Unquiet
Things

All You Need is Death has only been on my radar for a few months or so, but the more I stared at the creepy movie poster, the more certain I was that I had to watch it sooner rather than later.

The film follows Anna and Aleks, a shady couple traveling around Ireland, recording rare folk songs to sell to collectors. Because apparently there are collectors of such things? Their pursuit of an ancient, never-before-recorded ballad leads them to Rita Concannon, an eccentric old woman who knows a rare—and most importantly—original—song. Meaning not a variant of something familiar, but something that’s never been sung by anyone else outside the women of the family. But they’re not alone in this quest. Agnes, initially introduced as a potential mentor to the couple, is actually a coldly calculating competitor and is also after this elusive tune.

Olwen Fouéré’s portrayal of Rita is mesmerizing – she’s mysterious, slightly unhinged, very inebriated, and utterly captivating, especially in the scene where she insists on singing from inside a wardrobe. But then she eventually emerges to sing for the small group, which, on the one hand, is hilarious, considering her initial crotchety wardrobe-creeping stance, but on the other is actually quite terrifying in light of her intense performance singing the brutal song, sung in a pre-Irish language that no one in the room understands.

Rita eventually explains that the song is called “Love is a knife with a blade for a handle.” And unbeknownst to all in the room, despite warnings that the songs are not to be passed on, Agnes is recording the forbidden song with the intent to translate it and, in doing so, unwittingly unleashing a malevolent force. Agnes is deeply unsettling and a bit of an asshole, although…as the story unfolds, one almost begins to feel sorry for her. Almost.

But first, we have to feel sorry for Rita, who, once everyone clears out of her home, is gruesomely dispatched by a shadowy assailant, leaving her son Breezeblock (yes, that’s his name) to discover her body in a truly shocking scene. Nigel O’Neill plays Breezeblock with a complex mix of menace and tragedy that’s quite compelling. His character starts as an aggressive, somewhat one-dimensional antagonist, but as we learn more about his childhood trauma and witness his grief, he becomes a much more nuanced and sympathetic figure. The murder sets off a chain of increasingly bizarre and horrifying events, as the power unleashed by the recording of the forbidden song begins to manifest in nightmarish ways. The film treads an interesting line between the allure of preserving lost cultural artifacts and the potential horrors of unearthing things best left forgotten. It’s an interesting take on folk horror that doesn’t just rehash the usual “don’t mess with old rural traditions” trope. Instead, it questions our modern obsession with documenting and commodifying every aspect of culture, even (and especially) the parts that might be dangerous or sacred.

I loved this film. The atmosphere is utterly drenched in dread, and Ian Lynch’s nerve-wracking score only amplifies that feeling. Duane mixes Irish folklore, the power of oral traditions, the consequences of unearthing long-buried secrets, and some unexpected body horror into something I haven’t quite seen before. All You Need is Death creates a world where music holds terrible power, and the climax, involving possession and gruesome practical effects, is both shocking and oddly poetic. Also, I absolutely need that poster by Haley Marie Hennier hanging on my wall!

Day Six of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021

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Horror lurking in unexpected places is when horror horrors the hardest. I did not expect to find it in Season Two, Episode Seven of Rings of Power, grabbing me by the throat and dragging me face-first into some of my deepest fears and traumas, but. Well. Here we are.

For those not watching, The Rings of Power is a fantasy series set in Tolkien’s Middle-earth, way before Frodo and his merry band set off to toss a ring into a volcano. This, at least to my way of thinking, is not exactly prime real estate for personal horror. And yet, there I was, one moment watching pretty people with pointy ears and enjoying my takeout sushi, and the next feeling brutally emotionally sideswiped and wanting to throw up my spicy tuna roll.

Sauron disguised as Annatar, Lord of Gifts and emissary of the Valar, has been insidiously and methodically dismantling the elven smith Celebrimbor’s grip on reality for the past few episodes. The sinister manipulation and devious gaslighting were off the charts. Annatar’s nefarious playbook is straight out of Abusers 101. He slyly isolates Celebrimbor, cutting him off from his support system by deceptively convincing others that the elf-lord is unstable. A classic, underhanded move. He love-bombs Celebrimbor with calculated praise and hollow promises of greatness, then swiftly and cruelly pulls the rug out, leaving him constantly off-balance and vulnerable. I squirmed in my seat, horrified at the way he maliciously twists Celebrimbor’s words, using them against him…it’s the slow, poisonous erosion of self-trust, that loss of all control because someone has craftily convinced you that they know better…it’s like watching someone being mercilessly filleted alive, their sense of self peeled away layer by excruciating layer, and they’re perversely thanking the sadistic butcher for the privilege.

Watching Annatar crush Celebrimbor’s spirit was like seeing a star collapse into a black hole – a once-brilliant light being inexorably consumed by darkness, with devastating consequences for everything in its orbit. This wasn’t just about one person’s mind being twisted – it was the unraveling of an entire community. Celebrimbor, the prince of his people, trusted and loved, reduced to a shadow of himself. His reputation in tatters, his life’s work corrupted, and the lives of those who depended on him left in ruins. The collateral damage was almost too much to bear, seeing trust turn to suspicion, love to fear, as Annatar’s web of deceit spread through Eregion.  I felt sick, angry, helpless – all too familiar feelings bubbling up as I watched this fantasy world crumble in ways that felt all too real.

And Sauron? Annatar? That smooth-talking, gaslighting piece of shit? Every time he appeared, it was like every version of myself being violently punched in the gut twice over, leaving me winded and reeling. My body remembered before my mind could catch up – heart thundering like an explosion in my chest, breath so shallow and ragged I was certain I was suffocating. Annatar wasn’t just channeling an abuser – he was channeling mine, and the realization crashed over me in a suffocating wave of shame, fury, and helplessness. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, and I was drowning in a sea of remembered trauma, helplessly pulled under again and again by the relentless undertow of manipulation and fear.

I was beyond physically ill. It wasn’t just costumed actors anymore (and wow, these costumes are awful) – it had somehow turned into my own personal theatre of horror. My brain was violently regurgitating years of suppressed memories, moments when I’d been convinced I was worthless, unlovable except by the very person systematically destroying me. I couldn’t even muster the strength to turn it off. I just sat there, convulsing with silent sobs, as the credits rolled, feeling as if I’d been eviscerated and left to die on my own couch. This is the kind of horror that doesn’t politely bow out when the episode ends. It lingers like a toxic miasma, it festers in the deepest recesses of your mind, it echoes in every quiet moment, threatening to drown out all else.

Echoing. It’s funny how that word keeps popping up in these reviews. From the literal Stir of Echoes to the psychological labyrinth of Broadcast Signal Intrusion, and now this sucker punch from a fantasy show in my comfort genre (LOtR is a whole genre as far as I am concerned.) And maybe that’s the real horror – not the initial shock, but the way it bounces around in your head long after, impossible to shake off, leaving you wondering what else is hiding in the shadows of your mind, waiting to be triggered by a random elf in a bad wig on TV.

P.S. I know this post was a huge freaking bummer and also probably a bit triggering for some people. I am truly very sorry. There was one thing that occurred to me about a character unrelated to this post that made me laugh, though!

Day Five of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021

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Pearfat Parfum has released a new scent for the 2024 spooky season, and I am wearing it right now! Let’s get into it.

(Curious about their 2023 Halloween scent? Read my thoughts here.)

Be Very Afraid assaults your senses with an acrid, bitter burst that leaves the impression of scorching the back of your throat – not the actual sensation, but what that might smell like if it were a scent. It’s reminiscent of a blast of canned air and clingy plastic on cold metal, with an undercurrent of something inexplicably familiar yet eerily alien. Scorched rubber morphs into singed leather as ozone crackles on deranged wavelengths and electricity arcs through your fingertips. It evokes a storm cloud wearing a leather mask, or a tuft of cotton candy spun from TV static – a harbinger of the chimeric evolution to come.

Within seconds, it shifts and softens, mutating radically. The initial character lingers, but it’s altered into a much gentler thing. That leather storm deconstructs into a whisper of quantum foam infused with dermal matrix nanofibers; bioengineered herbs emerge with a faint electric hum, while tendrils of ionized spectral vapors delicately intertwine with a moss-derived floral musk pulsing softly in a miniature supercollider of scent. On the skin, it continues to evolve, the original identity fragmenting and recombining as that once confrontational and unsettling opening transforms into something unnervingly inviting, now floating just at the edge of awareness.

The scent’s newly fleshed final form is a metamorphosis complete – subtly strange and softly electric, yet no longer unsettling. The dry-down reveals a sophisticated, green, barely-there tingle in a woody-mossy framework that feels both molecularly aseptic and ingeniously verdant. This enigmatic synthesis evokes an angel gently resequenced in a lab, emerging from a whisper-quiet decontamination chamber – a seamless fusion of the otherworldly and the synthetic. What began as something exceptionally weird has settled into an infinitely wearable fragrance that still carries ethereal echoes of its uncanny origins.

You can also watch my review for Be Very Afraid over on TikTok!

31 Days of Horror Day Four in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021

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Watching Broadcast Signal Intrusion on a whim, I was struck by an eerie synchronicity – like A Stir of Echoes, which I’d just watched, this film is set in Chicago, 1999. It’s a strange coincidence that has me experiencing yet another slice of late ’90s Windy City life, a world I’ve only glimpsed through the lens of pop culture. This neo-noir feels like a funhouse mirror version of that other film, reflecting a tech-obsessed underbelly of the same city at the same time.

The movie follows James, our protagonist, as he stumbles upon bizarre pirate broadcasts that hijack regular programming. Picture masked figures popping up on screen, looking like they crawled out of a glitchy nightmare. It’s the kind of urban myth I would’ve read about online years later, marveling at the strangeness of it all from the safety of my bedroom.

James, still reeling from the mysterious disappearance of his wife Hannah two years ago, dives into this rabbit hole headfirst, and as he delves deeper, he uncovers a conspiracy theory on message boards linking these broadcasts to missing girls, adding layers of intrigue and unease to his search. Harry Shum Jr. plays James with an intense, slightly unhinged energy that had me completely invested, and the supporting cast is full of eccentrics who feel like they’ve stepped out of those weird, late-night cable shows I’ve heard so much about but never actually stayed up to watch.

Sometimes, the film gets a bit hazy on the details, prioritizing mood over a clear-cut narrative. But that haziness works for me. It’s like trying to piece together a story from forum posts and second-hand accounts – the details might be fuzzy, but the atmosphere lingers. Broadcast Signal Intrusion left me with that uneasy feeling I get after reading about real-life mysteries late at night, jumping at shadows and wondering about the strange possibilities that all the crazy internet posters with names like pacorabanneswiener have put into my head.

For anyone who’s ever been intrigued by stories of strange, obsessive technology or urban legends, this film will resonate. It’s a deep dive into retro-tinted unease and watching it now, so soon after A Stir of Echoes, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a hidden chapter of 1999 Chicago – a city apparently rife with psychic phenomena and sinister broadcasts.

If you’re a fan of films and books like Berberian Sound Studio, Censor, Archive 81, Experimental Film, Universal Harvester, Silver Nitrate, or Schrader’s Chord, you’ll likely dig this film. They all tap into that uneasy space where technology, media, and human perception intersect, creating a sense of paranoia that seeps through the screen or off the page. It’s a feeling of reality being slightly off-kilter, where the familiar suddenly becomes alien and threatening. There’s a shared fascination with the act of looking – really looking – at the world around us, and the terror that can come from seeing too much. These stories all seem to ask: What if the glitches, the interruptions, the things we usually ignore, are actually trying to tell us something? They share a quality of leaving you feeling slightly altered after experiencing them, as if you’ve been initiated into some cryptic understanding of the world that you can’t quite pin down but can never fully shake off.

31 Days of Horror Day Three in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021

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Watching A Stir of Echoes for the first time now, nearly twenty-five years after its release, feels like stepping into someone else’s memory of the ’90s. It’s a strange experience because I lived through that time–I was in my early 20s in 1999 when this film came out and usually went to the movies with a friend every Friday night–but I never saw A Stir of Echoes then. This slice of Chicago life feels very foreign to me, someone who had just pretty much lived in the FL suburbs for most until I moved to a cappy beachside apartment, right around the time this film was released.

Anyway, Kevin Bacon’s there in this tight-knit Chicago neighborhood, looking like every guy I knew who worked construction or drove a delivery truck. He’s chugging beers, jamming to dad rock, living in one of those neighborhoods where you can smell someone’s dinner cooking three houses down, all the neighbors know each other, and there’s a random block party every other weekend. We soon learn, though, that it’s a place where everyone knows your name, but no one knows your secrets.

Bacon plays Tom Witzky, a blue-collar everyman possessing an abundance of clichéd tough-guy skepticism. His world turns upside down when his sister-in-law Lisa (Illeana Douglas) awakens his latent psychic abilities through casual party trick hypnosis. Lisa, armed with the dubious authority of a few psychology classes, unwittingly opens a door Tom can’t close. Suddenly, he sees ghosts and digs up his backyard like a man possessed, all while trying to solve the mystery of a missing girl. The film balances supernatural chills with the gritty, mundane horrors of financial struggle and marital strain, as Tom’s obsession tests his relationship with his wife, Maggie, and adds an unsettling dimension to their young son’s own psychic gifts.

I’m struck by the late ’90s fashion details – Lisa’s baby tees, chokers, and barrettes are like artifacts from a time capsule. Speaking of Lisa, her character got under my skin in an unexpected way. I usually love these snarky, Daria/Janeane Garofalo-esque characters, but something about her felt grating. In every scene, it seemed like she was teetering on the edge of taking her sarcastic schtick too far. It’s made me wonder if maybe I’m reacting to something I recognize in myself – that tendency to lean too hard into snark as a defense mechanism. This self-reflection added an extra layer to my viewing experience, making me pay closer attention to the nuances in each performance. It’s funny how watching older films can do that – make you scrutinize not just the characters, but your reactions to them.  This heightened awareness led me to another unexpected pleasure: spotting actors before they became familiar faces. I may have quietly squeed at both a future House and future Gilmore Girls cast members’ appearance!

The film left me with a strange ache, not quite nostalgia, more like a glimpse into a parallel ’90s I never experienced. It’s made me curious about the Richard Matheson book it’s based on, wondering how much of this gritty, supernatural slice of life came from the page and how much from the screen. Watching A Stir of Echoes now feels like catching up on a conversation I missed years ago, piecing together the context from collective echoes, little more than whispers, the remnant scraps of tee shirts that will never fit you again but that you remember ever so fondly.

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Here we are again! I told Yvan I didn’t think I wanted to do 31 Days of Horror this year, and he asked me why not. I guess the answer is because maybe I just want to watch a thing or two without thinking about 1. how to write about it and 2. how to write about it in a way that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot! It’s the eternal struggle!

But this IS my October ritual, dangit! I look forward to it, I’ve got to do it! Don’t I?

The truth is, there’s something comforting about this yearly tradition. Even when I’m dragging my feet at the start, I know I’ll end up enjoying most of it. It’s a way to mark the changing of the seasons, a personal ritual that ushers in the darker half of the year. There’s a certain magic in dedicating an entire month to exploring the shadows, whether through film, literature, or other forms of art.

It’s a challenge, no doubt. Even working from home, balancing work deadlines, household chores, and the general chaos of life with a daily horror commitment is no small feat. Some nights, I’m squinting at a book or screen way past my bedtime, knowing full well I’ll be regretting it during tomorrow’s video catch-up call at work. Other days, I’m sneaking in a horror podcast while I am folding socks and dish towels. And this year? Hoo boy. All of Yvan’s brothers are in town for a month full of birthdays. All those dinners, gatherings, and celebrations are definitely going to cut into my precious horror time. I can already see myself trying to speed-read a spooky novel under the table during Sunday dinner or sneaking off to the bathroom to finish a short horror film on my phone while I have a quick wee.

Despite the challenges, by the end of the month, I’m always glad I did it. This tradition has become a sort of cinematic harvest for me. Throughout the year, I find myself setting aside films, almost hoarding them for this occasion, like I’m curating my own personal horror film festival, saving up the most intriguing, bizarre, or promising titles for October. There’s a special thrill in finally watching something I’ve been eyeing for months (or even years–seeing as how some films get passed over year after year and never get crossed off the list until several Octobers later!) This concentrated dose of horror allows me to look for trends in the genre, compare different directorial styles, and notice how themes evolve over time. It’s become a way to connect with other horror enthusiasts, too, sharing recommendations and dissecting our favorite scares. Ultimately, I think there’s something satisfying about immersing myself in horror for a full month, seeing the myriad ways different creators approach fear and unease. And yeah, I know there are always those people who are like, “Pfft…31 days? That’s amateur hour, baby. Me, I am all-horror, all the time.” Well ok that’s great, you’re really special.

But for me, this annual tradition is about concentrated immersion. It’s a horror binge, if you will. Sure, it’s a huge quantity in a short time, but that’s part of the appeal. It’s about carving out a specific time to focus intensely on a genre I love, pushing myself to consume more horror in a month than I might in the rest of the year combined. It’s about the anticipation, the careful selection, and yes, even the challenge of fitting it all in alongside real life. These 31 days are a whirlwind tour through the landscape of horror, from classic haunts to new nightmares. It’s intense, it’s exhausting, and it’s exhilarating

Logistically, planning a month’s worth of frights is an interesting exercise. If you’re curious, you can see a screenshot of my annually updated Notion page in the featured image of this post – it’s kind of like an aspirational horror mood board. It’s also the only time I ever use Notion, ha! Anyway, the list is a mix of newish releases like The First Omen and Immaculate, alongside some older cult classics like Messiah of Evil and Vampire and the Ballerina. There’s also a handful of extremely very recent titles that I desperately intrigued by and dying to check out: Cuckoo, Strange Darling, and Longlegs, to name a few.

But the thing about this list is that it’s more of a suggestion to myself than a strict plan. I’m a reader at heart, and getting myself to sit down and watch a movie – any movie, horror or otherwise – requires a certain mood. Some days, I might be up for cosmic horror, others for a classic slasher, and some days, I might not be able to face a screen at all and opt for a creepy novel instead.

There’s a bit of a push and pull with this approach. The list represents my commitment to this annual tradition, a promise I’ve made to myself to dive deep into the horror genre for a full month. It’s not about broadening horizons – I’d like to think I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to horror already. It’s more about intentionally over-indulging in something I love, while also challenging myself to stick to a daily practice that isn’t always my go-to medium. It’s like I’ve laid out this horror buffet menu for myself, and while I’m excited to sample from it, I also know that some days I might crave the comfort of a horror novel instead of a film.

Whether I end up following this list or completely veering off course, the goal is to immerse myself in horror, honor this personal tradition, and hopefully discover some new favorites along the way – be they on screen, page, or even through other senses. After all, why should our eyes and ears have all the fun? There might be a spooky knit or a horror-themed perfume in the mix too.

So, what’s on the menu for Day One? Well, we’re starting with Oddity…but I have a confession to make. I actually watched this one a few weeks ago. Author Gemma Files mentioned it on Facebook, and my curiosity got the better of me. So much for all my talk of commitment and tradition, right? But when one of your favorite horror authors dangles a promising film in front of you, sometimes you just have to bend your own rules a bit.

Oddity centers on Darcy, a blind medium who arrives at a remote Irish country house a year after her twin sister Dani’s murder. Darcy is convinced there’s more to her sister’s death than the official story of an escaped mental patient. Darcy has the coolest job ever, running a little occult/antique/oddities shop, and on this visit, she brings with her a little something she has ostensibly picked up in her line of work: an exceedingly strange and creepy life-sized screaming wooden mannequin. The house is now occupied by Dani’s widower, Ted, and his new girlfriend, Yana, and neither was expecting company in the form of Darcy or her terrifying companion.  Ted must leave for his work that evening at the local mental hospital and leaves Yana alone in the home with Darcy, and it’s all just very uncomfortable. The longer Darcy sticks around, the more tense and dreadful the atmosphere grows, with the wooden mannequin taking on an unsettling presence of its own.

The mounting dread in Oddity is palpable and permeates the whole film. McCarthy uses the isolated setting and that eerie wooden figure to great effect, ratcheting up the tension with each scene. Carolyn Bracken really shines in her dual role as Darcy and Dani. She brings such distinct personalities to each twin that you almost forget it’s the same actress. The story unfolds at a steady clip, peeling back layers of the mystery bit by bit. As the truth behind Dani’s death and Darcy’s investigation comes to light, there are plot reveals that are both heartbreaking and infuriating. Without giving too much away, the revelation of betrayal and the cost of seeking the truth left me gut-punched and emotionally drained.

…and excited for more, because that was an excellent film and a solid start to 31 Days of Horror!

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I don’t recall when I first stumbled upon the artwork of Iris Compiet, but I can find evidence that I shared some of it over on my Tumblr way back in 2015, in the form of an elegant cat lady with two equally elegant skull-faced Sphinx felines cozied up on her lap. Yet, despite being able to pinpoint this specific encounter, I feel as if I have always known her work. Compiet’s creatures inhabit a corner of my mind that feels as ancient and familiar as childhood memories, as if they’ve been whispering their secrets to me all my life.

There’s a timeless quality to her art that transcends the moment of discovery. Her faeries, spirits, and otherworldly beings seem to exist in a realm just adjacent to our own, one that we’ve always known about but somehow forgot. It’s as though Compiet’s brush doesn’t create these entities so much as reveal them, pulling back the veil on a world that’s been there all along, patiently waiting for us to remember how to see it.

I am always thrilled to spot a familiar name in the artist’s credits for a Magic: The Gathering card, but when Iris Compiet’s name appeared on a handful of cards in a recent expansion, my heart performed a gleeful, flooping little pirouette. In the mystical realm of Valley, where fur and feathers pulse with arcane energy, Compiet’s brush evokes a world where the extraordinary and the endearing intertwine. Her Valley Flood Caller, an otter wizard resplendent in ceremonial garb wielding a staff of eldritch light, captures the whimsical gravitas of this imperiled animal kingdom. For those of us who’ve whiled away countless hours reverently sleeving our precious cardboard spells, Compiet’s art feels like stumbling upon a homecoming in a place we’ve only visited in dreams.

MtG entered my life in my 36th year, a gift from my then-new paramour, Yvan (13 years later, now my spouse!) It became our shared language, a perfect conduit for two introverts to connect. While I may never have fully grasped the game’s intricacies, I fell deeply in love – with the art, the worlds, and the person who introduced me to them. Many years later, my recent hair color is actually a Golgarian/Witherbloom ode! Seeing Iris Compiet’s art grace these cards feels like a beautiful convergence of passions, both old and new.

But to pigeonhole Compiet as merely a collectible trading card game illustrator would be to do a grave disservice to the extraordinary realms she explores and documents. For in truth, Iris Compiet isn’t just an artist – she’s a dreamer of the extraordinary, a chronicler of beings that exist in the misty realms between knowing and believing.

In Compiet’s ethereal renderings, fantastical entities materialize like visions from a waking dream. Her work invites us to become unwitting travelers in realms beyond our own, stumbling upon magical creatures and forgotten spirits with the wide-eyed wonder of an accidental explorer. The beings she portrays possess a gossamer quality that embraces their impossible nature. Each creation, whether fae, a forest spirit, or something entirely unclassifiable, is imbued with a haunting beauty and an air of mystery; you can almost see the mists of imagination swirling around them. This ability to capture the elusive, dreamlike quality of myth and legend is the hallmark of Compiet’s art. She creates beings that resonate with ancient whispers while feeling as fleeting and intangible as morning mist, as if they might fade back into the realm of dreams at any moment.

It is in her magnum opus, Faeries of the Faultlines, that Compiet’s dreamy visions find their fullest expression. This book is not merely a collection of artwork; it’s an explorer’s journal, a naturalist’s field guide to a world that exists in the periphery of our vision, in the spaces between heartbeats. The Faultlines, as Compiet reveals, are the gossamer-thin boundaries where our mundane world whispers secrets to realms unknown. These are the spaces where the veil between the human world and the fairy realm wears thin, allowing us to step into a reality that is at once familiar and utterly alien.

Through her paintings, sketches, and narrative notions, Compiet invites us to peer through rainbow-hued droplets, to trust that prickle at the back of our necks when we feel unseen eyes upon us. The veil, she assures us, is omnipresent – above, below, around, and even within us. We need only learn to look, to regain our Sight – that innate ability we all possessed as children to perceive the magical world that exists alongside our own.

Compiet’s faeries challenge conventional expectations, embodying nature’s capricious magic – as diverse, complex, and sometimes unsettling as the natural world itself. They can be eerily alluring, mischievous, melancholic, or utterly alien – but never predictable, never trite. These are not the sanitized sprites of Victorian fancy, but complex beings as varied as nature itself. They belong to neither the Seelie nor Unseelie courts exclusively, instead embodying a state of All – an encompassing existence that transcends our limited notions of good and evil. These are creatures of raw, wild magic, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure, their morality as alien to us as their forms are wondrous.

As we venture deeper into the Faultlines, Compiet introduces us to a mesmerizing menagerie of otherworldly beings. Here, we encounter the rooty, bulbous mandrake faeries, often mistaken for mere ugly tubers but possessing a blissful hallucinogenic magic of startling potency. We marvel at the magnificent green men, those benevolent forest guardians tasked with tending to all that grows, their bark-like skin a testament to their deep connection with the natural world. In murky bogs, swamps, and near thundering waterfalls, we glimpse creatures that seem born of water and shadow, while overhead, feathered beings of surpassing beauty soar on silent wings.

Shapeshifting witches flit at the edges of our vision, keepers of a precarious balance, their power to bestow dreams, nightmares, and health – whether boon or bane – a reminder of the capricious nature of fairy gifts. The many species of flesh-eating trolls lumber through this magical landscape, their presence a thrilling hint of danger. And everywhere, darting between roots and stones, we spot the countless varieties of small, hairy, mischievous gnomes, brownies, and hobgoblins, their antics a constant source of both delight and exasperation to their fairy kin.

In Compiet’s hands, each of these beings comes alive with a vivid specificity that makes them feel less like flights of fancy and more like subjects of an esoteric field guide, creatures as real and varied as any found in our own natural world. As we leaf through the pages of Faeries of the Faultlines, we’re invited to abandon our preconceptions and linear thinking, to flit from one fairy to another, immersing ourselves fully in this world that exists just beyond the corner of our eye. Compiet’s art becomes a key, unlocking the dormant ability within us to See – truly See – the magic that has always surrounded us, waiting patiently for us to remember how to look.

I feel immensely privileged to feature Compiet’s work in my book, The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal. Her contribution offers readers a mesmerizing glimpse into the artistry that has made her a renowned figure in the world of fantastical imagery. The piece we included, a striking rendition of the Morrigan, perfectly encapsulates Compiet’s unique vision and skill.

In this powerful portrayal of the fearsome Celtic goddess of war, death, and fate, Compiet’s mastery is on full display. The deity’s face bears a grim yet wry expression, a subtle nod to the complexities of her nature. Shadowy, crow-like elements hint at the Morrigan’s shapeshifting abilities, adding layers of depth to the portrayal. With sober brilliance, Compiet captures the essence of this mythical being, creating an image that resonates with ancient power while feeling startlingly immediate.

This single work embodies the raw, untamed magic that courses through all of Compiet’s art. Drawing deep from the wells of European folklore, dark fairy tales, and spectral stories, Compiet’s creation gives form to half-remembered dreams and whispered myths, conjuring creatures and beings that feel as if they’ve drifted in from the edges of our consciousness. The Morrigan, as rendered by Compiet, is at once beautiful and terrible, alluring and intimidating – a being who defies easy categorization or moral simplification. Through this masterful illustration, we’re invited to confront the beautiful and terrible complexity of the otherworldly, to embrace a more primal sense of wonder that acknowledges both the allure and the danger of these liminal realms.

Compiet’s talent for bringing fantastical creatures to vivid life extends far beyond the Faultlines. Her artistic explorations have led her to document the denizens of other beloved magical realms as well. In The Dark Crystal Bestiary: The Definitive Guide to the Creatures of Thra, Compiet’s masterful renderings breathe new life into the rich world of Thra. Her interpretation of Aughra, in particular, is nothing short of magnificent, capturing the ancient sage’s wisdom, power, and otherworldly nature with stunning clarity. This work stands as a testament to Compiet’s ability to honor and enhance even the most iconic fantasy creations. Similarly, in Jim Henson’s Labyrinth: Bestiary: A Definitive Guide to the Creatures of the Goblin King’s Realm, Compiet’s brush infuses the weird and wonderful inhabitants of this cult classic world with her own ethereal style. Her explorations extend even to a galaxy far, far away in Star Wars Bestiary, Vol. 1: Creatures of the Galaxy, where her unique perspective transforms the exotic into the hauntingly familiar, making alien beings feel like half-remembered dreams from our own world. In each of these works, Compiet proves herself not just an artist, but a visual storyteller and worldbuilder, capable of enriching and expanding even the most well-established fantastical universes with her unique vision.

When she’s not chronicling the ways of the fae or breathing life into beloved fantasy realms, Compiet invites kindred spirits to join her on Patreon, where she shares secret glimpses of a world beyond our own. There, fellow dreamers might just find the key to unlocking their own Sight, allowing them to peer a little deeper into the misty realms that exist just beyond the corner of our eye.

And I will close out this blog post with a few secrets that Iris recently whispered to me, shared here with her blessing. The enchanted realms of the Faultlines are expanding their borders and are soon to be released in Germany, inviting a whole new audience to peer through the veil. For those already enchanted by the Faultlines, there’s more magic on the horizon. Iris is currently working on the next installment of Faeries of the Faultlines, and it promises to be something truly special – an oracle deck! Imagine holding the wisdom of the fae in your hands, each card a portal to hidden truths and ancient mysteries. Lastly, for readers familiar with my olfactory obsessions, you might be delighted to know that Iris and I share a fondness for enigmatic scents. When asked about her favorite fragrances, she revealed herself to be a big fan of the mysterious indie perfumers For Strange Women. These little glimpses into Iris’s world and work only deepen the mystery and allure of her art, leaving us eager for whatever magic she conjures next.

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Sarah Baker Loudo is a fragrance that seems to exist in two separate realities on my skin. On one wrist, it’s all about comfort and nostalgia – musty, creamy expired chocolate milk powder that somehow still manages to be utterly delicious. It’s like stumbling upon a forgotten tin in the back of a childhood cupboard, the scent enveloping with a sweetness that’s both familiar and slightly off-kilter. (Probably because of the time-traveling aspect to procure it.) But turn to the other wrist, and suddenly the ground shifts wildly beneath your feet. Here, Loudo reveals its feral side – pungent and fermented, with an earthy leather primal weirdness and a smoky tang that catches in your throat. It’s as if time itself has soured and shifted, transforming innocent memories into something into something visceral and unrestrained. The contrast is jarring, yet oddly compelling. I find myself sniffing compulsively, trying to reconcile these two facets of Loudo. Is it a sweet reminder of what I was, or a glimpse into the strange beast my past has become? Perhaps it’s both, a scented reminder of how our memories ferment and mutate, leaving us with something barely recognizable yet undeniably part of us.

Le Jardin Retrouve Verveine d’Été, wherein vibrant verbena radiates with lemony green herbal brightness, its zesty wistfulness infusing the air with an energy that feels almost palpable. Yet beneath this effervescent surface lies a deeper, more enigmatic presence. Oakmoss evokes secluded corners of a vast garden, its aromatic notes of lavender bitters and musky hay adding an unexpected depth that anchors the composition. There’s a timeless quality to this fragrance; one breath brings the crisp clarity of herbs warmed by morning sun; the next envelops you in the cool shade of a venerable tree, standing sentinel over manicured paths and wild patches alike. The interplay between the soaring verbena and grounded oakmoss creates a scent that seems to breathe with you, expanding and contracting, always maintaining that lovely, delicate tension between levity and gravitas. This is only the second fragrance I’ve tried from Le Jardin Retrouvé. In contrast to Citron Boboli’s sorcery which thrives at the heart of summer, Verveine d’Été offers a more temperate enchantment, a spell for all seasons – an olfactory talisman to carry a piece of that perfect, verdant morning with you always, no matter the hour or weather.

One White Crow from Fantôme Perfumes smells like the light of the moon and the long shadows it casts along a meandering path of fern and moss in a lost landscape, a place that no longer exists or that no longer exists as it did in your memory from some time before now. A place where violets bloom in reverse in the dusky glooms just before dawn, the silence yawning hour when dreams are most vivid and reality most fragile. It’s that ancient spill of grief, an aubade lamenting the eerie honeysuckle light of a world that’s tilted just a fraction off its axis, whose sun no longer shines in a way you recognize. And while, of course, the world has changed and the sunlight does gleam from a different angle, the scent is mostly the realization that it’s you, your own heart, that has become different, estranged. Estrange, to make oneself a stranger. This is the scent of all the yous you’ve lost. That you’ll never meet again. In the sunlight or the moonlight or any landscape at all.

April Aromatics Calling All Angels is plump unearthly fruits, gorged on ancient amber nectar, hanging heavy at twilight, eventually drying and cracking in the heat of a dying sun. Silent sisters, veiled in mystery, stretch these honey-drunk orbs across a vast expanse of time littered with bone, their flesh becoming supple leather under reverent, unceasing hands. Wisps of aromatic smoke rise from flint-scattered pyres and the air crackles with the essence of aeons compressed into chips of burnished crystal, shards of petrified sunlight, and the tawny tears of grieving trees. The sisters’ nimble fingers arrange fragments of balsamic fruit-flesh and sticky sap-jewels, the assemblage of an olfactory mosaic, redolent of a hallowed sweetness entirely beyond mortality’s grasp. In this fragrance of plummy depths wreathed with leathery whispers, of resinous rituals and sacred smoke, the boundaries between plant, mineral, and devotion blur into a hazy, intoxicating mirage, an ambrosial testament to the everlasting, endless, and eternal.

The folks at Shay & Blue generously sent me a handful of travel-size perfumes to try.I think these today are generally what you might consider their best sellers, people-pleasing kinds of fragrances; while they are all generally nice–they are not necessarily what I might have chosen for myself. I actually do have a few from this brand that I have previously purchased and enjoy, and of course, I chose those with my preferences in mind. That said, let’s talk about what they sent.

Black Tulip was probably my least favorite of the bunch. A sweet, fruity, woody, musky floral, it reminded me of a less noxious Flowerbomb or less syrupy Black Opium. I name those two in particular because if you read my reviews, you know I have feelings about both of them. But I also know that a lot of people love those scents, so if that’s your thing, Black Tulip will call to you. I hadn’t read the notes beforehand, but when I checked, I saw they specifically referenced both Black Pium AND Flowerbomb–well! That was gratifying. Good to know my nose knows! Also, in my head, I keep calling this perfume Black Philip–now THAT would be an interesting one!

Melrose Apple Blossom smells exactly like its copy, which is to say full of trendy-speak. Which also means “appealing to the youths.” I’m not here to tell you anyone’s too young or too old to smell like anything, but this scent really is the olfactory equivalent of gently patting someone on the head and intoning, “Oh, you sweet summer child.”

Salt Caramel At first, I thought it was more of an abstract caramel, a sort of brown sugar sweetness through sandalwood salty sea blossom lens, but the second time I wore it, I got a vanilla cereal graininess, a hot buttery popped corn note. This is like a box of crackerjacks.

Blood Oranges is unexpectedly bracing. It was like a gin & tonic with a scarlet dollop of pulp. Herbaceous and effervescent but also quite subdued and rather fleeting.

Lilac and Gooseberries was probably my favorite of the bunch. Tart, tangy berries against a delicate floral backdrop. Even so, it’s not as sharp or bitter as I would have expected, nor interesting. It smells more like the idea of a person than a person. Like someone is describing his amazing sorceress girlfriend, and she’s so perfect and wonderful and never farts or eats onion sandwiches or draws blood or makes mistakes, and he leaves out all the nuance and complexity of what makes his beloved so intriguing. (A Yennefer-bot, if you will.) It’s like someone fed all their perfect girlfriend material into an AI machine, producing an android to their specifications, but she has no personality and hasn’t yet become self-aware. And yet…there are some days when I really need that blank slate to build myself up to be pretty and put together and definitely very normal–because this is what the world expects of me.

I am not sure how I got on Shay & Blue’s PR list, and I probably was not the target audience for these. But it’s always fun to play around with something different from what I might usually wear, so I appreciated the opportunity. I do think these would make excellent discovery scents for someone who is new in their fragrance journey and still figuring things out, or for the person who likes their perfumes on the lighter and milder side. Who just likes to smell nice. And even if that is not you  (as I know it’s mostly not me) some days even ghosts and vampires and dark queens need a bit of olfactory camouflage to blend in with the daywalkers.

On The Wing from Arcana Wildcraft is an EDP flanker of their Moth Like Stars perfume oil, which I understand is meant to be a fancier, more luxurious version of the original. I haven’t tried Moth Like Stars, but I can tell you that On The Wing is a confoundingly gorgeous study in contradiction. It opens with a balsamic sheerness, a paradoxical shimmering shadow. When you think of skin scents, you probably think subtle, delicate, and intimate… but what of, say, Maleficent’s skin scent? It’s not just clean, soft, and simple. Imagine a fragrance that embraces both light and shadow, a scent that sighs and susurrates with complexity and depth, that embodies the beautiful…and the terrible. Take what you thought you knew of skin-like fragrances and remix it with the most masterful, barest glimmer of midnight glamour and gothic opulence. As it unfurls, this effervescent richness ebbs and flows – champagne bubbles rising through inky depths or the cold vapors of the void with an incandescent vein of cosmic dust. This juxtaposition of light and heavy is disorienting, an olfactory illusion that tricks the senses. You’re wearing a scent as weighty as a motheaten cloak, yet as insubstantial as mist. It’s the broken-winged beating of the hollow heart, the devastating language of wounds, the darkness that embraces everything. On The Wing rasps a silken truth: you do not have to be whole or perfect or even good to claim your own skin. Your wild darkness and your luminous scars are part of your magic, so wear it like you mean it, in all that contradictory glory.

When Scout Dixon West first came across my radar, I thought, holy hell. This is the most charismatic being I have ever seen. She’s this very groovy mix of articulate elegance, subversive weirdness, and sly humor, and she gives off this aura, the overwhelming impression of a woman who very much knows who she is and what she’s about. And that’s what strikes me immediately about these three perfumes; how, they could be from no one else but her.  They are flawlessly executed compositions embodying Scout’s exceptionally cool spirit and singular vision.

But of course, the thing about fragrance and perfume, the really wild and wonderful and beautiful thing, I think, is that whatever the inspiration, whatever the memories and dreams go into its creation, it’s going to be interpreted through the lens of someone else’s experiences

So, when I smell El Dorado, I’m transported not to Scout’s hometown, but to my own, in Ohio at Christmastime, circa 1980. The Christmas tree box has just come down from the attic and as it’s opened, a potpurri of memories escapes. There’s a mild, woody coniferous sweetness mingled with a bracing herbaceous note – the artificial wreath tucked inside, its plastic pine needles frosted and snowy.  Nestled among the tinsel and ornaments is the bitter mossy, musty spice of bayberry candles, their green wax still bearing the imprint of fingertips from last year. It’s a wistfully aromatic winter holiday poem.

Coney Island Baby smells of the sweet mechanical buzz of machine oil and candy floss, and someone who definitely knows what you did last summer. Have I ever been to Coney Island? No. But I have seen a lot of horror movies about boardwalk park slashers, and underneath the bumper cars’ sun-warmed rubber, the ozone spark of arcade machines, the sticky salt taffy, and clouds of spun sugar, there’s a thrilling frisson of fear, a gritty underbelly that whispers of danger lurking just beyond the neon-lit facades, turning this olfactory carnival into a deliciously unsettling journey through nostalgia’s dark mirror.

I think Scout is a bit of a rascal, and this is the perfume that really drives that saucy devilry home. Incarnate offers a perversely charming, impishly, beautifully weird take on the sacred and the profane. This is a heady cocktail inspired by visions of saints nibbling rock candy and sugar crystal rosaries off of each other, the provocative sweetness spiked with a tincture of sacred wounds, infused with smoldering resins, and laced with a patina of tarnished halos. Imagine Ken Russell’s ‘The Devils’ given a Tim Burton treatment – an olfactory experience both irreverent, irresistible and irrepressibly playful, evoking fever dreams of ecstatic visions and whimsical, baroque excess. 

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Part I.

I was a little girl with a penchant for all things that bloomed, sparkled, or glittered. But for all my love of bold baubles and blooms, I was a timid soul, scared of her own shadow and just about everything else that crossed her path.

In those early days, the world seemed divided into two camps: the pretty things that delighted me, and the ugly, scary, angry, loud things that sent me scurrying for cover. And oh, what a rogues’ gallery of terrors awaited my trembling psyche! There was Lou Ferrigno’s horrific green grimace as the Incredible Hulk, looking like he’d eaten something that violently disagreed with him. My cousin’s KISS posters leered at me from her bedroom walls, their feral, alien visages promising a world of chaos that my fairytale flower garden-loving heart wasn’t prepared for. Helicopters, motorcycles, Scooby Doo Draculas, George Harrison in Love At First Bite — you name it, it made me cry.

As I grew older, though, something strange began to happen. That heart-pounding panic and fright regarding bloodsuckers and monsters from outer space began to give way to an inexplicable curiosity. It was as if the fear and fascination wires got mixed up in my brain. Suddenly, instead of hiding my face behind a pillow when something scary flickered across the TV screen, I felt an itchy urge to peek. This fascination with fearsome things lurking in the darkness slowly turned into an obsession. I found myself voraciously consuming every form of frightening or unsettling media I encountered. Literature, film, music, art – if it possessed an aura of the unearthly or strange, if it whispered of the ghastly or ghostly, if it dared to explore the gruesome or grotesque, I was irresistibly drawn to it. Like a scholar of the sinister – or more accurately, a C-student of the supernatural, because even with my most passionate interests, I’ve never aspired to become an expert or guru – I immersed myself in these dark waters. Each new discovery was a key to another door in the sprawling, shadowy mansion of horror, rooms I’d wander through with equal parts trepidation and delight.

My burgeoning fascination with the macabre found fertile ground in my unconventional home environment. My mother’s boyfriend at the time, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the weird, nurtured these budding interests with a steady diet of horror movies and cheap weird fiction paperbacks. These books, with their spectacularly deranged cover art that would probably be banned in several states today (I’m pretty sure some violated the Geneva Convention), became my first proper forays into the world of horror literature.

But it wasn’t just fiction that fed my growing appetite for the uncanny. My mother was an astrologer, a tarot reader, and a dabbler in an assortment of arcane practices. She was, for all intents and purposes, a witch, though I never heard her call herself that. Our home was a testament to her esoteric pursuits, a place where the mystical was as commonplace as morning coffee. Tarot cards were tucked into every nook and cranny, as if she were the Madame Fortuna of squirrels preparing for a psychic winter. Mysterious artworks adorned every wall, transforming our house into a veritable gallery of the weird and wonderful. Fabulous posters of Erté’s dramatic Art Deco fashions hung alongside large-scale reproductions of Lady Frieda Harris’ Thoth tarot paintings. I would lose whole afternoons gazing at these images, my imagination stepping into them, getting lost in their swirling colors and intricate designs. It was as if we had portals to other worlds right there on our living room walls, each frame a window to realms both beautiful and bizarre.

This immersive environment, rich with symbolism and the promise of hidden meanings, undoubtedly shaped my evolving taste in horror. As I matured, the simple scares of childhood gave way to more complex terrors. I found myself drawn deeper into the labyrinthine world of horror literature, discovering authors who could articulate the nameless fears and existential dread that had begun to take root in my psyche. Edgar Allan Poe’s psychological depths resonated with my burgeoning understanding of human nature, his stories of guilt, madness, and the thin veil between life and death echoing the complexities I was beginning to perceive in the world around me. H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror, despite the author’s problematic views, laid a foundation of existential dread that fascinated me. However, it was the contemporary writers who truly captured my imagination. These authors took Lovecraft’s concepts of cosmic horror and paranoia and rebuilt them, infusing them with diverse perspectives and experiences that reflected the world I knew. In their works, I found a horror that was at once more inclusive and more expansive, speaking to fears both ancient and modern.

I reveled in the gothic romance of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, where whatever walked there, walked alone. Stephen King’s sprawling universes and his characters, who feel like old friends, enchant me to this day. Clive Barker’s Books of Blood opened my eyes to the strange beauty that can be found in the grotesque. I delved into the works of classic British ghost storywriters, finding a different kind of terror in their subtle, atmospheric tales. M.R. James, with his scholarly protagonists and ancient curses, taught me the power of suggestion and the horror of the unseen. Algernon Blackwood’s cosmic wilderness horror showed me how nature itself could be a source of terror, vast and indifferent to human concerns.

But.  While I may have grown out of hiding behind the sofa during Scooby-Doo, I never quite outgrew my anxious nature. As a child, I was the kid who needed coaxing to join in games at birthday parties. As an adult, I’m the one who needs coaxing to attend the birthday party at all. Anxiety has been my constant companion, an uninvited guest who crashes every party in my mind.

But here’s the fun twist in this tale of terror: horror, in all its gruesome glory, has become my unlikely ally in facing these fears. It’s as if by immersing myself in fictional frights, I can better manage the real-world anxieties that threaten to overwhelm me. There’s a certain logic to it, I suppose. When you’re worried about tentacled monstrosities from beyond the stars or shambling zombies crawling through your windows, somehow mustering up the nerve to call the insurance company or make a request to your boss doesn’t seem all that daunting.

Horror provides a controlled environment where I can face my fears on my own terms. In my daily life, anxiety can strike at any moment, triggered by the most mundane of circumstances. My mind, ever eager to catastrophize, can spiral into worst-case scenarios faster than you can say …well…something creepy in Latin from a real gnarly book that you definitely should have left alone. But in horror – whether in books, films, or art – the monsters are contained. They exist within defined boundaries, and there’s usually a resolution, even if it’s not always a happy one. It’s like exposure therapy, but with more fake blood and crappy reboots, and fewer copays.

Moreover, horror often deals with outsiders, with those who don’t quite fit in. As someone who has always felt a bit out of step with the world due to my shyness and anxiety, I find a strange kinship with the misunderstood monsters and troubled protagonists of horror stories. Their struggles, albeit exaggerated and supernatural, sometimes feel like funhouse mirror reflections of my own.

There’s also something to be said for the catharsis that horror provides. When I engage with horror, my anxiety has a focus, a concrete outlet. Instead of worrying about nebulous future possibilities, I can channel that nervous energy into the immediate experience of the story. And when the book is closed or the credits roll, there’s often a sense of release, of having survived something intense – a feeling that can be hard to come by when dealing with the chronic, low-level anxiety of everyday life.

Horror, I have come to realize, is more than just a genre – it was a lens through which to view the world, a palette with which to paint the full spectrum of human experience. It offered a canvas to confront our deepest fears, to explore the shadows of the human psyche, and to grapple with the unknown. In a world that often demands relentless positivity, horror provides a necessary counterbalance, an emotional chiaroscuro, acknowledging the darkness that exists alongside the light, an interplay that gives depth and dimension to our understanding of life.

This fascination with the darker aspects of existence led me to curate and create The Art of Darkness, a treasury of the morbid, melancholic, and macabre in visual art. In this book, I explored how we all experience darkness, and why it’s crucial to embrace it. We can’t avoid it, and I don’t think we should. If we’re eternally trying to live in the light where it’s always bright and happy, where we ignore or evade our distressing, uncomfortable feelings, then we are starved of shadows, of nuance, and risk an existence robbed of the richness of contrast. When we only validate our positive feelings, we vastly restrict our tools for looking at the world. We are neither dealing with reality as it is nor adequately readying ourselves for the random pains and struggles that life has in store for us. It’s like trying to paint a masterpiece using only the brighter end of the color spectrum – you might create something cheerful, but you’ll miss out on the depth and complexity that the full palette of human experience offers.

This exploration of the darker side of art opened up new avenues of sensory experience for me. Just as a Goya painting or a Louise Bourgeois sculpture can evoke visceral reactions through visual means, I discovered another form of art that could stir the senses in equally profound ways – but through an often-overlooked medium. This invisible art form would become my next obsession, leading me down a fragrant path of discovery and self-expression.

Part II

In the experiential realm of human senses, scent often gets overlooked, relegated to the background behind the more immediate impressions of sight and sound. But for me, the olfactory world has always been front and center,  a vivid, visceral presence that perfumes my perception of everything around me. It’s not just a sense; it’s a vital conduit to memory, emotion, and imagination.

I can trace this fascination back to my childhood, to stolen moments in front of my mother’s vanity. The mirrored tray, cluttered with an array of gleaming bottles, was a forbidden wonderland that beckoned to me with an almost otherworldly magnetism. Each bottle held not just a fragrance, but a world of possibilities, a story waiting to be told. Despite stern warnings to leave them be, I couldn’t resist. In moments of daring defiance, I would embark on olfactory adventures, spritzing and spraying with reckless abandon, creating my own fantastical, if somewhat chaotic, perfume compositions. These clandestine experiments, always followed by unconvincing denials (as if the lingering cloud of scent didn’t give me away), were my first steps into the world of fragrance. Little did I know that those illicit spritzes were planting olfactory time bombs in my psyche, set to detonate years later in explosions of creative inspiration. This innocent fascination would ferment in the dark corners of my mind, brewing a potent elixir of perception-altering potential. Like a haunted perfume, it would trail me through life, leaving an invisible sillage that reshaped my reality.

As I grew older, my love for perfume deepened, intertwining with my other passions – literature, art, and storytelling. My tastes evolved dramatically; the sweet vanilla cake and marshmallow fluff-scented gourmands that marked my initial aromatic dabbling gave way to an appreciation for the dry, the bitter, the verdant, and the resinous. I found myself drawn to the complexities of vetiver, the smoky allure of incense, the sharp green of galbanum, and the mysterious depth of oakmoss.

This olfactory journey took an exceptionally exciting turn when I discovered there was a world of fragrance beyond the drugstore and department store counters. I stumbled upon independent perfumers crafting wild, weird, and wonderful scents that I never imagined could exist. I will forever blame (and bless) Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab for this Pandora’s box of alternative options, this irrevocable initiation into a hidden world of olfactory marvels. In the marking of my life in time before/after A Thing–I can say with utter conviction that my life has never been the same since I discovered BPAL; it offered me knowledge of things that I can never again un-know. And naturally, it was around this time that I began to see fragrances not just as pleasant scents but as narratives in their own right, invisible paintings that unfold over time on the canvas of skin and air. Each spritz became the opening line of a story, each waft a brushstroke in an unseen masterpiece. The development of perfume from top notes to base became a plot unfolding, revealing new facets and twists with each passing hour.

This perspective has guided my approach to writing about perfume for over a decade now. I’m not a chemist dissecting molecular structures, nor am I a seasoned industry insider with decades of experience. Instead, I’m a storyteller, an art enthusiast who happens to work in the medium of scent. My goal isn’t to provide technical breakdowns or expert analysis, but to capture the emotional journey that a fragrance takes you on, to translate the wordless poetry of scent into something tangible and relatable.

When I encounter a new perfume, I don’t just smell it – I experience it. I let it transport me to the arid deserts of a planet with binary moons or snowy moonlit forests where witches dwell in their chicken-legged huts, to the bombastic spice of bustling bazaars or quiet papery riffle of near-empty libraries. I listen to the stories it tells, the memories it evokes, the emotions it stirs. And then, I try to put all of that into words, to share that experience with others who might find beauty and meaning in bottled dreams.

This approach, born out of pure passion rather than professional expertise, has its own unique value. It offers a perspective that’s closer to that of the average perfume lover, unburdened by industry jargon or technical minutiae. It’s an invitation to engage with perfume on a more emotional and imaginative level, to see it as more than just a pleasant smell, but as a form of artistic expression accessible to everyone.

In my writing, I often draw connections between perfumes and other art forms. A fragrance might remind me of a particular painting, its notes unfolding like brushstrokes on canvas. Another might evoke a piece of music, its composition a symphony of scents. And many, of course, call to mind literary passages, their olfactory narratives as rich and complex as any written story.
This interdisciplinary approach reflects my belief that perfume is part of a larger conversation about aesthetics, emotion, and sensory experiences. It’s not isolated from other forms of art but exists in constant dialogue with them, each medium informing and enriching the others in an ongoing exchange of ideas and sensations.

My journey with perfume has been one of continuous self-discovery. Each fragrance I’ve fallen in love with has taught me something about myself, my perceptions, my memories, and my desires. It’s been a journey of exploration, not expertise – I’m still learning, still discovering, still being surprised and delighted by new scents and experiences.

And you know what? That’s okay. More than okay, actually – it’s wonderful. There was a time when I felt inadequate for not being an “expert,” for not having studied under master perfumers or created my own fragrances. I looked at those who had dedicated their lives to perfumery with a mixture of admiration and envy, wondering if my passion was somehow less valid because it wasn’t my sole focus.

But over time, I’ve come to accept that you don’t need to know everything about something to love it deeply and authentically. You don’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef to appreciate good food or a classical composer to be moved by music. And you certainly don’t need to be a master perfumer to find joy, meaning, and beauty in fragrance.

This acceptance has been incredibly liberating. It’s allowed me to embrace my role as an enthusiastic audience member, a passionate amateur in the truest sense of the word. I may never create my own perfume or run a fragrance house, but I can appreciate, celebrate, and share the art that others create. I can be a translator of sorts, putting into words the wordless experiences that perfumes create, helping others to engage with and appreciate this often-overlooked art form.

In fact, I’ve come to believe that there’s real value in this kind of enthusiastic, non-expert appreciation. It makes the world of perfume more accessible, more welcoming to those who might be intimidated by more technical or insider-focused discussions. It encourages people to trust their own experiences and perceptions, to engage with perfume on a personal, emotional level rather than worrying about whether they’re smelling the “right” notes or using the “correct” terminology.

This doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning or exploring. Far from it! I’m constantly discovering new things about perfume, diving into its history, its cultural significance, its connections to other art forms and disciplines. But I do so as a curious explorer, not as someone striving to become the ultimate authority. For me, each new scent is an invitation to wander through olfactory landscapes, to uncover hidden narratives wafting from each bottle, to indulge in a fragrant feast. I don’t need to be an expert or a guru; I’m just here for the sensory buffet. But now we’re getting into cooking and food…and that’s an origin story for a different time!

Part III 

Last month as I prepared to be a guest on an upcoming podcast, I found myself thinking of how the worlds of horror and perfume might seem diametrically opposed at first glance – one reveling in the grotesque and terrifying, the other celebrating beauty and pleasure. But in my experience, they’re more closely linked than one might expect, each offering a unique lens through which to explore the depths of human experience and emotion.

At their core, both horror and perfume are about evoking visceral reactions. One does it through fear, the other through scent – but both bypass our logical brain to trigger something primal within us. They speak directly to our subconscious, stirring emotions and memories that we might not even be aware of harboring.

Just as a well-crafted horror story can transport you to another world, so too can a carefully composed perfume. With a single spritz or a turn of the page, you can find yourself locked in an ancient crypt, adrift at sea on a ghost ship, or wandering the halls of a decaying mansion. Both have the power to conjure memories, emotions, and atmospheres in an instant, pulling you into a fully realized experience that engages all your senses.

There’s an intimacy to both horror and perfume that I find utterly captivating. They get under your skin, they linger, they transform your perception of the world around you. A haunting story can leave you looking over your shoulder for days, while a compelling fragrance can change how you perceive yourself and others. Both have the power to alter your reality, if only for a moment.

In both horror and perfume, there’s a fascinating preoccupation with decay and the passage of time. Think of those classic dark, gothic notes in perfumery – leather, incense, dark woods. They’re not just scents; they’re storytellers, weaving tales of abandoned monasteries, moonlit séances, forgotten rituals, and long-buried secrets. Similarly, horror often deals with themes of aging, death, and the inevitability of time’s march. Both invite us to confront our own mortality and find beauty in the ephemeral nature of existence.

Creating a perfume, I imagine, is not unlike crafting a horror story. You’re building tension, creating contrast, leading the audience through a carefully orchestrated experience. A perfumer, like a skilled horror writer, knows how to build anticipation, when to reveal a shocking twist, and how to leave a lasting impression. The nose, like the mind, can be led down dark and twisting paths, encountering surprises and revelations along the way.

In my perfume collection, you’ll find scents that could easily belong in a horror story: the metallic tang of blood, the damp earth of a freshly dug grave, the acrid smoke of smoldering ruins, or the otherworldly aroma of strange, alien flowers. These fragrances tell visceral and evocative stories, inviting the wearer to step into worlds both familiar and unknown. They complement the more traditional scents in my collection, each offering a unique olfactory journey and expanding the emotional palette of perfumery.

Ultimately, my love for both horror and perfume stems from the same place: a fascination with the full spectrum of human experience, from the sublimely beautiful to the hauntingly macabre. Both allow me to explore different facets of existence, to step into other worlds and other skins, if only for a moment. Whether I’m lost in a chilling tale or enveloped in an evocative scent, I’m chasing the same thrill – the excitement of discovery, the brush with the unknown, the expansion of my own perception.

About the artwork in this blog post: In a serendipitous twist of fate, I recently stumbled upon the haunting artwork of Masha Gusova. I thought that her pieces, which blend historical imagery with contemporary narratives to explore the human condition, resonated deeply with the themes of this essay. Like a perfectly composed perfume or a masterfully crafted horror story, Gusova’s art invites introspection and evokes visceral emotions, making it a natural visual companion to our journey through shadows and scents.

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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Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay is an intricately meta exploration of film culture and memory, centered around a never-completed student film that inexplicably gains cult status Tremblay nails the sweet spot between spooky urban legend vibes and the nitty-gritty of indie filmmaking, all while poking at the weirdness of memory and perception. His take on fan culture – think horror cons and “cursed” film lore – feels spot-on, asking some uncomfortable questions about fame, tragedy as commodity, and the often messed-up relationship between creators and fans. All this to say…it took me a long time to finally fall into the rhythm of this story, and by the time I did–it was over! And speaking of the finale: while the ending may prove divisive, it’s very quintessential Tremblay – challenging and thought-provoking. Ultimate, this book was trying to do some really interesting things, and I recognize and admire that, but at the end of the day, something was missing for me, something vague–but somehow important when it comes to how satisfying a story is–that I can’t quite put my finger on or articulate, but I know when it’s not there. This too I find is part of the classic Tremblay experience.

American Rapture by CJ Leedes  At its core, this is Sophie’s story. And if you have read and enjoyed Leede’s Maeve Fly, just now you are in for a wildly different protagonist with Sophie. She’s a 16-year-old Catholic girl who’s been sheltered her whole life, and suddenly she’s thrust into a world that’s literally going to hell. There’s a virus turning people into lust-crazed maniacs (kind of like Crossed if anyone recalls and/or will admit familiarity with that series), and Sophie’s got to navigate this nightmare while questioning everything she’s ever been taught. Leede doesn’t pull any punches here. The violence is brutal, the sexual content is intense, and the religious themes are going to make some folks uncomfortable. But that’s the point. This book wants you to squirm, to think, to feel. What really works is how personal it all feels. You’re right there with Sophie as she’s figuring things out, making mistakes, and growing up way too fast. It’s messy and raw and sometimes beautiful in the most horrific ways. The side characters add a lot to the story too. There’s this whole “found family” vibe that gives you something to root for amidst all the chaos. As a warning, there is an incredibly awful animal death in these pages, and, in the afterward, the author explains a bit of why that is. Personally, I get it. I didn’t like to read about it. But I *get* it. Leede’s taken the apocalyptic genre and injected it with a dose of coming-of-age drama and religious introspection. It’s not always an easy read, but it’s definitely a memorable one.

blud by Rachel McKibbens is a book of poetry I read, and I find it a bit difficult or even sum up poetry collections, so I will just say this: I don’t think I have ever experienced a book of poetry where I have casually relating to it up to a point, or at least enjoying the language enough to keep me reading, and then WAM. Suddenly a poem grabs me by the throat, strips me to my deepest pain, and doesn’t stop there; it digs the heart from my chest in one swift yank and sucks the marrow from my bones in a single swallow. The poem’s title is  * * * (I think? I am not sure.) and begins on page 48, but you need to work your way up to it. As a matter of fact, forget you’ve read this. Just remember what it’s like to love someone–all of the someones, the worst and the best of them– and stumble upon this poem one day, unbidden, your heart unguarded, all your defenses down. You will be destroyed, and it will feel exquisite.

The Unmothers by Leslie J. Anderson offers a compelling blend of folk horror and mystery set in the isolated town of Raeford. The story follows Marshall, a grief-stricken journalist tasked with investigating an impossible claim: a horse giving birth to a human child. What begins as a seemingly absurd assignment quickly unravels into a dark exploration of small-town secrets and generational trauma. In crafting Raeford, Anderson creates a palpable sense of unease. The fog-shrouded landscape becomes a character in itself, its oppressive atmosphere mirroring the weight of the town inhabitants’ unspoken burdens. This eerie setting serves as the perfect backdrop for the novel’s deeper themes, including bodily autonomy and the unique challenges women face in rural communities. Anderson tackles these complex issues with sensitivity and nuance, skillfully grounding her supernatural tale in very real, contemporary concerns. Despite the story’s bizarre premise, the characters feel remarkably authentic and their struggles and motivations resonate deeply, lending an added impact to the horror elements woven throughout the narrative. As the story progresses, the pervasive fog of Raeford seems to seep into the narrative itself. While this contributes to the overall atmosphere, it occasionally makes the plot feel hazy, particularly in the final act. However, even though it contributed a bit of befuddlement to the story, this minor issue doesn’t significantly diminish the book’s overall impact. I hesitate to slot “The Unmothers” into any single category; while it could be described as “horror for horse girls,” this label doesn’t do justice to the breadth of Anderson’s vision. Instead, it’s a thought-provoking tale that will appeal to anyone drawn to stories of small-town mysteries and the often unsettling nature of human relationships.

A Sunny Place for Shady People by Mariana Enriquez In A Sunny Place for Shady People, Mariana Enriquez crafts narratives that blur the lines between reality and the fantastic, channeling a sort of raw, punk-infused literary version of say, kooky dreamer Remedios Varo’s bizarre surrealist visions. But where Varo’s paintings offer enigmatic, haunting cosmological qualities, Enriquez’s stories present a more visceral, earthier, street-level take on the surreal. The characters often come across as emotionally distant, and this coolness amplifies the otherworldly atmosphere throughout the collection. It’s as if they’re slightly removed from their bizarre circumstances, mirroring our own sense of disorientation as readers. Enriquez’s prose is sharp and unflinching, describing surreal and often disturbing scenarios with a matter-of-fact tone that packs a punch. From urban ghosts to body horror that defies explanation, each story pushes our imagination to its limits, much like Varo’s paintings, but with an edgy, contemporary twist. The characters’ emotional distance might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s this very quality that allows Enriquez to dig into deeper themes of societal dysfunction, historical trauma, and personal alienation. The surreal elements aren’t just for show – they’re powerful metaphors for the often inexplicable nature of human experience. A Sunny Place for Shady People isn’t a cozy read, but it’s definitely a compelling one.

If It Bleeds by Stephen King King’s latest novella collection includes four stories: “Mr. Harrigan’s Phone,” “The Life of Chuck,” “Rat,” and the titular “If It Bleeds.” While each tale showcases King’s knack for blending the supernatural with the everyday, “Rat” particularly intrigued me. Its exploration of a writer’s struggle had me wondering: how many of King’s stories are responses to queries he’s put to himself? The titular novella, featuring the recurring character Holly Gibney, is one I wish I had read before Holly’s standalone book, but oh well. A note I made to myself while reading: throughout the book, references to things like landlines (which I remember) and party lines (which was before my time) reminded me of King’s long career, making me ponder how younger readers than I might interpret these technological time markers.

Antenora by Dori Lumpkin Set in the suffocating religious snake-handling community of Bethel, Alabama, this novella dives deep into the murky waters of repressed sexuality, religious dogma, and possible possession. Lumpkin’s writing is a Southern Gothic dream, weaving a tale of two girls, Nora and Abigail, whose affection and loyalty to each other becomes a threat to their entire town. The story of Nora’s “possession” unfolds through Abigail’s eyes, a bittersweet confessional that’ll have you squirming in your seat, clenching your fists, and breaking your heart. At its core, “Antenora” is a queer love story, exploring the complexities of friendship, desire, and faith in a way that feels achingly, desperately real, and while it delivers some deliciously gruesome scenes, the real horror here is in the oppressive atmosphere of the small town and its smaller-minded inhabitants. It’s a short but potent read that’ll leave you yearning for more of Lumpkin’s poignantly twisted prose.

Psychedelica Satanica by Sybil Oxblood Pope What a gem! I went into this one with zero expectations and came out thoroughly entertained. This oddball romp follows dark-arts dabbling sisters Jerica and Pen as they dive into some extremely demonic magic, but somehow, the story never feels too heavy. Pope’s writing strikes this weird balance where, despite the menacing threats of infernal forces and sometimes very human violence, it’s wrapped in a layer of absurdity that keeps things from getting too intense. The absolute star of the show is Vinegar Bill, a sassy, snarky demon-goat who steals every scene he is in. Fair warning: Vinegar Bill hates housepets, so you’re absolutely going to see this book listed eventually on doesthedogdie.com. And despite the (somewhat) light-hearted tone, don’t expect a happy ending – this isn’t that kind of story. But if you’re in the mood for a surprisingly fun ride through some dark territory full of snappy dialogue and sisterly shenanigans, “Psychedelic Satanica” delivers a very good time. It’s like a B-movie horror flick in book form – gory, ridiculous, and weirdly enjoyable.

The Coiled Serpent by Camilla Grudova Ooooof. I loved Children of Paradise, (so much that it influenced a whole perfume review!) which definitely did have a bit of a crusty aspect to it, but I am not sure how I feel about these stories, which shoot way past crusty into the territory of the grotesque and the disgustingly visceral. A provocative collection of short stories that blends surrealism, body horror, and social commentary, The Coiled Serpent is an incredibly unsettling reading experience in the form of experimental fiction (?) satire of the Great British institutions. I only know this because I read a Guardian article which clued me into that bit. Until that point, I thought I was just reading a series of gross, surreal stories. Now I feel like an idiot. In Grudova’s distinct style of writing that is sharp, witty, and unapologetically transgressive, these stories explore themes of class struggle, capitalism, and gender issues, often alongside repulsive imagery and the nastiness of bodily functions. Her matter-of-fact delivery of the absurd and horrific adds to the stories’ disquieting atmosphere. The Coiled Serpent shows off Grudova’s wild imagination and her commitment to pushing boundaries to create stories that’ll stick with you – like so much faecal matter on filthy toilets or spoilt custard crusting to an unruly mustache–even if sometimes you wish they wouldn’t.

Cicada Summer by Erica McKeen wonderfully (horribly?) captures the disorienting atmosphere of the 2020 pandemic summer. Set in a remote Ontario cabin, it follows Husha, her ailing grandfather, and her ex-lover, Nellie, as they navigate isolation amidst emerging cicadas and oppressive heat in a several weeks long slice of life where McKeen weaves themes of grief, climate anxiety, and trauma, I thought with remarkable sensitivity. Unpleasantness beautifully tended through gorgeous prose. Things take an intriguing turn when Husha discovers her late mother’s short story collection, adding a meta-literary element that both enriches and occasionally disrupts the main narrative. Interestingly, I found Nellie to be a particularly enigmatic character – her relationship with Husha felt oddly distant despite their history, contributing to the overall sense of unease. McKeen’s ability to portray the warped sense of time and unreality during that unprecedented period is particularly striking, even if some elements, like Nellie’s presence, remain weirdly unclear.

Bad Dolls by Rachel Harrison I tend to think of Rachel Harrison’s writing as a sort of Gilmore Girls gal-pal coziness, but make it a little bit creepy and maybe add some campiness. It’s not exactly horror; it does play with the elements you find in horror –the atmosphere, the suspense, and even the monsters– but the fear and frights are tempered with friendship and humor and a sort of hygge-sleepover horror vibe that Rachel Harrison does really well. These stories of bachelorette parties from hell, the literal monstrosity of diet culture, and the titular creepy doll are delightful and fun, if not literally spooky or scary. And that’s okay! This is exactly why I enjoy Rachel Harrison so much. She fills a void I didn’t even know existed, and I love her for it.

We Used To Live Here by Marcus Kliewer is a the kind of frayed-nerve horror that has some aspects which will definitely cause some brutally sleepless nights. It captures that skin-crawling dread of falling down a Reddit rabbit hole at 2 AM, leaving you feeling infected by the story like a case of literary Morgellons. At its core, it’s a tale of boundaries – personal, physical, and psychological – and what happens when they start to blur in terrifying ways (think Aronofsky’s “Mother!”, but with a hefty dose of internet-age paranoia). When house-flipping couple Eve and Charlie let a strange family into their newly purchased home, reality begins to unravel in chilling ways. Kliewer’s prose creeps up on you, lulling you into false security before plunging you into heart-pounding terror. While some might balk at unanswered questions, the lingering mysteries only amplify the novel’s unsettling power–which, on one hand is a plus, as I do love an ambiguous ending, but on the other, I kinda feel like this book fizzled about halfway through, like the story couldn’t sustain itself.

God of the Woods by Liz Moore centers on the disappearance of 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar from her family’s Adirondack summer camp in 1975, echoing her brother’s vanishing fourteen years earlier. Moore tells the story through multiple perspectives, including Barbara’s mother Alice, counselor Louise, and detective Judyta. The non-linear timeline, jumping between the 1950s and 1970s, while I first found it discombulating, adds intriguing layers to the unfolding mystery. I think some reviewers have complained about the pacing, but I found it to move along pretty consistently throughout, with the multiple viewpoints keeping the story engaging and offering fresh insights at every turn. The vivid Adirondack setting and well-developed female characters particularly stood out to me. Moore’s exploration of themes like motherhood, class, and identity is nuanced and thought-provoking, and while on one hand, sure–rich people’s problems, but on the other, well, a tragedy is a tragedy, and there were a slew of heartbreaking ones in this book.

In The Lonely Hours by Shannon Morgan, When Edwina Nunn inherits Maundrell Castle, she and her teenage daughter Neve are thrust into a world where past and present collide in shadow-filled corridors, and there are quite literally ghosts around every corner. Morgan deftly navigates between timelines, unraveling a mystery that spans generations and centers on the enigmatic Maundrell Red diamond. The castle itself becomes a character (albeit sort of a Scooby Doo character), its history seeping through ancient stones and into the very bones of the story. While ghost story tropes abound, Morgan infuses them with fresh energy, exploring themes of generational trauma and mental health with a nuanced touch. The relationship between Edwina and Neve provides a grounding counterpoint to the supernatural elements, though Neve’s often shitty attitude towards her mother can grate on the nerves. It’s a slow burn at first, but once the plot picks up steam, you’ll find yourself deeply immersed in the gothic soap opera-esque twisted tale of the Maundrell family.

Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand is definitely not new, and I am very late to the party, and you could maybe argue that self-destructive nihilist Cass Neary is just another generation‘s version of the kind of contemporary character trope I have grown to hate…but…I don’t think so. Cass is no fresh-faced MFA graduate grappling with first-world problems and wallowing in existential crises born of comfort. She’s a weathered survivor of New York’s punk scene, carrying the scars and stories of a life lived on the edge. The bleak atmosphere and weirdness the novel’s setting, a remote island off the coast of Maine, isolation and decay it’s very landscape, and the undercurrent of violence running through the story and threatening to explode at any moment–this all added a raw, urgent intensity that makes so much else I have been reading lately lackluster and pale in comparison.

The Glow by Jessie Gaynor  follows desperate publicist Jane Dorner as she gets entangled in a bizarre wellness retreat, a premise that might sound familiar to readers of recent millennial wellness horror. However, Gaynor’s novel stands out with its self-awareness and refusal to take itself too seriously. I appreciated the amusing metaphors and funny turns of phrase that pepper the narrative. Unlike some entries in this genre The Glow knows exactly what it is – it doesn’t buy into its own hype or come across as pretentious. This self-aware approach to satirizing wellness culture and social media influencers made for a refreshing read in an increasingly crowded field.

Little Hidden Doors by Naomi Sangreal As someone who has been fascinated with dreams and diligently recorded them since my teens, I found Naomi Sangreal’s Little Hidden Doors to be a transformative guide for deepening my engagement with the dream world. This guided journal artfully combines psychological insight with creative prompts, offering a unique approach to self-discovery that I found both engaging and transformative. Sangreal’s writing style is accessible yet deeply thoughtful, making complex concepts from Jungian psychology feel relevant to daily life. I particularly appreciated her nuanced take on nightmares, which helped me reframe and engage with challenging dream imagery. The artistic elements throughout the book not only beautify the experience but also serve as inspiration for one’s own creative exploration of dreams. Little Hidden Doors has genuinely altered how I perceive my nighttime adventures, and has dramatically expanded my dream practice beyond mere recording, turning each morning into an opportunity for growth and insight and opening up new avenues for self-discovery and creative expression that I’m excited to continue exploring.

In The Middle of The Night by Riley Sager follows Ethan Marsh, who returns to his childhood home on Hemlock Circle 30 years after his best friend Billy mysteriously vanished from their backyard tent. Plagued by insomnia and strange occurrences, Ethan begins to investigate what really happened that night, leading him to reunite with old neighbors and explore the surrounding woods where Billy once claimed monsters roamed. As he delves deeper, Ethan uncovers dark secrets about a nearby institute and realizes that the past is not as far behind as he thought. Unlike my experiences with Sager’s previous books, which often left me frustrated, this one exceeded all my (kinda low tbh) expectations. For the first time, I can say I have zero complaints about a Riley Sager novel –  five stars and a smarmy Paul Hollywood handshake to you, sir.

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield Julia Armfield’s “Salt Slow” is a siren song of nine stories, luring readers into deeply disturbing territory. In “The Great Awake,” sleep becomes a phantom limb, while “Stop Your Women’s Ears with Wax” orchestrates a symphony of feminine fury that left me breathless. Armfield’s prose is a scalpel, dissecting societal norms with surgical precision, yet leaving behind a beautifully grotesque patchwork of magical realism and horror. This collection is a tide pool of the strange and familiar, where each story is a creature that, once observed, changes you irrevocably.

 Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting…I don’t even know what. How to talk about poetry so often eludes me. It’s like describing a dream, all over the place and nonsensical and at the end you’ve told no one anything and you’ve bored them, too. Calling A Wolf A Wolf is full of addiction’s gnawing hunger, desire’s scalding touch, faith’s frantic ache. Tenderness and yearning, doom and deliverance and all the pain and ecstacy of being alive; encompassing all of these things in a vessel too small and too human and always one step always from breaking, maybe broken because we were born to be so (“the geese are curving around the horizon drawing maps / a curve is a straight line broken at all its points so much / of being alive is breaking.”) Bonus: the cover art is by Nicola Samori. And fuck that reviewer who dismissed it as being ugly. Seriously. Fuck that guy.

Spiritus Mundi is a fascinating anthology that explores the connection between creativity and the occult. Editor Elizabeth Sulis Kim has curated a collection of writings generated through various mystical methods, from scrying to tarot reading. My experience with this book was filled with what felt like magical coincidences, perfectly mirroring its mystical theme. I discovered a contribution from Camila Grudova, an author I’d recently encountered in my other readings (mentioned in a review above.) Jen Campbell, whose YouTube book reviews I frequently watch, also contributed a piece that I found both innovative and engaging. Pam Grossman’s “Invocation to Iris,” a lyric essay about the Greek goddess of rainbows, was absolutely phenomenal. Grossman describes it as “one of the weirdest, most personal, and most magical” things she’s ever written, and I wholeheartedly agree – it’s an absolute must-read. In a serendipitous turn, this book sparked a personal exploration of literary synchronicities. A passage I encountered eerily paralleled a phrase in a poetry book I had just read, inspiring a blog post about these uncanny literary connections. This experience felt like a real-life manifestation of the book’s exploration of mystical creativity. Spiritus Mundi left me with a deeper appreciation for the various ways writers can tap into unconventional sources of inspiration. It’s a thought-provoking journey that not only challenges our understanding of where ideas come from, but also seems to invite its own brand of magic into the reader’s life.

Tiny Threads by Lilliam Rivera had me initially intrigued but ultimately left me frustrated. The novel follows Samara, who lands her dream job working for the infamous designer Antonio Mota in Vernon, California. But this is no sunny paradise – the city is permeated by a slaughterhouse “perfume,” with pig squeals piercing the night. Rivera’s premise of blending fashion industry drama with supernatural horror seemed promising, as Samara grapples with visions of a blood-soaked woman amidst her high-stress work environment. The ambiguity between Samara’s potential substance-induced hallucinations and genuine hauntings added an intriguing layer. Samara’s increasingly erratic behavior, while reflective of her circumstances, became challenging to connect with as the narrative progressed and even the supernatural elements felt hindered by the overall slow progression of the plot. The elements for a compelling story were present, but the execution didn’t quite bring them together in a way that held my interest throughout.

youthjuice by E.K. Sathue Extremely flat-on-the-page 29-year-old copywriter Sophia joins skincare company HEBE and gets tangled up with their miracle product “youthjuice.” Attempts to skewer beauty influencer culture and “clean girl” trends, but lacks the bite to say anything new. Sophia’s poorly conceived character and baffling motivations drag down the story. Another “American Psycho meets [insert trendy reference]” that falls short, but might work if you’re really into skincare-themed thrillers and don’t need your satire to be particularly sharp.

If Something Happens To Me by Alex Finlay was the sort of fast-paced summer beach reading (I don’t go to the beach but whatever) that kept me engaged from start to finish. The story follows Ryan, a law student still dealing with his high school girlfriend’s mysterious disappearance, and includes multiple perspectives, including that of a super likable rookie deputy in Kansas. Finlay weaves together complex plot threads that span continents and timelines at a clipped pace, so much so that while some coincidences in the plot seemed a bit far-fetched, the story’s momentum was enough to keep me invested. I appreciated Finlay’s ability to balance suspense with emotional depth, creating characters that felt believable. The intricate, surprising narrative would have kept me guessing until the end–except I had just literally read another book with a similar plot, so too bad, Alex Finlay, I figured it out!

The Madness by Dawn Kurtagich I really wanted to love Dawn Kurtagich’s The Madness, but it left me with mixed feelings. This reimagining of the Dracula tale blends Welsh folklore with a modern psychological thriller, which sounds great on paper. The story follows Mina, a psychiatrist dealing with her own demons while trying to help her mysteriously ill friend Lucy. I appreciated some of the fresh takes, like turning Quincy Morris into a lesbian cop, and Kurtagich’s vivid descriptions of the Welsh landscape definitely set a creepy mood. But as I read on, things got messy. The book dips into mental illness and human trafficking in ways that made me uncomfortable, feeling more like shock value than thoughtful exploration. While I liked the focus on strong women, many characters fell flat for me. The climax had me turning pages, but it zoomed by so fast I could barely keep up. In the end, “The Madness” bit off more than it could chew. It has some cool ideas, but doesn’t quite pull them together. I closed the book feeling more perplexed than satisfied, wishing it had lived up to its intriguing premise.

 Just Like Mother by Anne Heltzel I initially struggled with Just Like Mother, but I’m glad I persevered. The story centers on Maeve, a cult escapee who reunites with her cousin Andrea after years apart. Andrea, now a successful CEO of a fertility-focused tech startup called NewLife, quickly draws Maeve into her world. I found the contrast between Maeve’s modest life as an editor and Andrea’s wealth intriguing. The novel delves into themes of motherhood and trauma in ways I didn’t expect, particularly through Andrea’s unsettling “Olivia” dolls and her intense focus on parenthood. While some plot developments were predictable, the book’s exploration of societal expectations around motherhood kept me engaged. It wasn’t a perfect read, but it certainly exceeded my initial expectations.

Perfume & Pain by Anna Dorn was deeply, infuriatingly disappointing. The novel follows Astrid Dahl, a mid-list author living in Los Angeles, as she attempts to revive her career after being “lightly canceled.” Despite its premise of homaging 1950s lesbian pulp fiction, the book falls squarely into a subgenre of contemporary fiction I’m finding increasingly tiresome, filled with millennial ennui and malaise. Astrid’s romantic entanglements with Ivy, a grad student, and Penelope, her neighbor, felt more like distractions than compelling plot points…which is maybe the point? Ugh. Depressing. Even the potentially interesting storyline of an actress wanting to adapt Astrid’s previous novel for TV couldn’t salvage my interest. As a perfume enthusiast, I was particularly let down by the perfume references, which felt like scattered afterthoughts rather than integral elements of the story. While Dorn aimed for “unapologetically feminine yet ribald,” I found myself more frustrated than entertained by a story that seemed more interested in navel-gazing than genuine storytelling. And don’t get me wrong, I can get on board with navel-gazing but for god’s sake don’t be so gross and annoying about it.

Whoever You Are, Honey by Olivia Gatwood is a mesmerizing debut that blends elements of literary fiction with a tantalizing hint of sci-fi that never quite crystallizes into full-blown speculative fiction. Set in a gentrified Santa Cruz waterfront, the novel crafts a world that feels both familiar and slightly off-kilter and delves deep into the complexities of female relationships and identity in our hyper-connected world. The relationship between neighbors Mitty and Lena forms the core of the story, and in their burgeoning friendship, we examine desire, envy, and the personas we adopt to fit in. I found the story’s pacing somewhat challenging, as it doesn’t follow a typical plot-driven structure. The narrative takes on a dreamlike quality at times, particularly in its final act. This approach, however, aligns with the themes of memory and identity that Gatwood explores throughout the book. Whoever You Are, Honey prompted me to question the nature of authenticity in our digital age. I find myself frequently replaying the book’s final scenes in my mind, pondering their implications and the questions they raise. Even as I speculate about what might have truly transpired, I find I prefer the open-ended nature of the conclusion, allowing the story to continue evolving in my imagination these many months later.

In The Secret Lives Of Color by Kasia St. Clair explores 75 shades, detailing their historical, cultural, and artistic significance. The book covers a spectrum from lead white to pitch black, each color’s story packed with facts and anecdotes. St. Clair reveals how certain hues, like ultramarine blue and Tyrian purple, once rivaled gold in value and how others, such as radium green, had deadly consequences. Despite the potentially vibrant subject matter, I found parts of the book unexpectedly dry. Ironically, the chapters on black emerged as the most engaging, offering insights that truly caught my interest. While St. Clair’s research is undoubtedly meticulous, the overall execution left me wishing for a more consistently colorful and captivating. In a similar vein, The Universe in 100 Colors: Weird and Wondrous Colors from Science and Nature by Tyler Thrasher is being released tomorrow, and I have very high hopes for that one. I have previously interviewed Tyler, and there is no way that book is going to be dry and boring!

Annie Bot by Sierra Greer  Annie is a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art robot designed to be the perfect girlfriend for her owner, Doug–but as Annie’s intelligence evolves, she begins to question her purpose and the nature of her relationship with Doug. Greer’s portrayal of Annie’s growing self-awareness is both fascinating and unsettling. The book delves into complex themes of autonomy, consent, and the nature of love in unequal power dynamics, and while I found this narrative engrossing, there were some scenes I found difficult to read, particularly given my past experiences with controlling, manipulative relationships. Doug’s behavior, right down to choosing and approving Annie’s outfits and clothing, was upsetting to me, even after all this time. Interestingly, I found Annie, a robot, to be the most likable character I’ve read in recent memory. This realization gave me pause – what does it say about the state of contemporary fiction, or perhaps about my own perceptions, that I connected most strongly with an artificial being?

Trainwreck: The Women We Love To Hate, Mock, and Fear…And Why by Jude Ellison Sady Doyle examines society’s fascination with women in crisis, analyzing figures from Mary Wollstonecraft to Britney Spears. Doyle explores how media and culture create and consume the “trainwreck” narrative, dissecting cases like Charlotte Brontë, Billie Holiday, and Amy Winehouse. The book draws connections between historical treatment of women like Sylvia Plath and contemporary figures such as Whitney Houston and Lindsay Lohan, revealing enduring patterns of public scrutiny and shame. I found Doyle’s analysis of these diverse cases particularly enlightening, challenging me to reconsider my own perceptions of these women and the narratives surrounding them. I previously read Doyle’s essays on monstrous feminine archetypes,  Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers, which was similarly illuminating and I’m pretty sure I’d recommend anything they’ve ever written. Also, did you know that BPAL created a perfume collection for this book?

Happiness Falls by Angie Kim portrays a biracial Korean-American family facing a father’s sudden disappearance, with the only witness being their son Eugene, who has Angelman syndrome and cannot speak. The story, narrated by 20-year-old Mia, moved me with its nuanced exploration of language and disability, prompting reflection on assumptions about communication and intelligence. While the mystery drives the plot, it’s Kim’s handling of complex family dynamics and philosophical questions that lingered with me long after finishing the book. Despite occasional pacing issues due to Mia’s detailed analyses, the depth this brought to the characters made for a thought-provoking read that I found myself turning over and over in my brain.

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle is a compelling blend of Hollywood critique and supernatural thriller following Misha, a gay screenwriter out to his friends but not publicly, who’s grappling with industry pressure to kill off queer characters in his hit TV show. Tingle’s writing cleverly weaves Misha’s past and present, creating a layered exploration of integrity in the face of success. The story takes an intriguing turn when characters from Misha’s old horror scripts come to life, adding a thrilling dimension to the industry commentary. While the middle dragged a bit, Misha’s indomitable spirit kept me invested. I appreciated his unwavering optimism and determination to do things his way, fighting not just for what’s right, but for his vision and principles. Tingle’s combination of insider knowledge, LGBTQ+ representation issues, and supernatural elements makes for a unique read that, while it wasn’t my favorite read in the past few months… it was an ambitious novel that I thoroughly enjoyed in the moment.

Chlorine by Jade Song follows Ren Yu, a competitive swimmer whose obsession with becoming a mermaid drives her to extremes. The novel alternates between Ren’s intense pursuit of her aquatic ideal and her teammate Cathy’s unreciprocated love letters. Set against the backdrop of high-pressure competitive swimming, the book delves into Ren’s struggle with her human form and her desire to transcend it, touching on issues of body image and self-acceptance and exploring themes of identity, belonging, and transformation, While the premise might seem fantastical, Song grounds it in the very real pressures faced by young athletes–and even if you’re not sporty in any sense of the word, you will find yourself drawn in (sort of like how I was with Ted Lasso, even though I resisted for the longest time!)  The writing is immersive, capturing both the physicality of swimming and the mental state of someone increasingly detached from reality. This was probably the most unique take on coming-of-age stories I have ever read, blending elements of magical realism with an incisive look at the costs of pursuing perfection.

I Was a Teenage Slasher by Stephen Graham Jones might be my favorite book of his yet. Set in 1989 Lamesa, Texas, it follows Tolly Driver, a seventeen-year-old with more potential than motivation, who finds himself cursed to become a killer. Jones brilliantly captures the claustrophobia of small-town life, where everyone knows your business, and sets it against the backdrop of the slasher genre he clearly loves. What really got me was how Jones cleverly reimagines the standard slasher formula, telling the story from the killer’s perspective. I found myself, disturbingly, rooting for Tolly as he navigates this blood-soaked tragedy. The way Jones explores the unfairness of being an outsider through horror tropes is both clever and unsettling. It’s like a summer teen movie gone terribly, wonderfully wrong – and I couldn’t put it down.

Fruit of the Dead by Rachel Lyon Aimless, vulnerable camp counselor Cory falls into the orbit of charismatic pharma CEO Rolo Picazo in this summer thriller that, unbeknownst to me while reading (because I am an idiot, I guess), retells the Persephone myth. Lyon’s lush prose creates a hypnotic atmosphere as Cory navigates luxury, addiction, and power imbalances on Picazo’s private island. The dual perspectives of Cory and her mother Emer add depth, but sometimes slow the pacing. While I missed the mythological connection, the themes of consent and captivity are unmistakable, offering a scathing critique of modern power dynamics. Might appeal to readers who enjoy dark, sensual narratives, whether or not they catch the classical allusions.

Smothermoss by Alisa Alering Set in 1980s Appalachia, focuses on two sisters in an isolated mountain community. Sheila, the protagonist, is a complex character grappling with poverty, her identity, and an inexplicable supernatural burden. Her younger sister Angie has an uncanny connection to the mountain’s arcane elements. When a brutal murder occurs nearby, Sheila must confront both tangible dangers and mystical threats. The author creates a really atmospheric story that blends their harsh reality with dark, folkloric elements, weaving a tale that’s both grounded and eerily otherworldly.

Aesthetica by Allie Rowbottom follows a 35-year-old former Instagram influencer now working behind a cosmetic counter. On the eve of Aesthetica™, a high-risk surgery to reverse all her past plastic surgeries, she’s forced to confront her traumatic past when asked to expose her former manager/boyfriend. The novel jumps between her life as a 19-year-old Instagram celebrity and her present struggles, delving into the dark realities of social media fame, body image, as well as mother-daughter dynamics. Rowbottom’s writing seems deliberately and effectively ugly, stripping away the glossy veneer of influencer culture to reveal its grotesque underpinnings. I did not enjoy this and I am not sure I appreciated it, either. So many wellness/beauty industry/influencer books are being published right now! I think half of them are in this blog post!

Fruiting Bodies by Kathryn Harlan is a subtly disquieting collection of short stories that blends everyday situations with surreal elements, and the somewhat fantastical or slightly off-kilter.  The stories range from a tale of mushrooms growing on a woman’s body to an eerie exploration of childhood fears about a new family member. My favorites were “Algae Bloom,” “The Changeling,” and “Is This You?”, with “Fiddler, Fool, Pair” being the standout (it kinda reminded me of Elizabeth Hand’s short story “Near Zennor”.) (I liked “Near Zennor” so much, I made a playlist for it!) Harlan’s writing is vivid and evocative, creating an atmosphere that’s both familiar and slightly unsettling, and these stories are outstanding in the way that only a quietly shocking story can be. Not bombastic or gory, but the sort of thing that makes your heart gasp for air because, for a moment, your lungs forgot how to breathe.

The Dissonance by Shaun Hamill is a contemporary fantasy that brings together three former friends, Hal, Erin, and Athena, in their Texas hometown, where, as teenagers, they practiced a secret magic system which harnessed negative emotions. There’s also a fourth friend, Peter, who features prominently in flashbacks. Like Hamill’s previous work, this book has a lot of heart, and the world-building is immersive and satisfying. The story intertwines their adult struggles with a supernatural threat accidentally summoned by a teenager named Owen.  Hamill’s writing is immersive and character-driven, making the fantastical elements feel grounded in reality. While the magic system is intriguing, the premise that deeper trauma equates to greater magical potential made me reflect on the problematic assumption linking artistic genius and mental illness. Despite this, Hamill’s skillful world-building and exploration of themes like redemption and unresolved past trauma make for a compelling read.

Bird by Bird Annie Lamott is a treasure trove of wisdom that transcends its categorization as a book on writing, offering a raw, honest, and often hilarious look at the creative process. Lamott’s self-deprecating humor and personal anecdotes create a work that’s as entertaining as it is insightful. Her unflinching acknowledgment of the neuroses and setbacks that plague writers resonated deeply with me – not as a soothing balm, but as a weirdly addicting, pricklingly poison ivy for my spirit. I cannot count the times I cackled whilst reading this book; equally, I lost track of the number of times it moved me to tears.

Also: Writing is hard. I want to hear about how hard it is! One reviewer complained that Lamott made writing sound as painful as passing a kidney stone, and while he disagreed with that takeaway, I sure don’t. So I appreciate having that struggle, that difficulty, validated, even (especially) in snarky, petty, but also really encouraging and inspirational ways.

I underlined the hell out of this book. So much of this advice is good for not just for the writing life, but just…navigating life, itself. Here are a few things she said that I am still thinking about…
Her assertion that “being enough was going to have to be an inside job” hit me like a revelation, echoing my own recent struggles with seeking external validation, particularly through social media. This idea resonated with me as I continue to grapple with building my self-worth, rather than relying on likes or followers.

The author’s emphasis on giving from the deepest part of yourself, and finding reward in that act of giving itself, felt revolutionary in our often results-driven world. As Lamott puts it, “You have to give from the deepest part of yourself, and you are going to have to go on giving, and the giving is going to have to be its own reward.” Publishing and recognition doesn’t solve everything. In fact, it hardly solves anything. It’s a reminder that I need to focus more on the (painful) joy of creating itself, rather than constantly worrying about how my work will be received. But I’ll admit, I often find myself wondering what the point is of writing something if I’m not sharing it. It’s a tension I’m still grappling with – the pull between creating for its own sake and the desire for my words to be read and acknowledged.

This metaphor of writing as a ‘little lighthouse’ really struck a chord with me. It made me think about how my own writing might impact others in ways I can’t predict or even imagine. It’s a comforting thought when I’m struggling with self-doubt – that even if I can’t see it, my words might be illuminating a path for someone out there.

Finally, and maybe most of all, I love how the book’s title comes from Lamott’s childhood memory of her brother struggling with a bird-watching report. It’s become a sort of mantra for me when I’m facing overwhelming tasks, not just in writing but in life generally. ‘Bird by bird’ reminds me to take things one small step at a time. When I’m staring down a daunting project, I try to remember this approach – break it into tiny, manageable pieces. It doesn’t always work, but when it does, it helps me feel like I’m making progress instead of drowning in the enormity of it all. This, and the crappy little elf advice, are probably the most helpful writing suggestions I know. 

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