Gothic literature, and more specifically gothic horror, is one of my great loves. I love the rain, the gloom, and it is my ultimate goal in life to retire to a creepy, possibly haunted, estate on some windswept moor at some point. I love the drama of gothic literature, the creeping dread that is always simmering just under the surface, the specters that lurk around every corner, the women in white nightgowns padding through darkened hallways by candlelight. If there is a haunted mansion and a brooding, mysterious stranger involved, I’m all in.
My earliest encounters with the genre were film versions of Dracula and Frankenstein which led me, as a voracious reader, to the source material. Since that time, I have come to hold a special place in my heart for the work of Mary Shelley, Shirley Jackson, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Oscar Wilde. Their stories fueled my imagination but they have also sparked in me an avalanche of questions—namely, what does gothic literature look like through the eyes of BIPOC and how do our often-intersecting identities fundamentally change the way gothic stories can be written?