Reading · The Practice of Writing

8/18/2026

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(This is part 9 in Leah’s Gothic Literature series)

This series was originated as a way for me to explore the Gothic, bit by bit, picking it apart and seeing what we can scrap to use in other genres. I wanted to autopsy it, examine all the little craft organs inside, figure out what helped keep the body alive.

We have explored the architecture, the character, the rituals and women and landscape, the inheritances, even the light that shines through it all. And each of these installments has isolated a particular facet of the Gothic and asked what it might teach us as writers.

But one thing I’ve found is the further we’ve moved through this project, the less interested these elements seem to be in staying separate.

We see landscape in body, we see inheritance reshaping estate, ritual preserves grotesque, and so on and so on. I think the best way to visualize this is in the mansion, itself (back to the beginning!)… and what is something about all haunted mansions!? SECRET PASSAGEWAYS. Obviously.

And what are the secret passageways in terms of gothic literature?

Well. Let me tell you…

Subgenres. [[mind blown emoji]]

I have wanted to touch on this for awhile now, but every time I try to define Southern Gothic, I’d find myself talking about landscape, inheritance, race, religion, decay, family myths, and when I moved into Eco-Gothic, I’d bring up threatening landscapes, tangled with bodily transformation, and the consequences of human interference. Female Gothic felt hand in hand with the female grotesque and ritual and light in the dark…. do you see my point?

But then I had to stop myself. Because, yes, they all share these attributes. They have to. That’s what makes them Gothic.

What makes them differ is where the weight gathers.

That’s when we find ourselves in secret passageways, each labeled a different subgenre of Gothic literature.

Okay, so, “subgenre” is promising a much tidier system than I’m prepared to give you. As is this secret passageway metaphor. But let’s try to stick with it okay? While also keeping in mind that these categories I’ve selected do not anctually simply occupy separate rooms with clearly labeled doors, as I’ve suggested. Much like the gothic evokes in story, there is a lot of bleeding involved, a lot of crossover that feels a bit unwelcoming, a bit uncanny. Passageways are actually shared and the ghosts that haunt them wake the halls of others in the middle of the night. I’m getting carried away, now.

What we’re concerning ourselves with most here is what elements create the story’s gravitational pull. What sits at the center?

Some are shaped by where the story is rooted: Southern, Caribbean, Appalachian, Arctic Gothic

Others by what is producing the dread: Eco-, Domestic, Body, Techno-Gothic

Or whose experience reorganizes the tradition: Female, Queer, Postcolonial Gothic

Or simply with which other main-genre it collides: Gothic Romance, Gothic Western, Gothic Science Fiction

Disclaimer: I don’t believe we need to know what genre/subgenre we are writing before or even during the process, but they can still be useful, if only to help us recognize which literary traditions we might be speaking to.

For now, we will focus on what I am choosing to consider the big six.

Here, we sit rooted (quite literally in many cases) in the American South, surrounded by things that are falling apart.

We find that decaying homes and fractured families best reveal the violence and repression beneath romanticized ideas of the South.

So… I’ve spoken about Karen Russel’s Swamplandia a lot, I know this. But of all the instances I’ve used the book as an example of gothic literature, I believe this to be the most astute.

Swamplandia takes place in a part of the South where systems are breaking down, amusements parks are all but abandoned, and even going into the city reflects poorly on our characters. We see the deteriorating family ties and values, we see taboos and threats that live in the landscape. This is true of her most recent novel, Antidote, as well.

So, in short, we find ourselves asking: What past violence has become so embedded in a place that it is mistaken for ordinary life?

I think we can all guess what this one is referring to — the work largely deals with the environment. And, more specifically, with humanities response to those that are non-human. The relationship between humans and the natural world becomes the center space for dread. The environment becomes a character - resisting human control.

Mexican Gothic is a great example because of Silvia Moreno-Garcia's use of fungi’s hive mind. Nature takes control of human. McCarthy’s The Road is another great example, in which the environment/landscape plays a large role in the discomfort and unease of the human characters.

In short, we ask: What happens when landscape stops reflecting fear and begins producing it on its own?

Alright, guys, I’m going to direct you to a former post in the series (and my favorite):

Wuthering Heights shows us the full range of what the Female Gothic focuses on: confinement, expected gender roles, and what happens when those expectations/traditions/norms are broken.

Q: Who benefits from calling this woman irrational?”

This one also feels a bit self-explanatory. It’s quite clearly in the name: after colonialism. Through these narratives, we see the real-life consequences of colonialism. The violence and concealed cultural erasure are exposed through hauntings. These ghosts, these apparitions of the past, come back not only to punish the present but to show that there are remnants that never left.

This subgenre also hugs the line of place-related subgenres like Southern Gothic, as those often deal with history as place, too.

Mexican Gothic also reveals this subgenre (see, there can be more than one per book! They’re hugging!), as does Toni Morrison’s Beloved.

Q: Whose story appears rational and complete, and who was silenced to make it so?

I don’t know if many people know this, but Gothic literature has been a champion of the LGBTQ+ community for quite some time. Whether directly or otherwise, we see storylines and character arcs that give power and control to queer characters.

Much of the earlier work focuses on this as an ‘abnormality’ that poses a challenge to the plot of the story. More modern work shows us the script flipped, so strength and normality become queer.

In both instances, we are exploring identity, the need for secrecy and transformation, and desire.

A classic—and a story written at least two decades earlier than Dracula—is Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla, where we witness romantic desire for women through the eyes of a vampiress. In contemporary Queer Gothic, we see authors reclaiming this ‘monstrosity,’ transforming it from a source of shame into a form of freedom. Books like Grey Dog or even Eileen, I’d argue, are great examples of this.

Q: What happens when the identity made monstrous becomes a source of freedom?

I believe we can smush this one up against the femme grotesque as well. But it also focuses more closely on what we expect to be safe spaces within the home and family, as well as the instability beneath our own skin. In a lot of ways, the body becomes the home, and what is more intimate than home and body as one?

The Vegetarian by Han Kang shows us this in both respects.

Q: What becomes frightening because the character cannot simply leave it behind?

These are, of course, only a few of the rooms.

We could look at Urban Gothic: the city placed at the center.

Techno-Gothic: machines, artificial intelligence, digital doubles, etc., placed at the center.

We can also see Gothic colliding with other genres: Gothic Western, Gothic Science Fiction, Gothic Romance, Gothic Mystery, Gothic Fairy Tale.

So, as we always take the time to ask… why is any of this useful to us? Especially if we don’t consider ourselves ‘Gothic writers’?

Well, like I said before, the point overall is just to locate the center of pressure in your work. Once we identify that center, we can make more deliberate craft choices. We can shape the imagery, the conflict, and even the questions the story is capable of asking but possibly hasn’t yet.

We don’t need labels. I will reiterate that again and again, but they can be helpful in finding our strengths, our weaknesses, where we are missing something, or where we may find an excess of something else.

Secret Passageways of the Gothic Mansion

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