to lose, joins up with her family’s for their annual vacation, this time in the picturesque yet foreboding backdrop of a remote Italian villa.  As eerie nocturnal noises and unsettling local whispers unsettle the family dynamics, Diavola becomes a riveting exploration of loneliness, belonging, and the enduring power of family shittiness, in this ghost story blending dark humor with Gothic intrigue.

The Familiar by Leigh Bardugo Luzia, hiding her identity as a witch, struggles to remain unnoticed while working in a middlingly-grand household. Her quiet life is disrupted when she inadvertently uses her powers in front of her mistress, who thinks she can use this for some kind of social-climbing scheme–which draws the attention of both allies and enemies. As she becomes entangled with the brooding Santángel, a forbidden romance blooms. God, I hate romance. This book was not great.

The Kamogawa Food Detectives by Hisashi Kashiwai Tucked away in a Kyoto backstreet lies the Kamogawa Diner where Koishi and her retired detective father, Nagare, act as “food detectives,” unraveling the mysteries locked within forgotten recipes. With each bite, they conjure memories, mend broken hearts, and unlock the secrets to a happier future. This is a formulaic, but quick, fun read.

The Devil All the Time by Donald Ray Pollock  A parade of grotesques populates this Southern Gothic nightmare: from Willard Russell, a war veteran clinging to twisted faith, to the depraved couple, Carl and Sandy Henderson, who find their thrills in murder. Pollock doesn’t shy away from nastiness; his characters revel in it, leaving a trail of violence and broken lives in their wake. Yet, a strange poetry emerges from the darkness, making this exploration of humanity’s underbelly utterly horrifying and strangely beautiful.

A Better World by Sarah Langan The promise of a utopian escape in a near-future America lures the desperate Farmer-Bowen family to Plymouth Valley, a seemingly idyllic community. Initially snubbed by the townsfolk, the family eventually finds a tenuous “in” and begins to settle, but Linda is profoundly uneasy about her neighbors, the locale, and their traditions. As she delves deeper, unsettling truths about the community’s rituals emerge, leaving the family to question if this “better world” is worth the soul-chilling secrets it harbors or if the chaos of the crumbling world outside might be a preferable nightmare.

The Sleepwalkers by Scarlett Thomas Honeymooning on a storm-battered Greek island, Evelyn and Richard have the most desperately awful, toxic relationship I think I’ve ever encountered. I don’t think I will say more than that.

Water Shall Refuse Them by Lucie McKnight Hardy In the scorching summer of 1976, sixteen-year-old Nif and her family seek solace in a secluded Welsh village following her sister’s tragic drowning. As grief grips their lives, Nif turns to collecting talismans from the sun-starved land, delving into her own form of witchcraft. As they grapple with their loss, the village’s eerie atmosphere and its peculiar inhabitants seem to hold unsettling secrets. Amidst this haunting landscape, she crosses paths with Mally, a mysterious boy with his own secrets to unveil. This is described as Shirley Jackson-esque folk horror, and I would also add if you enjoyed Sarah Moss’s Ghost Wall, you’d probably like this one as well.

While We Were Burning by Sara Koffi Elizabeth’s seemingly perfect life shatters after her best friend’s mysterious death, leaving her floundering and leading her to hire Brianna, a poised and perceptive Black woman, as a personal assistant to help keep her sane and get her shit together. What starts as a professional arrangement evolves into an exploration of power dynamics and societal injustices as both women confront their own secrets and grief.

We Were Never Here by Andrea Bartz Imagine this: your annual bestie trip takes a horrifying turn when a violent incident in Chile leaves you entangled in a deadly cover-up. Sounds familiar? Probably not. Except it is for Emily, the protagonist–this is the second year in a row such a nightmare has unfolded. After fucked-up vacation number two, a distance is growing between Emily and the increasingly volatile Kristen, as Emily begins questioning everything – her memories, her sanity, and the very foundation of their bond.

The Resort by Sarah Goodwin Mila and Ethan, a seemingly perfect couple, find themselves stranded in a deserted, snow-blanketed resort after a wrong turn on their way to Mila’s sister’s wedding celebrations. Mila, desperate to not let her sister down yet again, soon realizes that her absence at the festivities will be the least of her worries, after a night sleeping in a frozen, dilapidated cabin…only to wake up and realize Ethan has disappeared.

Ring Shout by P. Djèlí Clark A nightmarish vision of the Deep South, where the white hooded figures harbor a sinister secret – they’re not just racists, they’re demonic vessels who thrive on hatred, using D.W. Griffith’s infamous film “The Birth of a Nation” to fuel their malevolent agenda. Maryse Boudreaux is a resistance fighter with a magic sword, a foot in the spirit world, and some seriously badass, brave friends, and she is truly unrelenting in her dedication to hunting these monsters and stamping out their wickedness.

Jackal by Erin E. Adams Liz Rocher reluctantly returns to her hometown, only to be ensnared by the sinister disappearance of a young girl in her charge during a wedding celebration. As Liz tears into the dark woods and the town’s unsettling past, she uncovers a harrowing pattern of missing Black girls, casting an eerie shadow over her own childhood memories.

Look in the Mirror by Catherine Steadman Nina, adrift in grief after her father’s passing, inherits a stunning vacation home in the Caribbean. But this windfall comes shrouded in mystery. The house itself, a gleaming glass and marble marvel, whispers secrets of her father’s hidden life. Meanwhile, Maria, a world-trotting nanny lured by the allure of wealth, takes a new position caring for a child in this very same paradise. As Nina peers deeper into her father’s past, and Maria encounters unsettling peculiarities in the opulent home, both women find themselves entangled in a weird and dangerous web of deception and shady business. (provided by NetGalley)

The Wishing Pool and Other Stories by Tananarive Due I was probably crying before I even finished the first page of this eerie collection; Tananarive Due just does that to me. Due’s stories are imbued with a profound sense of humanity, intertwining the supernatural with poignant explorations of loss, love, and the enduring power of hope. The Gracetown and the Nayima sections of the collection bring back locations and characters that readers will recognize from the author’s other works.

GORE-GEOUS by Alex West I already had a huge crush on Alex West from listening in to her discussions with Andrea Subisatti (on whom I also have a major crush–my capacity for crushing on brilliant people is boundless) on the Faculty of Horror podcast. But when I read these words in her recent book, GORE-GEOUS, my love for her grew to probably insane proportions: “Horror is a haven for me when the world feels too obtuse, moronic, or basic.” GORE-GEOUS is a profound exploration where personal essays intersect with film criticism to challenge societal norms of beauty, worth, and acceptance, wherein she adeptly observes, “Having narratives about the function of beauty shoved down our collective throats and having these ideas sold to us through endless products and treatments in a mindfuck.” In these pages, regarding issues of self-perception, self-worth, and internalizing toxic beauty and wellness culture, Alex confronts incredibly personal and also very relatable fears — which is a highly vulnerable and, I think, ultimately, empowering move– and examines it all through a horror movie lens. With raw vulnerability and incisive analysis, she weaves together personal anecdotes, film criticism, and cultural commentary to unpack the harmful messages we receive about beauty and how horror films can serve as a space to challenge these norms. I can’t recommend GORE-GEOUS enough.

Joyland by Stephen King College student Devin Jones seeks solace from heartbreak in a North Carolina amusement park. Aided by a psychic child and haunted by the park’s shadowy corners, Devin delves into Joyland’s dark past. This book had not even been on my radar, but the good people at Bad Books For Bad People had recently discussed it, and I was intrigued. My enjoyment of it was tempered, as it always is as the years go on, by thinking how old Stephen King is and how heartbroken I will be when he dies.

The Hunter by Tana French I love Tana French, but I have found her “Cal Hooper” series to be somewhat forgettable. In this second chapter, we return to the eccentric Irish village of Ardnakelty, where the American ex-cop Cal finds his newfound peace disrupted by the arrival of two outsiders. Johnny Reddy, half-feral teenager Trey’s long-absent father, rolls back into town like he owns the place, along with a stranger. Between them, there seems to be some sort of get-rich-quick scheme, and the rest of the town is soon suckered in on it. It was fine. I have already forgotten most of it

Society of Lies by Lauren Ling Brown When Maya returns to Princeton for her sister’s graduation, a celebratory weekend curdles into chilling suspicion. Naomi, it seems, has been entangled with the alluring yet enigmatic Sterling Club, and the whispers surrounding their exclusive inner circle hint at something far more sinister than scholarly pursuits. Maya’s investigation leads her back to a shadowy exclusive club and a past she desperately tried to bury. Brown weaves a tale of legacy, obsession, and the price of belonging, leaving you to wonder just what lurks beneath the polished veneer of campus life and also maybe glad that you decided on living at home and working part-time while going to community college. It may have taken you ten years but at least your ass didn’t get murdered. (provided by NetGalley)

Mystery Lights by Lena Valencia  is everything I want from a collection of short stories. Imaginative stories written in beautifully straightforward language (I want to say “plain language,” but that’s not quite it, I think what I mean is an “economy of prose” where every word is exactly what it should be, nothing more, nothing less.) Eerie vignettes in the American Southwest, stories with sinister intent, with menacing undercurrents –it’s not outright horror, but it flirts with it, it skirts the edges. A young girl gets separated from her family during a cave tour and doesn’t come back quite herself; a woman attends an influencer retreat along with other zealous obsessives deep in the desert; another woman is chased on a hot day by wild dogs, only to wind up in a creepy stranger’s car. These stories are haunting and uncomfortable, but only just–which is to say that they are definitely both those things, but they are handled so skillfully they almost seem like passing conversation, no big deal. These situations are not tied up with a neat bow, it’s almost as if we get a glimpse into these character’s lives for a moment, perhaps an afternoon or a series of weeks, just enough to become immersed in their strange, uneasy or distressing situations, and then the curtains are closed in our faces, as if the author is saying “well now, that’s all you get.” Well done. I think that’s just as it should be.(provided by NetGalley)

Worry by Alexandra Tanner  Set against the backdrop of Brooklyn’s urban ennui, it follows Jules and Poppy, two sisters mired in their privileged angst and neurotic crises. With its dry wit and supposed insights into modern life, the novel spins tales of aimless scrolling, pet dramas, and familial dysfunction. I felt profoundly disconnected from these sisters’ mundane dramas and longed desperately for a supernatural or speculative element, any sort of intrigue or mystery really, that could elevate the narrative beyond a novel-length AITA post.

Here One Moment by Liane Moriarty A seemingly ordinary domestic flight turns extremely weird when passengers learn the exact time of their deaths from a mysterious woman dubbed “The Death Lady.” As these predictions begin to unfold with disturbing accuracy, six passengers grapple with their own mortality. The story is a comedic exploration (but think delightful grandma humor) that gets into questions about fate, free will, and how we choose to live with the knowledge of our own finitude, while gradually unraveling the mystery surrounding The Death Lady herself. Liane Moriarty’s stories can feel a bit …saccharine at times? Or maybe what I mean to say is tied up too neatly with a bow at the end? But I think of her works as sort of an antidote to stories like Worry with all that hip, trendy millennial malaise– a vibe that is starting to feel really gross and profoundly boring. (provided by NetGalley)

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