While I have always been a bit of a horror film fanatic, I was never interested in pursuing a doctorate degree in Gothic studies. At least until Mike Flanagan released his limited series Midnight Mass on Netflix. This is all his fault.

I still have the faintest memories of watching Jaws as a young child, which was probably my first exposure to anything resembling a horror film. Although in my household, Jaws was always treated as a respectable family-fun movie that teaches children that living near the beach is not always a dream come true. For younger generations who have been spoiled by the magic of CGI, there is probably nothing horrifying about an animatronic great white shark. As an adult, I am able to distinguish between real and fantasy a tad bit better, but I cannot shake off that childhood memory of Bruce (the shark’s unofficial name) being a real monster. I remember the pit forming in my stomach at the image of little Alex Krinter being dragged from his raft by the shark, and the water becoming red with his blood. This movie convinced me of two things: 1) sharks were an imminent threat to me, even on dry land, something my parents insistently argued against, and 2) monsters are real and they will get you.

Although I had this interest in monsters and everything gory, it never registered to me that this interest could be anything more than a guilty pleasure. During my undergraduate degree, where I studied both English and history, I took a more pragmatic approach to studying literature and opted for modules I felt more appropriate for secondary school teaching. At the time, I rationalised that I needed to create a clear boundary between my personal life and university studies and if I wanted to continue to enjoy my gory novels, they couldn’t become a topic of serious study.

Everything changed after an impulsive binge of Mike Flanagan’s Midnight Mass, which I acknowledge as my first meaningful interaction with the Gothic. Spielberg introduced me to the world of monsters, but I credit Flanagan for convincing me that men, and especially well-intentioned men, can become monsters. In his adaptation of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot, Flanagan pivots away from Ben Mears, the troubled writer who returns to his hometown to confront childhood fears, which features heaving in the original text. Instead, he illuminated how redemption becomes a source of terror as he details the rapid collapse of Crockett Island, a predominantly Catholic community who become spellbound by the arrival of Father Paul Hill. Parishioners are mesmerised by the priest’s performance of miracles: healing wheelchair user Lez with Eucharist, transforming elderly dementia-sufferer Mildren into a beautiful young woman, and curing other islanders of various ailments (poor vision, back pain, etc.). In hindsight, I should have suspected that all these miracles were precipitated by Father Paul Hill sneaking vampire blood into the sacramental wine and disrupting it amongst unsuspecting churchgoers. It was disturbing to realise that people who trusted Father Paul Hill were unknowingly consuming vampire blood, which demonstrates a violation of both the body but communal trust.

On top of the weirdly vivid dreams, Midnight Mass stirred up in me all my unresolved feelings about becoming a secondary school teacher. I made my mind up about becoming a teacher very early into my bachelor’s degree, largely because I could not imagine what other career could be available for someone who studied English and history at university. All I could envision for myself was very long dull days correcting grammar, writing notes in journals for forgotten homework, and teaching Seamus Heaney poetry. All this work is very important, and children deserve teachers who are passionate about delivering this education.

After watching Midnight Mass, I realised I would much rather be chasing monsters than teaching kids.

Five years later (and so close to finishing my PhD), I have no regrets about my impulsive change in career plans. My research project, which is titled “EcoGothic Gardens and the Collapse of Social Binaries”, examines the fraught connection between the human and nonhuman world through an analysis of literary gardens in mid-twentieth to early-twenty-first century American Gothic novels. Although this project focuses on the positioning of the garden, which allows for the temporary collapse of social hierarchies as it blurs the boundaries between the private and public, I make sure to include as many monsters as possible!

In the late 1970s, my cousins lived in the shadow of Erskine Bridge, and there wasn’t much around. And when we visited, it was never for a day or two: the journey from Gloucestershire required something more. Together, the comparative isolation and the protracted stay meant we ended up driving to Glasgow at least a couple of times while we were up, ostensibly to get supplies, but also, I think, because my parents found it necessary.
I think my brother and I began to resent these trips. And, as I say, there wasn’t much to do around the house. So, when we came across a cheap bookshop, my parents encouraged us to have a look around. I couldn’t see anything of interest, so I went to find my brother. He was reading, and ready to make a commitment.
As this was 1979, and I am writing from the UK for the IGA, his choice of book may not surprise. Yes, indeed: Usborne Guide to the Supernatural World.
It was small and thick. Hardback, with a shiny black cover. This was kind of puffy, as if it contained itself something within (the floor of The Star Inn in St Just always reminds me of it). On the cover, of course, a skull. Although it had vampire teeth, and a map of the world engraved upon it, these were not the first things I noticed. It was the eyes that had you. Rimmed by flame, or bad intent, and half hidden by a low-slung supraorbital margin, gazing out, green, human, and impossible.
Something about the style of the art must have struck me as inappropriate, even then. I can see now that it lacks any violence of gesture. There is no great flair to it, either. The impression instead is that someone has laboured harder than necessary in its creation. The images inside are smooth, and some feature a peculiar, sweaty shine. They all look like they have been ‘coloured in’ with great care. Everything satiated. But what kind of hand could not be moved by that terrible gaze, or Africa, South America and Europe etched into the bone? The map of the world repeating the skull: a distillation, a distortion, an end…

On the drive back, and then sitting on his own at the kitchen table, my brother had first dibs. Then I took my turn, laying on a camp bed in a high-ceilinged white room on the ground floor. It was a grand house, but crumbling and bare. I was no longer noticing. How could I, in the face of the horrible drip of Moreau’s creatures? the daemonic inevitable of death foretold? the eyes of Jean Grenier and his Forest Lord, fixed – unthinkably – on something greater than themselves? the Chinese vampire, smiling, green-furred, its gaze more terrible than any skull?
That night, figures walked through walls. I mean this truly. I lay on the camp bed at first, pushing my sleeping bag off my feet, as I was hot, and did not feel well. Then I was up myself, and around the room. I never experienced anything like it again, outside of fever. The house all nerve; the walls yellow, then nothing; the walkers intent.
No connection to the Usborne, I can see, other than that, somewhere along the line, some rounded, fathomless, and hideous enjoyment had come into play…