My Darling Dreadful Thing

by Johanna van Veen

Gothic novels generally have, at their heart, at least one secret so gruesome it has been dropped down a well, locked away in the attic, or buried somewhere in the garden. Left alone in the dark, this secret festers, until everything around it is infected with its rot and it has become impossible to ignore, forcing us to witness the most depraved sides of humanity.

“No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see—what I don’t fear!” —Henry James, The Turn of the Screw

I don’t think Ruth would have become my constant companion. Spirits like her are not drawn to the happy and carefree; they want salt, be it blood or be it tears.

“Roos,” she whispers. Her breath smells like pennies. “You need never be alone again now, Roos. You have named me and let me drink from you. We are wedded to each other now, you and I. You’re my helpmeet and yokemate, and I am yours. I shall keep you safe.”