Sea changes: The fairytale Gothic of mermaids, selkies, and enchanted hybrids of ocean and river

Venue: The British Library, London, UK (and online) Date: 5–6 September 2025

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them,—ding-dong, bell.

(The Tempest, i. 2. 400–07)

Fabulous, enchanted beings, hybridly human and other, populate the expanses of water of myth and folklore, whether oceans, rivers, and lakes or their boundaries. Such locations swarm with merfolk, nereids and other water nymphs, nixies, merrows, selkies, finfolk, kelpies, rusalkas. We want also, however, to give attention to and arouse discussion around their non-European counterparts: Mami Wata (West Africa), yawkyawk (Australia), iara (Brazil), ningyo (Japan), mondao (Zimbabwe), siyokoy (Philippines) and many more. All these beings are often alluring, frequently dangerous.

In the West, oceanic beings take the form of merfolk, haunting the seas and luring humans into the depths. Rivers and lakes swim with nymphs, nixies, kelpies, and more. In regions such as the Shetlands and Orkneys selkies – hybrids between seal and human – are found on the shorelines.

The fluidity of water itself mirrors the tendency for such beings to be themselves shifting and protean; their hybridity through metamorphosis is dynamic. It suggests the quality of those who are both terrestrial and aquatic, those conscious beings embodied in a fluid medium, the substance from wherein life itself originates.

Hybridity and genre

The hybrid form of the mermaid, both piscine and mammalian, corresponds to the liminal quality of where these beings are most frequently encountered – the ambivalent border between land and sea of the shoreline. Selkies, metamorphosing between seal and human, are in the traditional tales perhaps even more associated with the shore.

The hybridity of these creatures is easily accommodated by the hybridity of genres that contemporary narratives employ. For example, in Melanie Golding’s The Replacement (2023), selkie folklore encounters the procedural detective genre in an unsettlingly ambiguous way. The commingling of Gothic horror, folklore, and analytical crime thriller subverts the rationalist mode of the latter by generating the mode of the Fantastic. Here, the vulnerability of motherhood, outsider communities, and mental illness come into focus. More generic cross-fertilisation comes with the presence of mermaids in Gothic-tinged Neo-Victorian novels such as Imogen Hermes Gowar, The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock (2018), and Jess Kidd’s merrow fantasy, Things in Jars (2020).

There are mermaids in science fiction, which are often monstrous (thus involving horror and thriller genres): Mira Grant, Into the Drowning Deep (2017), for example, results in the scenario of humanity pitted against the aquatic as Otherness, but also revealing a nature wounded by instrumental reason in this climate change thriller, and an ambiguity about the centrality of the human. A recurring theme concerning communication plays against the absoluteness of the Other, too. The collapse of a love affair between two women, one a deep-sea explorer, is figured poignantly as SF with overtones of Cosmic Horror in Julia Armfield’s Our Wives Under the Sea (2022).

Dangerous seduction

The allure of the mermaid is most often dangerous. It is disruptive of social norms and even the natural coherence of the self and the boundaries between human and animal. This danger may be concealed in comic mode as in H. G. Well’s The Sea-Lady (1902) or the films with the enchanting Glynis Johns, Miranda (1948) and its sequel Mad About Men (1954).  But this may also hold more inviting, enchanting prospects, including the pleasures and pitfalls of romantic fantasy, as from La Motte Fouqué’s Undine (1811) to the forlorn heroine of Andersen’s ‘The Little Mermaid’ (1837), then present-day paranormal romance. This latter genre frequently reworks Andersen’s tale. Related examples are the more gently innocuous Splash (1984), a Romcom with hints, like many of these works, of utopian freedom, and other romantic variants such as The Shape of Water (2017) (loosely based, like paranormal romance, on ‘Beauty and the Beast’ (1740). More sinister variants emerge such as Clemence Dane’s The Moon is Feminine (1938), even to overt horror like The Lure (2015). In a more sensational vein, there are many low-budget horror films where the mermaid is simply monstrous, as Mamula [Nymph] (2014).

In the early twentieth century, the darker, Gothic aspect appears in J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan narratives. The mermaids represent death and oblivion. In the scene on Marooner’s Rock (a place where sailors were tied up and drowned), Wendy is dragged by her feet into the water by mermaids. For the first time Peter is afraid, a drum is beating within him, and it is saying ‘to die will be an awfully big adventure’.

The dangerously seductive sexuality of the mermaid is frequently associated with music – they sing with irresistible glamour, dance, or play the harp. In Thomas Moore’s ‘The origin of the harp’ from Irish Melodies (1845), the tragic sea maiden, singing under the sea for her lost lover, is transformed into a harp; there are associations with Irish Nationalism here. The harp as siren or mermaid is also explored in Henry Jones Thaddeus’s painting The Origin of the Harp of Elfin (1890). The harp is prominent in Scandinavian lore as the instrument of the Danish river spirit, the Neck (Nökke). He sits on the water and plays his golden harp, the harmony of which operates on all of nature.

The Lorelei is one famous incarnation of these sinister songstresses. In Kafka’s paradoxical tale, it is the silence of the Sirens that is dangerous. (The Sirens – who were originally birdlike – become identified with mermaids in the early Christian era; the overwhelming glamour of their song is notorious.) The piscine may also overlap with the serpentine as in the legend of Melusine; we are interested not just in mermaids and selkies but less-known creatures, especially the more monstrous such as kelpies, merrows and Jenny Greenteeth.

Avatars and adaptation

Mermaids and their kin are depicted in many ways, from medieval romance and the ballad to Romantic poetry (as in Thomas Moore) and beyond. They flourished in the Victorian period, too, with painting and the poetry of George Darley, Thomas Hood, Tennyson and Arnold. Thus, we are keen to hear from scholars of these periods, which produced some key mermaid narratives.

For example, Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Fisherman and His Soul’ (1891) is a complex working out of the conflicts of the spirit and the flesh, earth and heaven. The fisherman lives happily with the mermaid until his rejected soul returns. Corrupted without heart or conscience, it claims the fisherman’s life in a manner similar to Dorian Gray, written in the same year.

Adaptations, of folklore and of such archetypal tales as ‘The Little Mermaid’ are of especial interest. These might include sympathetic revisions of the monstrous Sea Witch from ‘The Little Mermaid’ (Sarah Henning, Sea Witch (2018)), along with the many reworkings and expansions of that tale itself, often as paranormal romance, usually with a contemporary feminist slant (for example, the YA novel Fathomless (2013) by Jackson Pearce, Christina Henry’s The Mermaid (2018) and Louise O’Neill’s The Surface Breaks (2018)). We would note the rich tradition of folkloric adaptation in Eastern European filmmaking, especially in animation (in particular, with ‘The Little Mermaid’); a gorgeous animated example is the Russian Rusalochka [The Little Mermaid] (1968).

Mermaids in art

The mermaid is an enduring and widespread image in paintings from the classical period to the present. Mermaids appear in the work of Ancient Greek vase painters and medieval miniaturists, and in the paintings of Rubens and Raphael, Turner, and the Pre-Raphaelites (notably Burne-Jones and Waterhouse). They fascinated the symbolists (Moreau, Bocklin, Klimt) and surrealists (Magritte and Delvaux) alike and lurk in the enchanting book illustrations of Rackham’s Undine (1909) and Peter Pan (1906), Dulac’s The Little Mermaid (1911) and Heath-Robinson’s ‘Sultan and the Mer-Kid’ from Bill the Minder (1912).

In the nineteenth century, paintings (mainly by men) of sirens and mermaids were depicted as sexually alluring and predatory in contrast to the ‘ondines’, who were the cultured pearls of modern passive femininity (as shown in the paintings of Pierre Dupuis). Mermaids at Play is a series of orgiastic marine fantasies painted by Arnold Böcklin in the 1880s.

Mermaids in late Victorian art are murderous, preying on adventurers, fishermen, sailors and poets. Waterhouse showed a doomed sailor drowning under the haughty gaze of his seductress in The Siren (1900) whilst Edvard Munch’s The Lady from the Sea (1896) crawls threateningly towards us. The siren in Gustave Moreau’s The Poet and the Siren (1895) pushes the boy poet, who clamours for mercy, into the primal mud from which she emanates. In Burne-Jones’s The Depths of the Sea (1885) a mermaid with hypnotic eyes and a vampire’s mouth is carrying her male prey downwards into oblivion.

Freudian thought exposed the fish-tailed seductress as the personification of hidden desires of the sexually subconscious; the legacy of this is shown in the twentieth century, when the mermaid abandoned her marine habitat to re-emerge in the irrational dream settings of the surrealist imagination. Magritte’s stranded inverted mermaid, The Collective Invention (1934) humorously undermines the perverse eroticism of her original.

The global mermaid

Not all of these beings originate in Europe and our colloquy will be much enriched by fishing off further shores. We seek to include explorations of global sea people in folklore and contemporary reworkings, such as Japanese ningyo, Mami Wata and Afro-Caribbean mermaids (Natasha Bowen, Skin of the Sea (2021) and Monique Roffey, The Mermaid of Black Conch: A Love Story (2020)). Many of these facilitate a postcolonial reading of the mermaid and kindred beings.

Ningyō, 人魚 [human fish], have been part of Japanese myth since the year 619 ce (when they appeared in Nihonshoki in Osaka). Whilst the term Ningyō is often translated as mermaid, this is misleading as the Japanese term is not gendered and Ningyō are more varied in shape and often monstrous in appearance. When caught, these piscine-humanoid beings are treated as sacred objects, thought to bring good fortune and immortality. Ningyō fakes or grotesque caricatures appeared from the 1860s onwards. In his 1876 account, Nichols Belfield Denny recounts seeing the circus entrepreneur P. T. Barnum’s celebrated purchase (allegedly from Japanese sailors) which became known as the Fiji Mermaid.

Andersen’s ‘The Little Mermaid’ was translated into Japanese in the 1910s. Its popularity contributed to what Philip Hayward has termed the ‘mermaidisation of the Ningyō’ (evolving into western-like mermaids). In the twentieth century, Kurahashi Yumiko’s parodic rewriting of ‘The Little Mermaid’, translated as ‘A Mermaid’s Tears’, has led to comparisons with Angela Carter.

This global approach includes recent novels reworking ‘The Little Mermaid’ from a non-Western perspective, such as Rosa Guy, My Love, My Love: Or The Peasant Girl (1985), made into a Broadway musical. Thus, other media are of interest too – Dvorák’s opera Rusalka, drawing on Slavic folklore, stands out.

Selkies

Selkie narratives tend to be more purely romantic and frequently tragic as are the original tales and ballads themselves. One early transformation of selkie folklore into novel is The Secret of Ron-Mor-Skerry by Rosalin K. Fry, filmed as The Secret of Roan Inish (1994), which draws on the selkie to explore feral children and animal parent narratives. Selkie novels often address feminist concerns as in Margo Lanagan’s Margo, The Brides of Rollrock Island (2013).

Both selkies and mermaids have been enlisted to dramatise the fluidity of the self, particularly with regard to sexuality and gender. Examples are Betsy Cornwell’s excellent YA selkie novel, Tides (2014) and Maggie Tokuda-Hall’s The Mermaid, the Witch and the Sea (2020). They have been taken up as a metaphor for transgender teens: ‘the secret me is a boy; he takes his girliness off like a sealskin’ (Rachael Plummer, ‘Selkie’ (2019)).

Many of these narratives place the love element foremost, allowing a space for female-centred erotic and gay romance; these forms flourish especially in the recent explosion of self-publishing and on-line texts.

These creatures facilitate the interaction between humanity and nature (both inner and outer). In their Gothic aspect and engagement with darkness, they may adumbrate a reenchantment of the disenchanted world (following Weber and Adorno); reconciliation with Otherness; and new relationships with the natural world. We are looking for presentations that look at narratives of merfolk and their kin in the light of their Gothic aspects and that highlight their connection with folklore, dwelling on the enchantment of their strange fluidity. We invite contributors to create a dialogue amidst these sea changes into something rich and strange.

Keynote speakers:

Prof. Catherine Spooner, Professor of Literature and Culture, Lancaster University; on mermaid ambiguity in new creative fiction

Dr Monique Roffey Novelist, Manchester Metropolitan University; as author of The Mermaid of Black Conch on Caribbean mermaids

Dr Sam George Associate Professor, University of Hertfordshire, Co-Convenor of the OGOM Project; on Japanese Ningyo: human-fish hybrids and the rise of the fake museum mermaid

Dr Katie Garner, Senior Lecturer in Nineteenth-Century Literature, University of St Andrews; on ‘Forging the Mermaid’ – Scottish mermaid project

Topics may include but are not restricted to:

Aquatic beings and dis/re-enchantment
Liquid bodies and fluid sexuality
Destiny, agency, and biological determinism
Tragedy, comedy, and RomCom
The natural world and environmental issues
Global and postcolonial merfolk
Musicality and the Siren’s song
Film, TV, and new media
Adaptation of folklore and fiction
YA and children’s literature
Paranormal Romance
The Gothic and the monstrous in the depths
Hybrid bodies, hybrid genres
Kelpies and water-bulls, merrows and other less-known creatures of the depths
Relationships with the Other
Borders and shorelines
Animality/culture
The merfolk of medieval Romance
Retellings of ‘The Little Mermaid’
Disneyfication of ‘The Little Mermaid’ and its controversies
Retellings of selkie stories
Blue Humanities and aquatic bodies
Eastern European folklore, fiction, and film
Mami Wata and her kin
Aquatic dissolution of the self
Merfolk and selkie ballads
The mermaid in Victorian poetry and painting
Fake mermaids/sacred objects from the sea

Submission:

Abstracts (200–300 words) for twenty-minute papers or proposals for panels, together with a short biography (150 words), should be submitted by 7 February 2025 as an email attachment in MS Word document format to ogomproject@gmail.com

Please prefix the document title with your surname. The abstract should be in the following format: (1) Title (2) Presenter(s) (3) Institutional affiliation (4) Email (5) 5–10 keywords (6) Abstract.

Panel proposals should include (1) Title of the panel (2) Name and contact information of the chair (3) Abstracts of the presenters.

Please state whether you would prefer to present online or in person. Presenters will be notified of acceptance after the deadline has passed in 2025.

There will be an opportunity to submit your paper for our OGOM publications.

Visit us at OpenGravesOpenMinds.com and follow us on X via @OGOMProject

I read The Monk in my first year of university. Studying English Literature, I was prepared to encounter unfamiliar fiction. But nothing could have prepared me for The Monk.

I learned quickly that the novel’s haunted convents, angelic heroines and impossibly evil villains were stock standard features of the Gothic mode, but starting with The Monk was like missing a step on a staircase and stumbling directly into the supernatural madness of an entire new world.

Twenty pages in, I was immersed in a dark unreality of barbaric madness encased safely in the moonlit gardens and deep stone walls of the novel’s convent. Lewis’ currency is Catholicism, the sanctity of which is traded for supernatural horror that squeezes shock and disgust from the reader like oil from a rag. Nothing about the novel was familiar. The characters were too vivid, the setting removed just far enough from the rationality of English society to allow any number of transgressive supernaturalisms to slip in. One character became another, then another. A pious Monk breaks his vows, the devil dashes him over the rocks. A convent burns down and order is restored to the wild novel.

I felt so far from home, filled with such excitement, shock and awe I could hardly believe the world of the Gothic was real; not only, real but possessing such a rich history of absurd and uncanny horror, the likes of which are hardly matched by our media today.

The Gothic mode is exciting —particularly to encounter for the first time— because it is entirely new; an outlet from the rationality of normalcy. The mode subverts the modern reader’s expectation of the rigid inaccessibility of classic literature. Rather, The Monk and the Gothic mode more broadly reflect a desperate desire to incite chaos. Lewis’ novel feels alive because it is so unreal, so bent on the Gothic mission to subvert reality that it never rests; striving to welcome us back to barbarity, the Gothic dances with horror and fear to outdo even its fellow preceding fictions. To disrupt society beyond the point of recognition, creating a world more insane than the last.

There is nothing quite like one’s first Gothic read. To this day, nothing I encounter beats the shock of The Monk’s horror. Such excitement is perhaps only matched by knowing that the rest of such a brilliant mode lies at my fingertips, guarded by ghosts and promises of hellish delights.

My first scholarly encounter with the Gothic was through my study of the 1999 independent VHS horror cult hit The Blair Witch Project, directed by Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez. The basis for my intrigue concerned how the film “performed reality”, or how it presented itself as actual documentary evidence of strange occurrences in a forest in Burkittsville, Maryland.

The film itself, with a modest runtime of 81 minutes, is but one piece of “evidence” (quite literally “found footage”) that forms part of a larger network of information relating to the Blair witch mythology. Myrick and Sánchez also produced a made-for-TV documentary film, Curse of the Blair Witch (1999), alongside a website displaying other mysterious “artefacts” (audio logs and photographs) that revealed more about the disturbing legend. In fact, actual newspaper articles were taken out to further infer the film’s authenticity. Therefore, much of the hype surrounding the release of The Blair Witch Project in 1999 centred around one question: “Is it real?” Of course, it’s not real, yet audiences at the time seemingly fell for it, or at least (as my research suggested) many willingly leaned into the idea that it could be real (quite the opposite of suspending one’s disbelief, rather reinvoking one’s belief to become involved in the hysteria).

To me, this is one of the most fascinating examples of a horror film’s reception by American society. It also reveals more about the influence of the internet (and media generally) during the 1990s, when we hadn’t fully become immersed in media culture, at least to extent that we are today. The information that audiences were presented with, either online or on-screen, still had the authority to invoke a sense of real-world superstition and mystery, whereas nowadays we probably know too much to be so subtly lulled into believing a story about three unsuspecting film students encountering a supernatural entity.

The alternate, fictional reality created by Myrick and Sánchez – might I suggest we call it the Blair Witch-verse? – was perhaps a once-off cultural phenomenon in terms of horror world-building. Fictional universes are the norm these days, and in the horror space, we welcome (or indeed become fatigued of) prequels, sequels and spin-offs that take place within a shared aesthetic space or fictional “reality” (The Conjuring universe, for example). Of course, there is the Texas Chainsaw series, Evil Dead and others that have done something similar before, yet what sets The Blair Witch Project apart is that it tries to occupy our world, the legend performs itself in our reality. The fact that the film never reinvokes its own fictionality (except for the credit sequences), while presenting raw, point-of-view footage from consumer-grade cameras, certainly makes for intoxicating viewing.

I have argued in my research that such a departure from cinematic conventions during this period must have felt invigorating for the audience, given the big-budget, visually arresting blockbusters that were being released throughout the late 1990s (The Matrix, among others). I believe that The Blair Witch Project is a true, modern techno-Gothic story that exploited a certain cultural naivety that perhaps we no longer possess in a media-saturated world. Having said that, the reach of the internet and social media platforms today has given us the ability to routinely create or present alternate realities of our own, whether tethered to perceivable reality or not. This begs the question: are we all similarly leaning into a sort of performed, shared reality not all too different from the one that surrounded the Blair Witch phenomenon?

Finally, we could surmise that the film’s legacy is one that reveals an uncomfortable truth about our modern condition: that reality itself is not experienced; rather, indeed, it is performed.

Since completing my undergraduate thesis concerning the performance of authenticity and The Blair Witch Project, I’m currently transferring to PhD and expanding my postgraduate research that examines the relationship between real-world anxiety and Korean horror-thriller TV and cinema. Many of the themes mentioned in this blog post relating to how horror can mirror or indeed shape our reality are among those of most interest in my research as a postgraduate at Dundalk Institute of Technology, Ireland. If you enjoyed this post and would like to reach out or connect, please e-mail me at D00127562@student.dkit.ie

Ever since seeing this provocation, I’ve been giving my first Gothic encounter some serious thought. What was it? Might it have been watching The Exorcist in the 80s, with two older brothers who were always happy to traumatise me, and a Catholic mother who probably didn’t mind me feeling the weight of Father Damien’s guilt? That felt a little late for my first Gothic encounter, even though I can’t pinpoint how far into the 80s we were when I first saw the film.

Or was it the one Sunday morning when my brothers—again!—plonked me in front of the TV to watch Omen III: The Final Conflict (1981) while my parents were out working? I can distinctly recall the sublime mythic confrontation between Damien and Christ—and, more pragmatically, that this was the last chance we had to see the movie before the Betamax video had to be returned to the local video rental store. This latter detail places this experience and memory at least a few years after the film was first released. The video must’ve been a weekly, rather than a new release. No, there had to be something earlier than these.

It struck me—viscerally—as I was driving to work one dreary morning, listening to local community radio in suburban Adelaide. I first heard the quiet haunting sound of a cold wind, not quite hushed, coming through the speakers that surrounded me in my cosy sanctuary. This was very shortly overlaid with tinkling bells, of fairytales and infant dreams. It was a strange, unnerving juxtaposition, but one that seemed familiar. My heart felt like it skipped a beat. My stomach began to churn. My arms, prickling with goosebumps, felt just a little weaker as I held on to the steering wheel. My body was recognising something, remembering something, that my mind had yet to register. It was a classic corporeal response to the uncanny, a sense of déjà vu, but I hadn’t yet had time to rationalise it. Next, a male voice, softly singing, lulling me… to sleep, to somewhere, I’m not sure which:

Stars in your eyes, little one
Where do you go to dream
To a place, we all know…

An electronic pulse started beating. Eurosynth melodies are soon overlaid. I finally knew what I was hearing: Bucks Fizz’s 1982 chart-topper, The Land of Make Believe.

Bucks Fizz might induce a different kind of horror for some, but I recall being a five-year-old who adored and dreaded this song in equal measure. (I also recall frequently dancing to Bucks Fizz’s Eurovision winner, Making Your Mind Up, for my grandmother in exchange for extra pocket money. I am grateful that this did not lead to a darker, more disturbing career choice.) The Land of Make Believe is the perfect musical blend of the joyful innocence and sinister undertones you might find in the best fairy tales, and I felt both in full measure as a child. I would sway and dance and sing along to Bobby G and Mike Nolan’s vocals, delivered in such sweet, kindly tones, while somehow trying to reconcile this happiness and pleasure with the lyrics of the first verse:

Shadows, tapping at your window

Ghostly voices whisper, ‘Will you come and play?’

And then the girls—Cheryl Baker and Jay Aston—in response:

Not for all the tea in China

Or the corn in Carolina

Never, never ever

They’re running after you babe

Who was running after me? And where are they coming from? The dose is repeated after the jubilant chorus, in the second verse:

Something nasty in your garden’s waiting

Patiently, ‘til it can have your heart

Try to go but it won’t let you

Don’t you know it’s out to get you

Running, keep on running

They’re running after you babe

Another reprisal of the chorus, a bridge, a key change, more of the chorus—the rest is pretty standard 80s pop fare. But as the music fades to nothing, an eleven-year-old girl recites a nursery rhyme to see us out, to leave the likes of poor little me in an indeterminate state of suspense:

I’ve got a friend who comes to tea

And no-one else can see but me

He came today

But had to go

To visit you

You never know

Just what on earth was this song about, and what was it trying to do? And what was that at the end of my bed?

The song was written by Pete Sinfield, previously of King Crimson, an English prog rock band of the late 60s and early 70s. In an interview for a retrospective BBC documentary, The Story of Top of the Pops: 1982, Cheryl Baker guesses that Sinfield ‘probably wrote [the song] with a spliff in his hand, playing the guitar’. But there was a serious political intent behind Sinfield’s song. Sinfield and the band were aiming to be no. 1 at Christmas in 1981 but hit the top a little late in 1982. In the same documentary, Sinfield says that he wanted to write a song that suggested ‘the spooky, scary side of Christmas’, but he also recalls that ‘it was just at the beginning of the Thatcher era. There was a lot of greed in the air, and it was quite an evil atmosphere.’ He also admits that he had Thatcher in mind when he wrote about ‘something nasty in your garden,’ waiting to have your heart. As Baker quips, for every spooky fairy tale, ‘there’s always a wicked witch’.

I had no idea who Thatcher was in 1982. Nor did I understand this strange, psychosomatic sensation of glee tinged with fear. I couldn’t describe it, and struggle to articulate it still. And I guess it is this sense of the ineffable that keeps drawing me back to the Gothic, a mode that keeps challenging the limits of my rationality and understanding—whether as eschatological horrors played out on my TV screen, or in eighteenth-century graveyard poetry, or the revived memory of a song catching me, now a mid-mannered middle-aged academic, unawares as I drive to work. Sinfield wanted to write ‘something that gets you between the shoulders’. That he certainly did.

The International Gothic Association is pleased to invite submissions to their biennial Postgraduate Student Essay Prize.

The essay competition is open to postgraduate students or postdoctoral scholars who are currently in good standing as IGA members. A postgraduate may be a current or recent Masters’ student (within two years of graduation) or a PhD candidate; a postdoctoral scholar is defined as someone who holds a PhD but does not hold a permanent academic post – this includes independent scholars.

Entries must offer an original contribution to the field of Gothic Studies and not be under consideration for publication elsewhere.

The winning essay will be published in Gothic Studies (with revisions guided by the editors, as appropriate), the official journal of the International Gothic Association published by Edinburgh University Press. Its author will receive £50 from the International Gothic Association, and a year’s paid subscription to Gothic Studies. The publication issue for the winning article will be 28/1 (March 2026).

Essays should be formatted as a .doc or a .docx. and be between 5000 and 7000 words in length, inclusive of footnotes and bibliography, and should adhere to the Gothic Studies style guide.
The guide is available for download here:

https://www.euppublishing.com/page/gothic/submissions

To enter, email the following to Dr Jen Baker: J.Baker.5@warwick.ac.uk

Email Subject should be “IGA Postgraduate Essay Prize”

Attach a copy of your essay (as a .doc or .docx). This should be anonymised for blind review.

In the body of the email you should lists the following details:

• your name and the title of your essay;
• a current email address;
• your present and past academic affiliations (University or similar);
• If you are a current postgraduate, the name of the qualification for which you are studying andthe expected date of completion
• For postdoctoral / independent entrants, the title of your submitted PhD andthe date of your submission;
• a statement confirming the essay is your own original work, completed in the course of your study for the listed qualification.

The closing date for receipt of entries is 1st March 2025.  Late entries will not be considered. Entries will be judged by a panel drawn from the journal editorial board / IGA exec. The judges are not able to provide individual feedback on the essays.

Please direct any queries to J.Baker.5@warwick.ac.uk

Entrants will be informed of the outcome by June 2025.

We are delighted to announce the short lists for this year’s two IGA Book Prizes: the Allan Lloyd Smith Prize for the monograph best advancing the field of Gothic studies and the inaugural Justin D. Edwards Prize for the edited collection best advancing the field of Gothic studies.

This year we had 28 books long listed across the two prizes. This is our largest ever field, and a clear testament to the thriving scholarship of Gothic studies. The panel members generously dedicated weeks of their summer to reading the 14 (or, in some cases, 28) books: a significant time commitment, for which we sincerely thank them all.

The Monographs prize committee, in alphabetical order, comprised Professor Carol Davison, Professor Marie Mulvey Roberts, Professor Catherine Spooner, and Dr Sara-Patricia Wasson (Chair). The Edited Collections committee comprised Dr Joseph Crawford, Professor Carol Davison, Professor Jason Haslam, Dr Tim Jones, and Dr Sara-Patricia Wasson (Chair). Huge thanks are also due to Dr Matthew Foley for careful and meticulous work as Secretary of the prize and liaison with publishers.

Before announcing the shortlists, we would like to congratulate every single author on the long list. It was a privilege to read your work, and every panellist had a very difficult task to narrow down the works to be shortlisted. We hope that every long-listed author feels proud of their achievement.

The shortlisted works in each prize are as follows.

Shortlist for the Allan Lloyd Smith Prize 2024 for a monograph best advancing the field of gothic studies, in alphabetical order:

• Chloé Germaine, The Dark Matter of Children’s ‘Fantastika’ Literature: Speculative Entanglements (Bloomsbury)
• Sam Hirst, Theology in the Early British and Irish Gothic, 1764-1834 (Anthem)
• Laura Kremmel, Romantic Medicine and the Gothic Imagination: Morbid Anatomies (University of Wales Press)
• Bernice Murphy, The California Gothic in Fiction and Film (Edinburgh University Press)
• Jamil Mustafa, The Blaxploitation Horror Film: Adaptation, Appropriation and the Gothic (University of Wales Press)
• Joan Passey, Cornish Gothic 1830-1913 (University of Wales Press)
• Andrew Smith, Gothic Fiction and the Writing of Trauma, 1914-1934: The Ghosts of World War One (Edinburgh University Press)
• Jeffrey Weinstock, Gothic Things: Dark Enchantment and Anthropocene Anxiety (Fordham University Press)

Shortlist for the Justin D. Edwards Prize 2024 for an edited collection best advancing the field of gothic studies, in alphabetical order:

• Rebecca Duncan (ed.), The Edinburgh Companion to Globalgothic (Edinburgh University Press)
• Justin Edwards, Rune Graulund and Johan Hoglund (eds.), Dark Scenes from Damaged Earth: The Gothic Anthropocene (Minnesota University Press)
• Sam George and Bill Hughes (eds.), In the Company of Wolves: Werewolves, Wolves and Wild Children (Manchester University Press)
• Karen Grumberg (ed.), Middle Eastern Gothic (University of Wales Press)
• Ardel Haefele-Thomas (ed.), Queer Gothic (Edinburgh University Press)
• Sorcha Ni Fhlainn and Bernice M. Murphy (eds.), Twentieth-Century Gothic (Edinburgh University Press)
• Dale Townshend, Angela Wright and Catherine Spooner (eds.), The Cambridge History of the Gothic (Cambridge University Press)

The Prizes will be announced at the IGA Conference at Mount-Saint Vincent University in Halifax in late July. If a prize winner is not present at the conference, the Chair will contact them by email after the awards announcement. After the conference has ended, a blog post will also celebrate the prize winners.

Congratulations to all the short-listed authors!

You can find the Postgraduate Student Bursary Application form here.

The full job description and person spec is below and you can also find it here.

Editor (Gothic Studies)

Role Description

Person Specification

Please see this post for the rationale around the short extension period. All nominations were longlisted. Warm thanks are due to Matt Foley for his work as Secretary to the Prize Committees. The following nominations were received in each category: 

Longlist for the Allan Lloyd Smith Prize for Best Monograph 2024

Amy Bride, Financial Gothic: Monsterized Capitalism in American Gothic Fiction (University of Wales Press, 2023)

Renée Fox, The Necromantics: Reanimation, the Historical Imagination, and Victorian British and Irish Literature (Ohio State University Press, 2023)

Chloé Germaine, The Dark Matter of Children’s ‘Fantastika’ Literature: Speculative Entanglements (Bloomsbury, 2023)

Ruth Heholt and Tanya Krzywinska, Gothic Kernow: Cornwall as Strange Fiction (Anthem Press 2022)

Sam Hirst, Theology in the Early British and Irish Gothic, 1764-1834 (Anthem Press, 2023)

William Hughes, The Dome of Thought: Phrenology and the Victorian Popular Imagination (Manchester University Press, 2022)

Laura Kremmel, Romantic Medicine and the Gothic Imagination: Morbid Anatomies (University of Wales Press, 2022)

Bernice Murphy, The California Gothic in Fiction and Film (Edinburgh University Press, 2022)

Jamil Mustafa, The Blaxploitation Horror Film: Adaptation, Appropriation and the Gothic (University of Wales Press, 2023)

Joan Passey, Cornish Gothic 1830-1913 (University of Wales Press, 2023)

Heather Petrocelli, Queer for Fear (University of Wales Press, 2023)

Faye Ringel, The Gothic Literature and History of New England: Secrets of the Restless Dead (Anthem, 2022)

Andrew Smith, Gothic Fiction and the Writing of Trauma, 1914-1934: The Ghosts of World War One (Edinburgh University Press, 2022)

Jeffrey Weinstock, Gothic Things: Dark Enchantment and Anthropocene Anxiety (Fordham University Press, 2023)

Longlist for the Justin D. Edwards Prize for Best Edited Collection 2024

Simon Bacon (ed.), Future Folk Horror: Contemporary Anxieties and Possible Futures (Rowman and Littlefield, 2023)

Simon Bacon (ed.), The Evolution of Horror in the Twenty-First Century (Lexington Books, 2023) 

Louis Bayman and Kevin Donnelly (eds.), Folk Horror On Film: The Return of the British Repressed (Manchester University Press, 2023)

Rebecca Duncan (ed.), The Edinburgh Companion to Globalgothic (Edinburgh University Press, 2023)

Sue Edney (ed.), EcoGothic Gardens in the Long Nineteenth Century (Manchester University Press, 2020)

Justin Edwards, Rune Graulund and Johan Hoglund (eds.), Dark Scenes from Damaged Earth: The Gothic Anthropocene (Minnesota University Press, 2022)

Sam George and Bill Hughes (eds.), In the Company of Wolves: Werewolves, Wolves and Wild Children (Manchester University Press, 2020)

Karen Grumberg (ed.), Middle Eastern Gothic (University of Wales Press, 2023)

Ardel Haefele-Thomas (ed.), Queer Gothic (Edinburgh University Press, 2023)

Tina Morin and Jarlath Killeen (ed.), Irish Gothic (Edinburgh University Press, 2023)

Marie Mulvey-Roberts (ed.), The Arts of Angela Carter: A Cabinet of Curiosities (Manchester University Press, 2019) 

Sorcha Ni Fhlainn and Bernice M. Murphy (eds.), Twentieth-Century Gothic (Edinburgh University Press, 2022)

Dale Townshend, Angela Wright and Catherine Spooner (eds.), The Cambridge History of the Gothic, 3 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020-2021)

Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock (ed.), The Monster Theory Reader (University of Minnesota Press, 2020)

A panel of past Presidents and winners will assess the nominations. The Chair for the prize panels is Sara Wasson. The Secretary for the prize is Matt Foley. A shortlist will be published on the IGA website by the middle of July. The prizes will be presented (or, if a winning author is not present, announced) during the conference which, this year, is hosted at Mount Saint Vincent University in Nova Scotia, Canada, in late July.

Congratulations to all nominees!

For me, it was a plethora of encounters from illicit Friday night viewings of Hammer Horrors, Hitchcocks, creature features, and curiosity shows about drinking blood on the tiny TV bracketed on my bedroom wall. The morbidity of Michael Burke’s 999 held the power to entice me back indoors in the long summer nights of the nineties. I was that child in primary school propagating rumours of the murderous ‘Blue Lady’ haunting the toilets – terrified, and loving it. Trips to the London, York, and Edinburgh Dungeons and ‘Chamber of Horrors’, with their creepy waxwork depictions of tortured criminals, fuelled my fire for the fiendish. It was in this chilling chamber’s gift shop that, aged nine, I began my ever-growing Gothic library, with a book by George Riley Scott, full of disturbing medieval woodcuts, entitled The History of Torture.  

As a teenager and young adult, I graduated to horror cult classics: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Cannibal Holocaust (1980), and Rosemary’s Baby (1968), and relished the death trap depravity of James Wan’s Saw (2004) at the cinema. I surrounded myself with others who delighted in the dark: a budding horror film maker and Rocky Horror obsessive, a zombie aficionado, a special effects make-up artist, and a flat mate prankster who planted eyeless doll heads under the covers and Cousin Itts in the cupboard. Alongside this, I was devouring Jane Eyre (1847), Wuthering Heights (1847), Dracula (1897), The Turn of the Screw (1898), Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886), The Woman in White (1860), In a Glass Darkly (1872), Victorian ghost stories, and everything by Ann Radcliffe, Edgar Allan Poe, and Shirley Jackson. I decided to make it my life’s work to devour the entire canon, so a PhD on the Brontës and Daphne du Maurier was inevitable. 

I fell in love with Gothic literature because it takes us beyond the daylight rigidity of defined categories, inviting us to revel in ambiguity, heightened states of emotion and passion, the frowned-upon recesses of humanity. Even if the Gothic novel winds up containing all this safely within a box, the Gothic is where the darkness is given a day out to parade in full, unashamed glory. Re-reading Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde recently reinforces my conviction that Gothic is a necessary life-force for the soul; however ‘wicked’ its leanings, one must need ‘strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty’. Gothic is transgressive, subversive, and liminal; it flouts in the face of the stuffy, stifling rules of ‘reality’. The Gothic’s interpretation of what ‘reality’ is – that it is multifarious, elliptical, contingent, and unstable – is, for me, the genre’s most alluring and powerful aspect. The death-obsessed Gothic taught me how to live. For that, I’ll never give up on the Gothic. 

By Helena Habibi