My Darling Dreadful Thing

by Johanna van Veen

This book is a work of fiction. Above all, it is a work of Gothic fiction, that most slippery of genres. To be Gothic means to refuse to be easily defined. That being said, 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.

Some things are so horrible that the only sane response is a bit of madness.

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.”

“You said you never let another spirit in. Why make an exception for Ruth?” P: “Because she was mine and I was hers.”

“I can’t think right now. If I do, I’ll think and feel too much.”

“You must be careful with that, Roos. It’s a dangerous thing, to try and give someone everything. One day, you might find you’ve given away things you should’ve kept. Some parts of us must remain inviolate if we are to survive as a person.”

What I felt for Agnes was right and true, yes, but it was not selfless. Perhaps love never is.

Every house has its own scent.

horrible beauty,

Careful now, Cornelius! Arrogance is a greater threat to justice than evil and ineptitude. Remain always wary, ever vigilant.

“I understand,” I said. She softened and touched my cheek with her fingertips. They pulsed with heat. “No, you don’t. There are things a girl with a face and skin like yours can never understand about a girl with a face and skin like mine. Know, yes, but not understand.” “What is the difference?” She thought for a minute, and all the while, her long, lean fingers rested against my cheek until it felt burning hot. “Knowing is cold, I suppose,” she said. “Cold and distant. You know things with your mind. Understanding is different. It’s warm. You understand things with your mind, yes, but also with your heart.”

Death must have been a different thing to those people than it is to us. Not this unbearable ending, but a transformation. No need to grieve when someone died because they wouldn’t be gone.

When I was in my room, I felt paralyzed with dread. I had done something wrong, and if the worst happened, I didn’t even have Mama to fall back upon. Around and around my thoughts went, ever deeper, ever darker, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. What use was it, this chewing over all the ways things could go wrong? Being caught in my own head was exhausting. Worse, it was useless, and I despised being useless. I couldn’t make anything right and avoid all the horrors I could so vividly imagine if I didn’t know what it was I had done wrong. As soon as I heard Agnes go into her room, I followed her there.

With a man like Thomas, you must keep your cards close to your chest, because everything he knows about you, he will use to destroy you if it suits him.”

I let these things happen to me. And you forget: I’ve never had anyone I could trust enough to talk to before, only Peter. And some things one just doesn’t talk about, not with anyone. Some things are so shameful, so painful, that we lock them away deep inside us and pretend they don’t exist.

she just stood there, her black hair falling into her face, looking at something back in time that I could not share with her unless she put it into words.

one can only appeal to another person’s sense of pity if they have one.”

After a while, Peter came inside. He was bejewelled with raindrops. They had caught most beautifully in the mold at his throat.

Maybe all he has is this feeling of hatred toward you, but how long can you keep on hating someone if you can’t remember the reason?”

So much of what happened then has blurred together, the way raindrops do when they’ve lain against a windowpane for a while and gravity drags them down.

“Do not seek to correct what you don’t understand,”

does my love mean so little to you that you would not suffer for it as I have for yours?” “Must love be about suffering?” She looked at me with eyes so black, I wondered how she could even see. “How else does one show the strength and sincerity of one’s love if not through suffering and sacrifice?”

And then, because three times makes it real: “This you shall remember: when you wake, please come haunt me.”

He did not smile as he might have, as others had, and for this, if not much else, I was grateful to him. It’s no small thing, to be allowed to keep one’s dignity.