The Nightmare clicked his tongue against his teeth and smiled. He sat, perched upon my uncle's desk, looking down on me with those same gold yellow eyes.
"Would you like to hear the story?" he whispered.
His words echoes, the dream already beginning to fade. I nodded, the library around me eclipsing into darkness.
All that was left was the Nightmare's voice, silky and infinite.
"There once was a girl," he murmured, "clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same:
"The girl, the King... and the monster they became."
Gothic Fantasy is a sub-genre I both love and entirely forget to devote my time to.
Raised on the shuddering backs of Angela Carter, Mervyn Peake, Witold Gombrowicz, even Toni Morrison and her Beloved, I'm no stranger to the wyrd and wonderful set amongst the crumbling, austere ruins of ancient castles and creaking, haunted abodes of regular people.
But there is a personal need, a desire, for a new author to truly take the reins of Gothic Fantasy and shake some new life into the genre, whilst also honouring and maintaining its stygian roots. When I first became aware of Rachel Gillig's debut novel, a tale of possession, nightmares, and sacrificial magic, I wholeheartedly hoped she would be the one to steer the Reaper's carriage to those bleak and beautiful ruins once again, to disturb the hallowed rot so acutely wielded by her predecessors.
But, alas.
Perhaps it was my fervent hope that dashed this particular dream - overhyping is often the enemy (aka. BookTok) - but One Dark Window was inherently missing something in its gothic makeup.
What, exactly? I'm not entirely sure, and that's... puzzling.
Set in the threateningly mist-laden lands of a kingdom named Blunder, the protagonist of the story, Elspeth Spindle, hunches and scurries her way from one threat to the next, concealing her curse and trusting few as a pseudo-religious witch-hunt is waged against her kind, and her own personal battle takes place inside her mind.
It's dark, it's gloomy, it begins with the kind of lyricism I ache for in literature (unfortunately it dwindled as soon as dialogue was introduced); it's the blueprint for Gothic Fantasy.
Which is perhaps the problem, and why I, personally, believe the story fell short of its potential: when you're hand-delivered everything you expect, everything you desire, it leaves little to no room for surprise and delight.
I know this story, I know its riddles and its landscapes, I know its tragic trajectory.
And I really, really, didn't want to.
I wanted to feel my eyes race too fast between pages, gobbling each word with impatient voracity.
I wanted to end chapters with the book face down while I took a moment to collect myself.
I wanted to feel the sentient brume on my skin and flinch to escape its clutching tendrils.
I wanted to cling devotedly to each and every character as they descended further into the murk.
I wanted to love it.
But I just... didn't.
And the question of why? is still pinching at my skin.
I know, without question, that it wasn't the world-building at fault, because while Gillig's narrative may have fallen slightly short, her gift for crafting an eerie, threatening landscape with the darkly arched trimmings expected within the genre is impeccable.
I entirely lost myself in the lands of Blunder, in the fog-soaked woods and endless, shadowed rooms of Yew Castle; every corner rounded was a suffocating, starless riot of the senses that urged me to read on, and on, to whatever barrow of misery appeared next.
It categorically cannot be faulted for its evocative landscaping.
The same can be said for the Tarot-esque magical system weaved like creeping, viridescent ivy throughout the story, bestowing those who wield each Providence card the gift of strength, control, wealth, precognition, telepathy, invisibility, amongst other things, and the inevitable and exacting, degradative consequences they beget.
"The truth is," Ravyn said, patting his horse, "there is a darkness in all of us. We don't need The Old Book of Alders to tell us that. You and I carry the infection and, with it, a strange, brilliant magic. But there's always a price. Nothing comes for free."
It's not a new magical practice, but there is always something to be said for adopting a tried and true trope and making it new again. Rachel Gillig more than manages this, wielding the Providence Cards like the weapons they are, casting warnings at the beginning of each chapter, and with unflinching clarity demonstrating to the readers the unique damage they cause to her characters.
Magic with a cost is, and will forever be, a fascinating concept, and within this story it's absolutely vital, to Elspeth, to Ravyn, and to the rest of Gillig's sullen band of revolutionaries.
But this is perhaps where the story failed to grab me: with the characters.
For the most part, One Dark Window's cast largely follows rote:
Elspeth - the sickly protagonist who is kind of boring, kind of bland, kind of stupid (I got the twist before she did, and I never get the twist). She's frustratingly monotonous, hampered by her need to conceal herself to the point that she lacks personality, so buried within herself it bars the reader from knowing her better. As the narrator of the story, this is incredibly frustrating, but she does possess a certain changeling otherness the likes of Shirley Jackson's, Merricat. Something animal, something occult paces within her, and his name is Nightmare.
Ravyn - the brooding, black captain of the guard, so precisely shadowed in responsibility and mystery he feels practically plucked from the pages of the Scowling Heroes Brochure, which has the unfortunate effect of causing his entire existence within the story to equate with perfect blandness. He is every hero you've read in the last decade, his secrets are surface level, he exists almost entirely to serve as the heroine's love interest. And I honestly wish better for him.
Elm - the silver-tongued, spare prince who hides his trauma behind bravado, and who possibly possesses the biggest heart of all. He's a flirt, he's brave, he's loyal; he's a Disney prince who curses.
Hauth - the brute prince, heir to the throne who harbours no more depth than a murky, hateful puddle.
Orithe Willow - the king's physician, whose thirst for blood outshines any and all personality, ie. he's a sentient guillotine.
Jespyr - the tomboy cousin who can, and not much else. This one especially bothers me because a) female characters always deserve more than this, and b) her existence feels largely so Elspeth isn't surrounded by dick. C-, could've done better.
Emory - the mad prince, the youngest, the most fragile who'll break your heart with every prophetic, nonsense rhyme and hacking cough of blood. He's the Tiny Tim of the piece.
As you can see, there's not an abundance of material to work with, here; little substance, texture to curl your fingers into and taste character blood.
But there are two characters who stand out, and who are unfortunately deeply underwritten much to my chagrin: Ione Hawthorn, Elspeth's cousin, and the Nightmare.
Ione, a woman who sees her place in society, the cage that it is, and snatches an offering of power with both hands; some may see her as a villain who sacrifices morals for uncanny influence, but I find her fascinating. She's every woman throughout history who played the game of politics/family/war behind the scenes, who placed themselves on the board and struck with calculated efficiency.
Elspeth my have a foreign monster in her head, but Ione claimed her own monster and made her incandescent, and that, I'm afraid is by far the more interesting story, one I hope Rachel Gillig explore more in the second half of the duology.
And speaking of monsters, the second most compelling character is my beloved Nightmare, the sarcastic, scheming, versifying creature who squats in other people's heads.
That's when I first heard it, the sound of those long, vicious claws tapping together.
Click. Click. Click.
I jumped to my feet, searching the library for an intruder. But I was alone. It wasn't until it happened again—click, click, click—that I realized the library was empty.
The intruder was in my mind.
"Hello?" I called, my voice breaking.
Its tone was male, a hiss and a purr—oil and bile—sinister and sweet, echoing through the darkness of my mind. Hello.
I love him, I love him so very dearly, and with every cryptic, bewildering word he susurrates, I love him all the more. Maybe its his hackled-backed majesty that dims Elspeth's light, because he outshines all in his orbit, circling the cage of her mind, growing stronger by the day, rattling the confines of his prison with atavistic regality.
He's a shuddering, eldritch pleasure to behold, and now that he's out? What fresh hell will become of us all in his wake.
This is the reason I ordered Two Twisted Crowns the moment I finished, because while the story may not have fulfilled all it promised, the Nightmare, the Shepherd King, decidedly did, and I need to know what happens next.
Not want.
Need.
A growl, a sneer—oil, bile. His voice called, louder than it had ever been, as if he was closer. Stronger. Finally, my darling Elspeth, we understand on another.
I'm a self-confessed Brat Pack fanatic; it's an era of movie-making that I take an intense amount of gratification from, but I had no idea the term "Brat Pack" was, at the time of its creation, intended as a slur, as a way to belittle and diminish the soaring rise of these beloved actors.
And the profound effect it immediately had on their careers.
For me, "Brat Pack" has always been synonymous with happiness, comfort, nostalgia, teen angst at its prettiest; I was entirely clueless, to this day, that it had negative connotations.
An ignorant state of being that was immediately shot to hell as soon as Andrew McCarthy started reaching out to his fellow "brats" and a mixture of awkward, stilted conversations with reminiscing love-ins unfolded on screen - you really shouldn't see actors out in the wild, it's deeply unnerving how bland they are.
Hearing about the knock-on effect this one term had on the trajectory of their careers hasn't taken the shine off the movies themselves, it would take something really quite grand to do that for me, but it does reinforce this idea in any industry that if you're young and successful, you obviously haven't earned it and you definitely don't deserve it.
You see it now in different ways: YouTubers, TikTokers, nepo babies (that's a horse of a different colour, however), young artists whose star rises so fast it's blinding who are inevitably banished swiftly after for overexposure.
They can't win, and there's always someone who wants to take them down a peg or two, usually someone bitter and not as successful, who wants them to feel unworthy of what they have.
This exactly what happened to the Brat Pack, and apparently out of all of them, McCarthy's been holding onto that belittlement for the longest.
And what better way to purge your demons when you're an actor than make a documentary about it?
One I wasn't exactly expecting.
Honestly, I watched the trailer and apparently disassociated entirely, and all I took in was 80s/brats/ doco, so I was expecting a sweet little nostalgia bomb which took a ninety minute ride through an era of movies I adore - not a therapy session.
I'm not mad about it, though?
Watching anything about your interests is usually of value, and Brats has an unpolished charm to it that calls back to the era it was born from; delving deep but not stygian, providing laughs and food for thought, and ultimately, if you're a fan, binge watch the entire collection.
Which I will most likely being doing, and I will be starting with anything McCarthy-based because I've always been a McCarthy girl at heart.
My Top 5 BP and BP-adjacent movies in descending order:
“No mortal ear could have heard the kelpie passing through the night, for the great black hooves of it were as soundless in their stride as feathers falling.”
It has all the elements of Jordan's style: a moodily pretty dark fairy tale, but lacks the bite of his previous works, instead falling into clichéd, histrionic territory with some artful neck biting.
A shame, when you have Saoirse Ronan as your lead bloodsucker and she's giving her best immortally tortured teenager act.
As a vampire fan it's always felt almost sacrilegious not to love this movie, what with it being iconic and whatnot, but christ almighty, I truly cannot stand it.
Overwrought - and not in the fun way.
Bad dialogue - seriously, who wrote this shit?
Hammy acting - Keanu did his best, but Mr Oldman, what the actual fuck?
And it doesn't even have the decency to lean into these things and make it part of the aesthetic, the vibe.
Now, that is sacrilegious.
And in the era of the hammed up vampire and everything, for shame.
Gotta give a round of applause to the costumiers and set designers, though, because it is, without question, absolutely fucking flawless.
It already had my infinite love - because it's PERFECT, but Jerry Dandrige, the grody bloodsucker he is, brought my best friend and I together over a decade ago.
Bonding over Prince Humperdinck's lizard king swagger and major dental issues are key elements to a lasting friendship, evidently.
Ps. Don't talk to us about the remake, we will hiss at you.
Pps. While I was rooting around for gifs, I came across this blog post on sympathetic horror villains and slut-walk Sarandon Dandrige features:
I totally concur, Jerry's such a softboi babygirl with fangs.
Pps.Fun factoid: Chris Sarandon discovered prior to filming that most bats are not in fact bloodsuckers but are fruit bats, so he thought perhaps Jerry had that in his genealogy, which is why you see him constantly eating fruit throughout the movie.
I do have this compulsive need to watch any and every iteration of the legend to see, on the off chance, somebody's given the Count a sprinkle of personality, a soupçon of the old razzle-dazzle, ie. kicked his moody little miaow-miaow self up the immortal arse to remind him he's got infinite cosmic power and to stop being a little bitch about Mina fucking Harker - no means no, fang boy.
...
It hasn't happened yet, and The Invitation didn't even draw close, but after a couple of watches I've grown... attached to it?
But really, just watch Ready or Not if you want to see a quality fucked-up-family-dynamic horror film - Samara Weaving is the final girl we deserve, and we're getting a sequel!
This one's in no way hokey, it's actually bloody terrifying.
Seventeen years on from its creation and it still freaks me the hell out, and it's entirely down to it, not necessarily avoiding the clichés of the vampire myth, but trying something new within them instead.
A coterie of ancient, organised, feral vamps descending upon an isolated Alaskan town during their annual sunless month to chow down on the townsfolk, and said townsfolk fighting back (led by Josh Hartnett, who, if you've been here for a while, will know I love almost exclusively for his role as Ethan Chandler in Penny Dreadful. Free pass for life)?
Um, fuck yes?
Steve Niles and Ben Templesmith knew exactly what they were doing when they created the graphic novel(which you should read, it's outstanding), and David Slade(who directed some episodes of Hannibal, and you can totally see the style crossover) brought it to the screen with the kind of moon-hued slaughter only true horror fans can appreciate.
Also, providing yet another reason not to live in the back of the snowy beyond because you might just get your throat ripped out by Danny Huston, the only actor who could be goddamn terrifying whilst making predatory, clicky dolphin noises with fruit punch mouth.
...
No gifs for this one because my mum reads this and I don't want to traumatise her.
Hi, mum, you're a wimp but I love you.
.............................................
Holly Lucero unleashing nostalgia trauma in the medium of Paleo Art:
If you can watch The Land Before Time without sustaining permanent damage to both your psyche and your tear ducts, then you're, well, clearly a sociopath.
Don Virgil Bluth is the king of fucking up your childhood and forever altering your adulthood with existential FACTS.
This is... SO freaking good, and I am actually really surprised.
It's been years since I truly enjoyed anything Marvel's put out, at least since Thor: Ragnarok, and pickings prior were pretty thin (soft spot for the Spidey movies, though, but Into the Spider-Verseholds the crown for best Spidey movie ever, and it's not even the MCU). The tv shows have been the most reliable source of decent storytelling within the Marvel-Verse, but even then, I've never been that bowled over by them; the first seasons of Loki, Jessica Jones, Legion- really gotta finish this one, it's incredible, first two of Daredevil- looking forward to the new season and Charlie Cox hitting things, and She-Hulk are the closest I've come to that same buzz the first wave of Marvel output created.
But nothing's ultimately held my attention for long.
Perhaps because they've tied themselves in so many narrative knots the storylines are now mostly padded out with half-assed exposition and cheap looking special effects due to the MCU bosses running their teams into the ground.
Kinda fucks the quality when you aren't given the resources to put your full ass into the art, am I right?
The woman serves bitch like it's as innate as breathing, and how often does Marvel actually let their villains revel in their villainy? Answer: never, and if they try, there's usually a sad backstory to ultimately "save" them (see: Loki) which robs them of any of their initial mischievous appeal.
Bad guys are just more interesting, it's a fact.
And morally grey guys?
They don't need to be saved! They don't need to be explained! They can simply revel in their lack of morals and have a hell of a good time!
Which is where Agatha actually gets a bit hinky and does something truly impressive: they gave her a tragic beginning, continued to beat her down until she did unspeakable things, let her make merry in the bathtub of evil, redeemed her (to a point), and managed to keep her in the murk of the morally grey.
...
This *gesticulates wildly in the direction of the show* is how you do it, my goblin friends, this is how you give a villain depth and character, but don't bankrupt them of their wickedness.
Marvel, I didn't know you had it in you.
And that's really not all that makes this show a league above, it's the visuals (can you say Hocus Pocus?), the cast (Joe Locke did so well; so proud!), the queerness, the cult references, the women, the humour, the found family of a coven, the attention to detail, the narrative twisting, and mostly interestingly for an industry that chooses blockbuster over nuance, the respect towards witchcraft.
This show is a veritable feast of, honest to Hecate, accurate practices within the craft, most of which completely went over my head until I read this article by Asa West on Reactor:
If you're interested in coven life, I'd give this a read.
Or just watch the show because it's brilliant and goddammit, I need a season two!
Gotta admit, this format is diminishing my Monthlies headache by A LOT.
The question is, do I start making cute playlist covers each month, just to add a bonus round of unnecessary stress to my life?
...
Fuck.
.............................................
Rachael of SorrelsSouls and her cross-species critters:
A few screenshots because insta sometimes won't let you embed and I refuse to use the clock app because of reasons (reasons: it sucks and I hate it), but everyone needs to see this and know just how obsessed I am with the frickin' banana-bat and tater Moo Deng.
I've thought about it... and this is my all-time favourite cartoon.
With respect to the Belcher Family, who I love dearly and who previously held the title, weird grandma Bee and her squeaking, space feline-canine who contains more sass than any creature in existence should, have knocked them off their perch.
I don't know what it is, but to me this show is undeniable perfection and I'm legitimately never happier than when I'm watching it.
...
And I'm now, after fifteen-plus watches, absolutely certain PuppyCat says "shit" at one point.
If Bee and PuppyCat is now officially my favourite cartoon, then Hazbin's vying with a vengeance for second place.
From the opening bars of "Happy Day in Hell", I was an absolute goner.
If I was a different person, I'd wonder how a show in the underbelly of hell could be so damn soft and fucked up all at the same time, but I'm me, so, of course I knew.
That it's a musical and my favourite character is a babygirl, porn star demon is just the cherry atop this particular hellacious sundae.
In times of distress, I often turn to The Authors, who are - for the most part - thoughtful and insightful people, who even when they're writing about shapeshifters and magical heists, are guaranteed to be remarking on something much deeper in our increasingly dystopian society.
Charlie Jane Anders is one of those authors, and someone I can rely on to calm the storm of utter bewilderment and fear raging inside of me with her words.
Getting monster-dicked-down is cool and all, but sometimes you just want a handsome lycanthrope to lovingly caress your fuzzy chin like you're the one and only wolfman for him.
(It took me so long to find this gif. Why're y'all sitting on the perfection of Daniel Osbourne?)
This reminds me, must start the Green Creek series asap (*has been saying this since 2016*).
Ps. I've seen a lot of people crying out for another series after this, and as much as I'd love that, too, I think OtgWis this perfect little thing that exists in its own tiny bubble, content in its one time beauty.
And the stop-motion short the warmest wave from the creators to the fans, a small hello that says "we see you, we love you, thank you so much."
I already want to read every damn second of every damn day, but these make that need a damnable amount worse.
Seeing Bo and Win out in the animated wild makes my heart puke with joy, and ffs, someone make me read Assistant to the Villain, already!
(Fact: No one can make me read anything until I want to. It's a problem)
Maybe this is the solution to booktok and its corporate agenda: feed the animators (money) to lure the bookworms in with adorable animations from genuinely fantastic books instead of ramming the same identikit Wattpad drivel down our throats like they usually do?
He's fine and whatever, not terrible, but I think he might just be another example of a tall white guy making it in Hollywood for no other reason than his head-to-ground ratio.
*ahem* Jacob Elordi.
*AHEM* Ben Affleck.
...
A fairly consistent and baffling anomaly but, y'know, what'cha gonna do?
"As the world grows quiet, I find that time is but an illustion. Sleep may elude me, but in these stolen hours I find the solitude where my soul can truly breathe."
To me, this is a snack for the millennials who had simultaneous crushes on Veronica Mars and Seth Cohen, and fantasised about them meet-cute-ing and falling in quippy, high maintenance love when really they should stay as far away from each other as humanly fucking possible.
...
And Netflix answered.
And it really was very cute, can't deny that, but do I give a shit about the complexities of the devout/atheist relationship dynamic?
(Not Trey Tucker, but a fan-cast for Tyler Bell. Do yourself a favour and read Priest by Sierra Simone; this conflicted sweater boy does unspeakable things with the chrism)
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