Polybius by Colin Armstrong is a horror novel that plunges readers into a nightmare unfolding in a small coastal town in 1982. At the story’s center is Andi, a smart, tech-savvy teenager working at the local arcade/movie rental place, where the trouble begins with the arrival of a mysterious new arcade game. This game quickly becomes an obsession for the townspeople, young and old, players and nonplayers alike, triggering a series of disturbing events. As the victims start experiencing severe mood swings, paranoia, and hallucinations, Andi finds herself drawn into investigating the game’s sinister origins. The situation takes a dire turn when a violent coastal storm cuts the town off from the outside world, coinciding with a surge in aggressive behavior among the residents. Alongside her friend Ro, the sheriff’s son, Andi races to uncover the connection between the game and the town’s descent into chaos, all while grappling with her own desire to escape Tasker Bay.
Armstrong’s writing style immediately reminded me of the horror novels I devoured in my younger years. It’s action-packed and straight to the point, not trying to romance us with flowery language and linguistic frills. Polybius is quite different from the “literary horror” that’s become popular (I don’t want to say “lately”…I can’t pinpoint when we started referring to it that way.) But there’s been a lot of talk about horror with lush, beautiful prose and supposedly elevated concepts, but Armstrong’s novel isn’t trying to be that. The writing is straightforward and focused on propelling the story forward rather than waxing poetic. It gets you from point A to point B efficiently, even if you won’t swoon over the writing. I am not trying to say one is better than the other, I am not trying to be a judgemental contrarian edgelord! Just…managing expectations, I guess?
I will say though, that I wanted more from the urban legend aspect of the story; I honestly didn’t come away from the book with any sense of urban legendry at all, and only remembered it was supposedly meant to be an aspect of the story as I was reading reviews about it, so I definitely feel like there was potential for deeper exploration there. On the other hand, the government conspiracy angle didn’t really grab me, and I found those parts a bit boring.
The marketing compares this to The Walking Dead or Stranger Things, but I’d say it has more in common with the Crossed comics (not THAT bad, though) or CJ Leede’s American Rapture. The rapid spread of the contagion, the extreme violence and aggression of those affected, and the overall bleakness of the situation really reminded me of those works.
For readers who appreciate horror that prioritizes visceral thrills over introspection, “Polybius” capably scratches that itch. It’s not going to win any literary awards, but I am not sure that’s why we are reading horror in the first place, is it?
Polybius by Colin Armstrong is due out on April 29, 2025. NetGalley provided this digital review copy.
The next two books are more in the vein of the more literary-type horror that I mentioned above. And although the two stories are completely different and told in very different voices, interestingly enough, they have a fair bit in common. Another for the list of literary synchronicities! Unlike Polybius, these are both recently published, and you should be able to find copies easily.
A bit of a trigger warning for Private Rites. If you are someone who has recently been affected by weather and water…you might want to skip this one for now.
Private Rites is one of those books that didn’t always keep my attention…until all of a sudden, it did. Julia Armfield’s writing is so unlike any author in my memory, with a lush intelligence that’s hard to articulate. It feels scientific and philosophical, distilled into lyrical, emotive prose without being overly fraught. Set in a drowning world, the story follows three sisters dealing with their emotionally distant father’s recent death. Irene’s relationship is straining at the seams, Isla is grappling with her own personal complications, and the cynical Agnes is falling in love for the first time. As they sort through their father’s legacy in his famous glass house, their fragile bond is tested by revelations in his will and a mysterious purpose they’ve been chosen for. Armfield’s unique voice and the gradual unfolding of the sisters’ stories eventually drew me in. Private Rites is an atmospheric read with its beautifully distinctive prose, tumultuous family dynamics, and the nerve-wracking enigma of its watery apocalypse.
Rivers Solomon’s Model Home is an unrelentingly haunting tale centered on the Maxwell siblings – Ezri, Eve, and Emmanuelle. Their childhood in a gated community outside Dallas, where they were the only Black family, was marred by strange and terrifying events in their home at 677 Acacia Drive. This traumatic past has kept them at a distance from both the house and their parents in adulthood. The siblings’ forced return home following their parents’ mysterious deaths sets the stage for a confrontation with their history. As they delve into family secrets and attempt to unravel the truth behind the house’s disturbing occurrences, Solomon crafts an atmosphere of intense unease and palpable dread.
I already love reading about the complex dynamics between the siblings, and Solomon’s portrayal of the family kept me invested throughout. I found myself particularly drawn to Ezri’s perspective, though it was often a difficult and heartbreaking place to be. Spending time in Ezri’s head was truly horrifying at times, as their trauma and struggles were so vividly portrayed. Model Home was not anything like I expected, and Solomon doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to dark themes and disturbing scenes. It’s a brutal read, and there is no doubt about it. But I could not put it down, even when it made me uncomfortable. If you’re up for an intense, unsettling read, this book offers a bold, unconventional take on the haunted house story.
Finally, the twisted tale of Victorian Psychoby Virginia Feito introduces Winifred Notty, a governess who arrives at dreary Ensor House, where in three months’ time, she informs us that everyone living there will all be dead. Winifred is tasked with educating the Pounds children in subjects ranging from English and French to ornamental needlework, and in the course of their lessons and bedtimes, we learn that while outwardly embodying Victorian propriety, Winifred’s carefully constructed persona belies a chillingly dark imagination and inner world. As she becomes further entrenched in the estate’s oppressive atmosphere and uncovers the Pounds family’s peculiar proclivities, Winifred finds it increasingly challenging to maintain her façade. If you relished Maeve Fly’s violently irreverent antihero and unhinged plot, you’ll find Winifred Notty’s distorted and uniquely vicious mind equally captivating in this eerie, blunt, and grotesquely humorous masterpiece. Warning to sensitive readers: maybe don’t. Victorian Psycho by Virginia Feito is due out on February 4, 2025. NetGalley provided this digital review copy.
Day Eight of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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Abigail (2024) is a film that I have been dying to see for what feels like over a year now, but I have been waiting for it to show up on a streaming service that didn’t require any extra money from me. As of yesterday, I gave up. I could wait no longer!
It starts as a crime heist kidnapping movie that gets hijacked by a monster movie. The narrative opens with a meticulously orchestrated abduction: a cadre of criminals extract young Abigail from her ballet recital, whisking her away to a secluded estate that may well be her own domicile. They’re all going by fake names, but we know the leader is actually Matthew Crawley and the guy who hired him is Gus Fring of Los Pollos Hermanos! Anyway, what begins as a calculated ransom scheme rapidly devolves into a nightmarish ordeal, as the captors find themselves ensnared in a situation far beyond their comprehension or control when they realize that the tiny dancer is a vengeful vampire.
So far, I have told you nothing that you haven’t already seen in the trailer, and I don’t think I will reveal much more than that. What I will do, however, is tell a story via my favorite screencaps.
Here we have the soon departed Dean (also RIP Angus McCloud) investigating some noises in a subterranean basement kitchen, a sort of haunted Williams Sonoma advert, that inexplicably has a bowl of fresh fruit on the table and an industrial bread mixer on the floor. What a strange culinary twilight zone. Maybe vampires are really into sourdough?
Abigail’s transformation is stark and unsettling. Her ballet costume is drenched in crimson, her face is a canvas of gore, and her eyes remain hauntingly beautiful. But it’s her grin that is awesomely unnerving—rows of fanged teeth gleaming, a predator’s smile ripping across a child’s face. Ethereal and monstrous. Am I terrified of her? Undoubtedly. Do I love her? ABSOLUTELY.
A marble sentinel stands frozen in the attic, nature reclaiming art in the most unlikely of places. Our intrepid criminals stumble upon this ghostly gallery, only to find their colleague has joined the undead ranks. She attacks with newfound fangs and superhuman strength, but I can’t help being distracted by these statues. Who curates a sculpture garden in their attic?
Abigail’s choice of footwear is a dazzling spectacle amidst the carnage. Encrusted with silver glitter that catches the light with every movement and emblazoned with charming pink stars, they’re such a whimsical witness to the dark deeds of the evening. Ballet shoes might be elegant, but they’re hardly ideal for the messy work of hunting down your kidnappers and draining them of their delicious blood. Our girl Abigail knows that when it comes to a proper rampage, traction is key. It’s nice to see a monster with both a sense of style and sensible shoes. Who says you can’t be cute while terrorizing your captors?
Ok, I actually have no notes on this one. Perfection.
What I truly appreciated about Abigail is its refreshing approach to the vampire reveal. Unlike countless other films where characters spend precious screen time in denial, this gang swiftly accepts the bloodsucking reality they’re facing. There’s no tedious dithering or drawn-out disbelief – they see a vampire, they believe in vampires. It’s as simple as that.
This approach felt wonderfully respectful of the audience. Let’s face it, we all knew Abigail was a vampire from the trailer. The directors acknowledged this and aligned the characters’ knowledge with ours, cutting straight to the chase. It’s as if they said, “We know you know, and now the characters know too, so let’s get to the good stuff.” By skipping the usual skepticism and existential crises, Abigail cuts out all the fluff and dives headlong into the action–and I adored every crazy, gruesome minute of it.
Day Seven of 31 Days Of Horror in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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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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Be Very Afraidassaults 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.
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 pagein 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.
Faeries of the Faultlines by Iris Compiet. My photo.
Faeries of the Faultlines by Iris Compiet
Interior spread of Faeries of the Faultlines by Iris Compiet. My photo
Interior spread of Faeries of the Faultlines by Iris Compiet. My photo
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.
A mysterious entity from Faeries of the FaultlinesA common wood faery, or forest pizky, as seen in Faeries of the Faultlines
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.
Mandrake from Faeries of the Faultlines
A greenman, as seen in Faeries of the Faultlines
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.
A faun, from Faeries of the Faultlines
A Nykr, or water spirit, from Faeries of the Fault Lines
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.
Sylkies, from Faeries of the Fault Lines
Faery of the Leaves Fallen from Faeries of the Fault Lines
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.
Morrigan, Iris Compiet
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.
Iris Compiet’s The Dark Crystal Bestiary. Photo by me.
Iris Compiet’s The Dark Crystal Bestiary. Photo by me.
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.
Darach the Greenman (Iris scupts too! WOW!)
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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