RE: https://cmrosens.com/2026/04/22/author-spotlight-gothic-weird-fiction-author-nikoline-kaiser/
Interview with Nikoline Kaiser spotlighting her Gothic Weird novella THE DREAMING OF MAN, out now with Neon Hemlock.
#HorrorBooks #gothichorror #gothicfiction #WeirdWednesday #weirdfiction
Every Friday, I meet a member of the British Fantasy Society and peer deep into their soul (or, at least, a form they filled out). Let's head for gothic Austria to have a cup of tea with Bronte Rowan, who got here via fairytales, Sailor Moon, and Lestat, and who's probably listening to a bit of Dolly right now.
https://britishfantasysociety.org/meet-bronte-rowan/
#horror #gothic #gothicfiction #writers #writing #books #creativity #creativetoots
Big Ears
The dog heard it first.
She had come in from her walk with the cold still caught in the long velvet tips of her ears. A bluetick coonhound, broad-chested, heavy-pawed, soft-eyed, and possessed of those famously oversized ears that made her at once noble and faintly comical, she was called many names by her owners, sometimes Pup though she was long past that stage, sometimes Hound, sometimes Girl, and sometimes, when the mood was especially tender, simply Sweetie. She did not trouble herself over names. It was enough that the voices warmed when they used them.
Their walk had been a long one by the standards of the morning, through the damp margins of the little town, along the edge of yards and roadside ditches and bare spring trees where every trunk and post and tuft of grass was rich with messages. Her humans called such walks snifaris, and though she did not know the word as a word, she understood the spirit of it. It was a grand survey of the world. The news of rabbits. The scandal of squirrels. The old musk of raccoon passage in the night. The thin and fading trace of a cat. The cold iron tang of dew on culvert mouths. The living and the dead all left their signatures there, and she read them with grave devotion.
When at last they returned, she drank, circled once in the living room, and then, as was her wont, climbed onto the sofa beside him with the untroubled certainty of a creature much forgiven.
It was a quiet room, made golden now by the morning. The large picture windows on the eastern wall received the rising sun with such openness that it seemed at times less a house than a lantern. Dust motes drifted in the slanted light like ash that had forgotten its fire. The furniture was simple, worn by use rather than age, and warmed by the small evidences of habitation: a folded throw on the chair arm, a mug on the side table, a book left face down, a blanket not quite put away. In the corners sat plants bright green and blooming. Near the window hung a small tapestry from the recent time when they had gone away, and she had spent time in the place with others of her kind. She hadn’t minded, but being a shelter dog, there had been a faint fear of they not returning for her.
Now she lay close beside him as he sat with coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, though from time to time he set the phone aside and took up a pen, scribbling in a notebook on his knee. His mornings belonged to prayer, reflection, writing, and the small untidy labor of trying to make sense of being alive. He did not always succeed. Indeed, lately, he felt he succeeded less and less. The world had become loud with strain, though not always in ways that could be named. It groaned beneath its own arrangements. Even here, in this town that still appeared to outsiders as modest and decent and removed from the great engines of calamity, he could feel it at times: a pressure beneath appearances, as if something immense and ill-disposed were passing below the surface of things.
The dog, however, rested.
At intervals she sighed, long and contented, and her breathing deepened beneath his hand as he scratched absently behind her ears. Sometimes he tapped at the phone. Sometimes he paused to sip from the mug, the quiet clink of ceramic seeming part of the room’s own pulse. Once or twice he looked up at the sun moving over the distant low hills. Once he closed his eyes, and the red warmth on his eyelids seemed almost liturgical.
Beside him, the hound dreamed.
Her paws twitched. Her jowls fluttered faintly. Somewhere in whatever shadowed and boundless territory dogs enter in sleep, she was in pursuit of some endlessly receding quarry. It fled, and she followed, as she had followed countless phantom creatures before it through the chambers of instinct and memory.
Then she woke.
Not all at once. Not with a bark or start or violent convulsion. First a change in breath. Then stillness. Then the slow lifting of the head.
He did not notice immediately.
The dog held herself motionless, one forepaw bent slightly inward against the cushion, her ears lifted, though not yet fully pricked. Her eyes were open but not alarmed. She was listening.
To him, the room remained undisturbed. The same light. The same coffee. The same measured peace of another morning in rural Ohio.
Then he felt rather than saw the shift beside him and glanced down.
“What’s up, girl?”
Her gaze did not come to him. It remained fixed toward the windows.
He smiled faintly and scratched her neck, feeling the warm thickness of her fur and the loose skin there. “What is it?”
The dog rose halfway, then settled again without relaxing. A faint line appeared above her eye. Her nostrils worked once, twice. She was not smelling prey. Not exactly. Nor danger in any old familiar sense. Not stranger, not delivery truck, not another dog passing outside. Nothing so ordinary. Her attention had entered a realm beyond his.
He followed her stare to the eastern windows.
Outside, the day was almost offensively beautiful. The yards still held some lingering wetness from recent rain. Beyond them, the town sat in its usual repose, roofs and steeples and utility lines gradually kindling under the sun. The hills in the distance wore that blue-gray softness which made them seem farther away than they were. A few branches stirred. Somewhere, though not in sight, a vehicle passed. Nothing was wrong. The world, in all its surfaces, remained unbroken.
Yet the dog did not lie back down.
Something in her unease reached him, not by logic but by the old subterranean grammar through which one creature may come to know another. He had always loved animals, especially dogs. There had never been a time in his life when the shape of one had not seemed to him a kind of grace. He had trusted them before he trusted many people. They possessed a moral clarity that humans had too often abandoned. Not innocence, exactly—they could be stubborn, sly, destructive, impolite—but a clarity, a wholeness of intention.
His bond with this hound had deepened more quickly than he would have expected. Perhaps because of her gentleness. Perhaps because of the comic solemnity of her face. Perhaps because he had reached an age where every arrival felt touched by mortality, and every new affection carried with it the ache of its future loss.
His eye drifted, almost without purpose, to the old photograph on the shelf.
There he was, a tiny child by a fence, one hand extended toward the family hound. He had been told the story often. How inseparable they were. How the dog would watch over him. How he, still hardly able to form sentences, would babble to it with grave conviction as if the two shared a private language. Looking at the photograph now, he felt the curious folding of years. More than half a century had passed, and still a hound had found him.
He smiled and looked back at the dog on the sofa.
She had not moved.
A low breath came through her nose. Not yet a whine. Not even distress. Only alertness so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.
He set down his mug.
“What do you hear?”
She turned one ear slightly, as though at the shape of his voice, but her gaze remained outward.
He listened now, not because he heard anything but because she did. The house answered him with its usual murmurs: the faint settling creak in the wall, the hush of forced air moving somewhere deep in the vents, the nearly inaudible hum of appliances carrying on their hidden labor. Beneath it all was the larger silence of morning, which is never truly silent but rather made of countless soft obediences—wood, fabric, glass, breath, heat, distant birds, the earth itself turning toward day.
Nothing.
Still, he found he did not wish to resume writing. The page on his knee now seemed curiously beside the point. What he had been trying to articulate a few moments before—something about sorrow, perhaps, or history, or prayer in an age of noise—had drained of urgency. He slipped the pen into the notebook and rested both on the table.
The dog’s body had grown tense beneath its stillness.
Again he looked outside.
The light had strengthened. The sun, now risen above the hills, reached directly through the windows and painted pale bars across the floorboards. The room, rather than becoming cheerful, seemed instead overexposed, as if too much revelation had entered it. Corners that ought to have softened in morning light appeared stark. The objects around him felt at once more present and less secure, their edges sharpened by illumination. It came to him—not as a thought exactly, but as an intuition—that there are mornings when light itself seems merciless.
He shut his eyes for a moment.
Red flared against the lids. He prayed, if what he did in such moments could still be called prayer. Not always petitions. Often only a held silence, or a wordless lifting of grief, or the simple attempt to remain open to what was good in a world increasingly organized against goodness. Lately even prayer felt burdened, as though heaven itself had grown crowded with the unspeakable.
Beside him, the dog gave a sound.
He opened his eyes at once.
Not a bark. Not even a proper whine. Something smaller. A thin involuntary note, almost embarrassed of itself, drawn from deeper than the throat.
He put his hand on her side.
Her muscles were hard.
He asked again.
“What is it, girl?”
Her ears, those great expressive ears, were fixed now with uncanny intensity toward the east. Their cold tips trembled almost imperceptibly.
He listened again.
And this time, perhaps because he had been tutored by her attention, or perhaps because whatever approached had crossed at last into the gross coarser world of human sense, he thought he perceived something.
Not a sound, exactly.
A pressure.
Then something like a murmur at the farthest edge of hearing, so faint he nearly dismissed it as blood in the ears, or memory, or the mind’s bad habit of inventing patterns when given too much quiet in which to work.
He stood up.
The dog stood too, suddenly, all at once, with startling force for so gentle a creature. Her claws pressed into the cushion. Her chest leaned toward the window. A strand of drool caught briefly at her lip and shone in the sun.
He stepped closer to the glass.
The yard lay ordinary and helpless before him. Grass. Driveway. Fence. The road beyond. The neighbor’s tree. No movement. No vehicle. No person. Above, the sky was a cold, widening blue without visible threat.
Still that murmur remained.
It might have been thunder, he thought.
Yet the sky held no weather.
It might have been an aircraft, though not one he could see.
It might have been nothing. It might have been the old machinery of dread, self-winding and unreasonable, fed by too much reading, too much news, too much inwardness, too many mornings spent tracing fracture lines in the age.
He nearly laughed at himself then.
But the laugh did not come.
The dog emitted a longer sound now, a low strained whine that seemed less vocal than visceral. It vibrated through her whole frame. He turned from the window and looked at her fully.
There was no mistaking it now. She was afraid.
Not excited. Not curious. Not guarding. Afraid.
He crossed back to her and laid a steadying hand upon her neck. Her fur there was warm, and beneath it her pulse beat rapidly. She leaned into him without taking her eyes from the window, as if torn between the need to flee and the need to remain near him. He felt, absurdly and tenderly, that he ought to apologize to her for not understanding.
Outside, the morning seemed to hold its breath.
Inside, the room narrowed around the two of them—the dog, rigid and listening; the man, baffled and beginning at last to feel that old ancestral stirring by which the body knows before the mind permits itself knowledge.
The murmur deepened.
Now it was unmistakable. Not loud, but real. A faraway grinding note. A distant mechanical throat clearing itself in the heavens.
He looked east again, squinting into the hardening light.
Nothing.
Nothing but the bright rim of day and the low line of hills and the whole innocent arrangement of things.
The sound grew.
So gradually at first that one might still have denied it, one might still have said no, that is only wind, only imagination, only some truck on the far road, only some crop duster miles off, only some passing thing with no relation to me. But the body is a poor liar when terror nears. He felt it in his chest now, not as pain but as occupation, as if the air before him were being taken over by a force with intentions of its own.
The dog’s whine sharpened.
He moved toward the glass again, and this time laid a hand upon it as if to feel through the pane what the air itself could not yet declare.
The murmur became a growl.
A second later, a whirring undertone joined it, and then a rising pitch, thin and vicious as a blade being drawn very fast across the sky.
He frowned, trying still to make it make sense.
The sun flashed so fiercely on the window that for an instant he saw only reflection: his own shape dimly superimposed upon the yard, the hound behind him on the sofa, the room suspended like a frail lantern against the day.
Then the dog cried out.
It was not a bark. It was a raw, broken sound, almost human in its terror.
He turned—
—and the great shadow passed before the sun.
For one impossible instant the whole room darkened.
Then the missile hit.
#ApocalypticFiction #bigEars #BluetickCoonhound #CanineIntuition #darkFiction #DogAndHuman #DogStory #DomesticUnease #EverydayApocalypse #GothicAtmosphere #GothicFiction #houndDog #HumanAnimalBond #literaryHorror #MissileStrike #OhioStory #OminousMorning #PeaceAndCatastrophe #QuietHorror #ReflectiveFiction #shadowAndLight #shortStory #SmallTownOhio #StoryIllustration #SuddenHorror #TheDogHeardItFirst #TitlePageArt
I know just enough mathematics to be dangerous – I formalized models of type systems as a grad student – but I like cute chalk mascots and thoughtful server rules, so hello!
Personal interests: choral singing, photography, poetry and vaguely gothic fiction, tinkering with formalisms
Professional interests: building reliable distributed systems; making legacy-horror DSLs spec-ful and debuggable
Follow requests are welcome, especially if we’ve interacted before.
#introduction #GothicFiction #DistributedSystems #ProgrammingLanguages #FormalMethods
Author Spotlight: British Gothic Horror author Laura Clarke Walker
Laura Clarke Walker (she/they) is a writer, teacher, and lover of all things Gothic. When she’s not immersed in the world of Coldharbour, she can be found drinking espressos darker than the night, listening to podcasts in other languages, and running around her local lakes.
AUTHOR LINKS:
Website: lauraclarkewalker.com
Instagram: @lauraclarkewalker
Amazon: Coldharbour
PITCH FOR READERS/BOOK CLUBS:
Three generations preyed upon by pure evil. Two lost souls drawn to each other in the darkness. One compelling story of love, loyalty, and betrayal. A spellbinding mix of murder, magic, and romance, Coldharbour is a thrilling Gothic fantasy full of Nineties nostalgia.
Coldharbour by Laura Clarke WalkerYour debut novel Coldharbour is out now with Rowanvale Books – congrats on your debut! Can you tell us about your indie publishing journey from the premise of your book to publication? How did we get here?
Thank you so much! Well, this is a long story, as I came up with the first character in 2005 and wrote the first draft in 2009. However, I only started taking Coldharbour seriously as a project to be published around 2021, especially as it had become a very personal story to which I really wanted to do justice.
In 2024, I queried agents for a while, but ultimately I decided that maintaining a certain level of creative control was more important to me than gaining literary representation. It’s a completely different journey for every author, but I’m so excited to be hybrid publishing and for Coldharbour to be now out in the wild!
Coldharbour is a Gothic paranormal mystery with 1990s nostalgia, set in Essex. What brought these elements together for you in terms of genre, tone, and setting?
I’m really passionate about the state of British seaside towns, which have been on the decline for a long time, and decayed settings are a huge feature of the Gothic.
Also, we think of the Millennium and we think of looking towards the future, but I can also remember the dread over the millennium bug and how everyone became extremely retrospective – there was a sense of the fin de siècle to everything.
Plus, the paranormal was having a heyday in the Nineties – shows like Charmed and Buffy were an important influence on me growing up, so I definitely pay homage to them in Coldharbour.
What sort of representation can readers expect, and what makes this rep important to you as the author?
There’s a whole variety of representation in Coldharbour, including a range of sexualities and gender identities, ethnic backgrounds, and neurodivergences and disabilities. It can sound a bit like I’m ‘box-ticking’, but it’s just my reality as a neurodivergent Queer person of colour.
I really craved representation growing up and I think the way that the sociopolitical landscape is shifting at the moment, hearing from diverse voices is more important than ever.
What is your favourite trope/theme that appears in this novel? Can you tell us about any that you play with or subvert?
My absolute favourite trope in Coldharbour is the haunted house that reflects the protagonist’s psyche, which really is as Gothic as it gets.
The house in question, 1 St Augustine’s, is loosely based on some that I’ve lived in and I really feel that it, like the town, is a character in its own right. There are locked doors, mysterious bloodstains, things in wells which shouldn’t be, all hinting at the dark family secrets Alex must try to unravel throughout the novel.
However, the love story between Alex and Elizabeth is unconventional: Alex is a single mother in her thirties and Elizabeth has certainly had her own life, so they come together with a certain maturity (and reticence) that comes from being a bit older compared to a lot of relationships depicted in fantasy works.
Also, I really try to avoid the standard romance tropes around love triangles and miscommunication, mostly because the characters have bigger things to worry about!
The most significant trope I subvert is ‘bury your gays’, in which Queer characters tend to die in service of the plot or their loved one’s character development. It is a harmful trope that’s still used prolifically, so while Elizabeth does die, it’s only temporary – because her Power is resurrection. Whether the resurrection always goes to plan, well, that’s for readers to find out!
Let’s talk about your main character, Alex Wilde. How did you develop her from the initial idea, and what makes her who she is? What has been your favourite reader response to her so far?
To be honest, the initial Alex was a very generic protagonist. I was only sixteen when I first devised her and she was very active, enthusiastic, enquiring, just not necessarily interesting.
Alex has evolved as I have.
I really needed to go out there and experience everything adulthood has to offer (both good and bad) before Alex could become a well-rounded character. Homecoming and grief run through the current Alex like Brighton rock, neither of which I could’ve written authentically when I was a teenager.
This Alex is an unreliable narrator and reluctant heroine, which is influenced by many of my favourite books.
Shirley Jackson’s work has been a crucial part of my writing journey and I can definitely see aspects of Eleanor from The Haunting of Hill House in Alex, especially in terms of her mental health.
Readers are usually very sympathetic to Alex as a character, but they tend to respond particularly to her relationship with Elizabeth. The word ‘compelling’ has come up several times and I can’t ask for much more than that!
Elizabeth also sounds really intriguing; where did she come from as a character, how did she develop as you drafted & revised? Were there any moments between her & Alex that you ended up cutting but wanted to keep, or any bits you really enjoyed writing that you couldn’t part with in the final edit?
I recently described Elizabeth as ‘cold but also compassionate, confident in her abilities but self-conscious as a person, secretive but protective’, so she’s definitely one of the more complex characters in Coldharbour!
She’s also one of the last ones to reach their ‘final form’, as she was an amalgamation of three characters from the pre-2021 story, but once she came together, there she was: Elizabeth the Unkillable.
Elizabeth is particularly morally grey and like Alex, that’s influenced by some of my favourite characters in books and other media. I don’t think I’ve ever cut anything significant for Elizabeth, but I always say that the night of the storm in the first Coldharbour is one of my favourite ever scenes of the entire series.
Minor spoilers, but both Alex and the reader finally have enough pieces of the picture that is Elizabeth Black to decide exactly who she is.
What has been your favourite feedback on the novel so far/favourite reader response?
I have loved all the reviews that have mentioned the atmosphere and the tension in Coldharbour – this was an area of the book I spent a long time cultivating, so to have seen it pay off with readers has been fantastic. I know that Gothic literature can be very particular, so I was really worried that people just wouldn’t get it and I’ve been so happy to discover that actually, people both understand and enjoy the book.
Get a CopyLike This? Try These!
Jennifer Sklias-Gahan, author of The House in the Middle of the Street #gothicfiction
Horror Spotlight: Explore New Weird Coming-of-Rage Novel, “Thirteenth”
Average rating: 4.54
Ratings: 83
Text Reviews: 27
Want to read: 298
Added to shelves: 408
Average rating: 4.25
Reviews: 28
Lovecraftian horror meets kitchen sink drama in this dry, darkly funny tale of toxic families, killers and cannibals, eldritch body horror and antihero female rage.
Katy Porter is the thirteenth child of a thirteenth child in an inbred family of eldritch horrors, and her own eventual metamorphosis will change her into a creature that hungers for her family’s flesh. To some, she’s a threat – to others, a weapon.
Katy needs allies to help her control her Changes, but she’s stuck with her oldest brother, a drug-addled playboy who voted to have her killed but is chaotic enough to have genuinely changed his mind, and her eyeball-eating, god-like cousin, whose idea of protecting her involves abduction, dark rituals, and encouraging her homicidal side.
If anyone is going to survive Katy’s transformation, scores need to be settled and fears need to be faced – and Katy is not the only one who needs to face them.
March 2026 Sale (Kindle)Title: Thirteenth
Genre: New Weird, Bildungsroman, Paranormal Kitchen Sink Drama, and Urban Fantasy.
Age: Adult
Tropes: Damsel in Distress (will Kill You All), Addiction-Powered Millionaire Playboy (Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know), Creepy Family (Half Human Hybrid Eldritch Abominations who are Inbred and Evil), Poorly Chosen One (she Just Wants to be Normal), Lovecraft Lite (with Body Horror), Angry Teen Mentored by Grumpy Killer (Against Everyone’s Will).
How I feel about it: If anything, I’m even more proud of this one than my debut. I really got into my horror-comedy voice, and allowed myself to have so much fun with another angle of the world I’ve built. This is the book I once compared to Cold Comfort Farm and Slasher: Flesh and Blood with a strong dash of Whyborne and Griffin, so it’s not for everyone!
What surprised me most: Team Wes. What is wrong with you people?! I even made t-shirts and mugs on Redbubble for a short time! People who wanted more of the sombre, creeping dread of the first book often don’t enjoy this one as much, but I wrote this for those who are here for the humour, and the Millionaire Playboys. (Pick up Overexposure as a standalone intro to Wes, and you will understand my confusion).
This is the book that:
I was blown away by the reception to this book. I really loved sharing it with the world, but especially I’ve loved how people have taken my trio of fuck ups to heart.
What Readers Say:
“Like Encanto, but with more gore, incest, impossible geometry, and eldritch abominations from beyond space and time.”
“Thirteenth was such a fun read! I mean, a middle-class family of eldritch abominations living in a sleepy Home Counties town? Sold. Add in familial backstabbing, messy sibling and cousin relationships, a sentient house and a healthy side helping of tentacles, murder and cosmic horror, and you’ve got a fantastic book filled with vibrant characters (who made me feel like a terrible person for snort laughing at some very dark jokes). I look forward to returning to Pagham-On-Sea very soon!”
“This is the perfect series for anyone who likes the creepy cottagecore aesthetic and deeply flawed supernatural beings just trying to survive the next prophecy.”
“If eldritch beings and complicated family relationships has you curious, I definitely recommend this book.”
“This is a story of rotten families, Eldritch monstrosities and a teen girl’s coming of age. … It’s a horrifying and delightfully fun story, where no matter the occasion, someone will still crack a joke and a laugh out of you too. One of the best reads of 2021 so far, filled with horror, fun, laughter, trauma and emotion, it has it all!!”
“completely absurd, violent and absolutely wonderful. perfectly blending eldritch horror with family drama that’s both tender and hilarious.”
Learn More #GothicFiction #PaghamOnSea #paghamverse #weirdFiction #WomenInHorror
Horror Spotlight: Explore Gothic New Weird Novel “The Crows”
Average rating: 4.15
Ratings: 219
Text Reviews: 78
Want to read: 882
Added to shelves: 1,205
Average Rating: 4.10
Reviews: 83
Her fate is sealed. Her death is inevitable.
Carrie Rickard, leaving an abusive relationship back in London, tries to escape her past by throwing herself into her restoration project: Fairwood House, known to locals of Pagham-on-Sea in Sussex as the Crows. Unable to resist as it whispers to her, Carrie’s obsession only grows when she discovers it was the site of a gruesome unsolved murder.
As she digs deeper into the mystery, she awakens dark and dangerous forces. Enter her foul-mouthed neighbor, Ricky Porter, who is as obsessed with the Crows as Carrie is, and who has several secrets of his own…not least of which are what’s really under the hood he wears and what he’s got in the cellar.
March 2026 Sale (Kindle)Title: The Crows
Genres: New Weird or Gothic Weird, in this case consisting of Gothic Horror, Paranormal, and Urban Fantasy.
Age: Adult
Tropes: Creepy Old House (is Alive), Matriarch (is Evil), Vengeful Spirit (of a Child), Only One Bed (and it’s Disturbing), Boy Next Door (is a Killer), Nancy Drew (and she’s Bad At It), Love Interests (Can’t Be Trusted), Touch-Starved Cannibal (is an Ally), Lovecraftian Abominations (are English Middle Class).
How I feel about it: I’m so proud of this book. It was the best I could do when I wrote it, and that’s that; I think I could re-write it now and it would be very different. However, as a snapshot of 2018-2019 me, and just on its own merits, I love it very much.
What surprised me most: I think I was most surprised by readers’ reactions to Ricky Porter, as I thought he would get mostly negative comments. I’m validated by the fact that readers who say they loved him are also surprised at their own reaction. Overall, I’ve had some amazing responses to this book, where I’m just glad I wrote it for those individuals, even if it was read by nobody else.
This is the book that:
I had no idea it would be this popular, or that it would resonate with readers the way that it has.
What Readers Say:
“It’s weird and gruesome, mysterious yet strangely wholesome. I couldn’t put it down. … The dynamic between the main cast is one that I loved very deeply. I’m a queer, what can I say? I love untraditional love and whatever is going on in Fairwood House is certainly untraditional.”
“A delicate balance between gruesome horror and urban/paranormal fantasy. A fun read!”
“I’m not sure how much of my feelings about this book are actually my own and which have slithered into my brain with slimy tentacles. I am equally horrified as enthralled and I cannot commend the author enough on creating such a riveting tale with the least likeable loveable characters ever imagined. Ricky managed to steal my heart… I’m fairly certain he ate it.”
“…a delightfully disturbing horror, with genuinely funny moments, and brilliant character dynamics.”
“There were heart wrenching moments but I can take it, if characters can make my heart hurt then it means they’ve been written well.”
“C M Rosens has taken some classic elements of a paranormal small town story and created something fresh, interesting and utterly addictive.”
Learn More #GothicFiction #PaghamOnSea #paghamverse #WomenInHorror #womenInHorrorMonth
Great New Gothic Romances You Should Definitely Read
Love an atmospheric vibe and a dark story that involves romantic love? Then one of these 6 great new gothic romances will be for you!
https://bookriot.com/great-new-gothic-romances-you-should-definitely-read/
#KissingBooks #RomanceErotica #darkromance #gothicfiction #gothicromance
C. M. Rosens
Lauren McMenemy
Slow Mover
Christina Richards
cmrosens
Berneta
John Griogair Bell
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