#introduction to dissertation

[motions1ckn3ss]

officially written 60% of my dissertation! 6000 words down 4000 to go

[elephantlovemedleys]

[weisshapt]

doing very serious and professional and formal academic work here.

[kindaorangey]

wait abort i've irrevocably fucked up my ability to write shortform essays because of my dissertation, my introduction is now 1/6 of my word count

[todaysromano]

06.01.2025

Today, Romano was glad to pack up hours gear and head home for a shower.

Arab.com link

[poetryqueer]

planning document must be going well I just said the words “explaining the endurance of Platonism could be the life I’m living” to myself. Alone. At 2:30am. Because yeah. Could be.

[sky-kenobye]

Forever baffled and impressed at people who accidentally write like 10-20k (or more) for a fic they expected to be short. I'm out there fighting for my life to reach 5k and every time I'm like "I feel like I've written a lot!" I barely have 1k

(And people who write long fics. 100k words? How???)

[cupiare]

reaching the acceptance stage of no one gaf thousands of words into my sanitized ocverse summary and not even halfway through. feeling like proust rn

[tutorsindia152]

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[rapha-reads]

"So with regard to fairy stories, I feel that it is more interesting, and also in its way more difficult, to consider what they are, what they have become for us, and what values the long alchemic processes of time have produced in them. In Dasent's words I would say: “We must be satisfied with the soup that is set before us, and not desire to see the bones of the ox out of which it has been boiled.” Though, oddly enough, Dasent by “the soup” meant a mishmash of bogus pre-history founded on the early surmises of Comparative Philology; and by “desire to see the bones” he meant a demand to see the workings and the proofs that led to these theories. By “the soup” I mean the story as it is served up by its author or teller, and by “the bones” its sources or material—even when (by rare luck) those can be with certainty discovered. But I do not, of course, forbid criticism of the soup as soup." Tolkien, "On Fairy Stories"

Gods, I adore Tolkien's writing.

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Subject

Pairing: Michael Myers x Female Reader Summary: As a graduate student writing your dissertation on the enigma of Michael Meyers, you try to prove his acts of violence fulfill a dark, psychological need- a crude substitute for intimacy. When Myers resurfaces, your academic obsession drives you dangerously close to the darkness you have been researching. The deeper you delve, the clearer it becomes that you aren't just studying the monster; you're caught in his gaze. TW: DARK content, extreme gore, descriptions of a dead body, mutilation, murder, weapon play, copious amounts of blood, alcohol, foul language, stalking, non-con, nudity, violence, intense paranoia and fear, power imbalance, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, blood as lube, creampies, and more Word Count: 12,657 MDNI-NSFW A/N: This is incredibly dark, please read the TW's before continuing.

-----

Every child grows up hearing the story about the Boogeyman. What many consider to be an old-wives tale that serves to trick young children into obeying their parents, the reality of the situation can be much more sinister. Terrified at the prospect of being stolen out of their beds in the middle of the night, they learn to obey their parents, set the table, and have good manners. Haddonfield, however, is plagued by its very own boogeyman, those knowing the story refusing to even mention his name out of fear of summoning him and invoking his wrath. Michael Myers; a force that many can only describe as the essence of pure evil. 

Still at large, Myers’ kill count only continues to soar after his untimely escape from the Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, leaving countless detectives baffled at his ability to evade law enforcement. The nature of his crimes, although gruesome, begs an unanswered question to his motives: Why? Was Michael Myers a forgotten member of society that snapped under the pressure of household stressors? Was he simply “born evil”? Or is there a deeper rooted cause for his bloodlust for violence? The seemingly intimate nature of the unspeakable crimes seem to point to a forgotten theory: What if Michael Myers was a sexual deviant, the thrill of the hunt better than any orgasm intercourse could provide? 

You paused, leaning back from your desk riddled with papers, empty coffee cups, and almost illegible notes. Rubbing your eyes, a frustrated sigh huffed from your lips as you scanned the words again, the bold text of your introduction glaring back at you.

Something about that final sentence– it wasn’t right, not compelling enough to capture the intensity of your theory. Leaning forward, you deleted the sentence, fingers tapping away at the keyboard as you typed: 

The undeniably intense nature of these crimes are marked with a chilling, hands-on approach, raising a disturbing possibility: for Michael Myers, the thrill of the kill transcends primal violence, serving as a perverse substitute for human connection.

Brows furrowed, you gnawed on your bottom lip. It was better– but not quite there. Grabbing a red pen, you glanced at your to-do list, the bullet points feeling a mile long as you jotted down: Fix Introduction– final sentence? Groaning slightly, you looked upwards, the words:  Dissertation Defense: one month! staring back at you from a neon post-it note taped to the corner of your clunky macintosh computer.

Your chest tightened, anxiety spiking at the almost unending list of corrections, evidence gathering, and typing required in the next few weeks. Your pen clattered against the desk as stretched, joints popping from the pressure, a tired yawn escaping. You needed coffee– desperately.

Eyes shifting through the introduction for one last measure, you highlighted the final sentence as yet another reminder to tweak your work. Before you could finish, however, your swirling thoughts were crudely interrupted at the jolt of your door swinging open, accompanied by your roommate’s dramatic entrance.

Kimberly waltzed into the small bedroom, permed curls bouncing as she balanced a concerning amount of Chinese takeout containers. “Jesus, you need to open a window in here– it smells like a library.” She cringed, ruffling her nose as she hurriedly dumped the takeout containers on your floor.

You rolled your eyes at her theatrics, pushing away from the desk before plopping onto the shaggy carpet, unpacking the haul. “Says you, beaver lady, every time you come back from the lab you reek of pond water.” You teased, and she huffed.

“That’s so not true! And stop calling me that, once you read my totally rad argument, you’ll never look at them the same!” She defended, offended at your jab, sitting in front of you and grabbing a box of lo mein from the takeout pile.

You grinned at her antics, perfectly manicured hands struggling with the wooden chopsticks as she shoveled the noodles into her mouth. “Okay, okay fine– just stop calling me Hitchcock and I’ll call it even.” You joked, stomach growling as you grabbed your own pair of chopsticks, rummaging through the pile for your kung pao chicken.

Kimberly was not only your roommate, but best friend from highschool, with both of you deciding to apply to colleges together during your senior year. Now, almost six years later, you were joined at the hip while you worked towards your Masters Degrees.

Your mouth watered as the comforting taste of chicken and tangly vegetables invaded your senses, stomach growling as you devoured your meal. Kimberly shifted, lo mein sauce dripping down her chin.

“So… how’s the paper? I swear if I write anymore my brain will literally explode.” She pouted, glancing at the whirlwind of papers dotting almost every surface of your room. You shrugged, choking down another bite, chopsticks still gripped in your hands. 

“It’s going well… I just feel like it's missing something. There hasn’t been a killing pinpointed to him in months, and I’m getting tired of reading over the same reports and crime scene photos–” “Ew, I’m eating. No gore, please.” Kimberly shuddered, and a tired chuckle escaped you at her squeamish nature.

She paused, chewing on her bottom lip before speaking again, the friendly atmosphere in the room hardening. “Do you… think he will be back?” She muttered, and your smile fell. Pondering, you set the container onto the carpet, wiping your hands on your bell bottomed jeans.

“Probably,” You voiced finally, “–why? Are you scared a big bad killer will come after you?” You mused, shoving her arm playfully, causing a startled squeak to escape from her. “Uh, duh. I don’t know how you aren’t terrified of Mr. Boogeyman.” She retorted, nose scrunching at the prospect of the masked psychopath. 

“With my research, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be within 100 feet of me, scared I'll finally prove my theory.” You joked, falling backwards onto the floor and staring at the ceiling, food abandoned. “Ugh, I’m pooped. I feel like I could sleep for years.” You complained, joints stiff and mind heavy.

Kimberly slammed her plastic tupperware onto the floor, the noise jolting your gaze towards her as she stared at you with newfound conviction. “No can do, missy, we have to go out!” You groaned, pushing yourself upwards by your elbows.

The last possible thing that you needed was to be pressed up against other students at a dive bar drinking your night away, much rather preferring a hot cup of tea and a good night’s sleep. “I can’t, I have to wait for a call from the police station to get more files-” Kimberly let out an exasperated sigh at your statement, silencing you.

“C’mon… Halloween is a few days away and Fowl Play is hosting their annual costume party. I swear if you stay in this room any longer you’ll fade away. Mr. Slasher can wait.” Kimberly persisted, standing abruptly and turning to rummage through your closet, throwing random articles of clothing onto your bed as she searched for a costume.

You began to protest, but she cut you off. “I’ll buy your drinks,” She mused, voice full of mischief as she pulled a lace bra from the pile of clothing, holding it up to her chest and striking a lewd pose, causing a smile to break out on your face. “It’s late anyways, the detectives can call you in the morning… please?” She begged, those brown doe eyes pouting as she bargained with you. A defeated sigh escaped you, and you shuffled upwards, padding over to her and snatching your bra from her grasp. 

“Two drinks,” You stated, fighting off another yawn, and she squealed in delight. “You’re the best, you know that? I promise it will be fun. Now go figure out a costume! We leave in ten minutes.”

Kimberly called over her shoulder, rushing to the door and heading to her room, the whirlwind of movement just as chaotic as when she arrived. The door slammed shut, and you grimaced, dropping the bra back onto the bed. Glancing back to your desk, you sighed, rubbing your temples.

Just a few hours, and then you would be back to work. What could possibly go wrong?

__

“What on earth are you dressed up as?” Kimberly questioned, voice barely audible over the thumping synth at Fowl Play. Tugging the thin strap up your shoulder, you glanced down at the now-ruined satin dress clinging to your skin. Pulling your costume together took sheer willpower and luck, finding a half used canister of fake blood from one of your Sociology projects hidden away in the kitchen cabinets.

“I’m Carrie White, duh.” You mimicked her iconic catchphrase, gesturing to the plastic crown on top of your head. She rolled her eyes, shoving a Tequila Sunrise into your hand. “Always so morbid, you creep.” She teased, tattered sleeve brushing against you as she showcased her zombified cheerleader costume. 

Fowl Play was the place to be in Haddonfield, usually packed to the brim with college students throwing down shots under the illumination of neon lights after a long school day. Today was no different, a colorful glow cascading through the crowd decked out in ripped jeans, leg warmers, and hair teased to the ceiling.

Only a few days before Halloween, the theme did the holiday justice, with faux spider webs dripping from the ceiling, swaying under the breeze of the fog machine. The room was covered in a hazy atmosphere, blue lights making the plastic skeletons hanging from the rafters glow an eerie green. You eagerly sip on your drink, trying to block out the stench of sweat, cigarettes, and hairspray coating the room.

Kimberly sways her hips to the beat, head rocking as she downs her drink, grimacing at the strong taste of alcohol. “Ohmygod, I love this song!” An excited shriek escapes her, the sound of the Bee Gees’ Night Fever tearing through the speakers. Tugging you further onto the dancefloor, you squeeze past an intoxicated Frankenstein, who glowers at Kimberly’s antics.

Unphased, she pulls you across the floor, and you laugh at her easy going nature. Suckling on your straw, you quickly set your empty glass on the bar as you passed by, catching the eye of the bartender apologetically as you were dragged along. Finally reaching a suitable dancing place, Kimberly stopped, spinning you around as she settled into a groove, feet kicking and hands shaking.

Stomach warm from the alcohol, you threw your head back, surrendering to the music. The dance floor was littered with costume-clad classmates, all swaying to the beat in various stages of intoxication. Glancing at a cardboard cutout of Nosferatu, you shook to the beat, eyes darting over the crowd. 

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you needed the distraction.

You couldn’t remember the last time you went off campus for anything not school related, and you relished in the feeling of the stress washing away with every shake of your wrists. A vampire and mermaid tried to do the robot, causing Kimberly to burst into laughter, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, and you gripped her hands, spinning her.

The music cut out suddenly, causing the crowd to groan in annoyance. The DJ, perched behind a booth lined with cassette tapes and records, huffs into the microphone at the rude reaction. Kimberly grips your hands in excitement, realizing the votes on the costume contest were in. 

“Alright, alright, I know you all have been waiting for this moment. The winner of this year’s annual Spooktacular Showoff is, drumroll please–” The sound of rumbling thundered around the room in anticipation, people stomping their feet while waiting for the news. You braced in anticipation, excitement coursing through your veins.

“ –Carrie White! Get on up here, you cool cat!” Your jaw dropped in shock, ears ringing as Kimberly screamed in excitement, practically shaking you like a ragdoll and dragging you to the DJ booth. Applause roared through the crowd, spare a few disheartened grumbles of disappointment. The DJ presents you with a purple wristband, the words Free Drinks sharpied onto the paper material.

You paled, embarrassed under the spotlight, hands clammy as you gripped your prize. The DJ turned to the crowd, microphone hissing as he spoke again. “Better luck next year, everyone! Now, who’s ready to boogie?” Shoving another cassette tape into the player, the speakers thrilled to life once more, and you were left to escort Kimberly to the bar, pushing through the sea of bodies in your way. 

Kimberly leaned on the chipped wood of the high top counter, batting her eyes at the bartender before proudly pointing to your wristband. “Two Alabama Slammers please, extra strong.” She shouted over the music, and you grimaced at the high pitch. Kimberly quickly grabbed the glasses, winking at the bartender before turning to you.

“See, fun right?! Now we have to stay, it’s not every night you get free booze!” She mused, gulping down her drink, other hand gripping onto yours as well. You sighed, chuckling at her inebriated state. “How about some shots? It’s time to party!” She squealed, chugging the rest of her beverage before sipping on yours, not that you were complaining.

You cringed internally, quickly realizing you were responsible for her actions for the rest of the evening. It was going to be a long night…

__

After what seemed like hours of music and infinite drinks, you finally were able to pull a now very intoxicated Kimberly out of the bar, narrowly avoiding her elbow as you peeled her away from her sloppy makeout session with a football player. The cold air bit into your skin as you stepped outside, goosebumps spreading across your arms.

Slipping an arm around Kimberly to steady her swaying form, you shuffled down the sidewalk, eyes scanning for a cab. Behind you, the bass from the bar thumped faintly, your drunken counterpart bobbing her head to the beat, hiccuping mid-step.  “Pshhh… that was– sooo much fun.” She slurred, breath reeking of vodka. You cringed at the smell, silently cursing yourself for not cutting her off sooner.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” You muttered, trying to ignore her whining protests to go back to the bar. Sweat dotted your hairline as you pulled Kimberly along, the damp fabric of your dress sticking uncomfortably to your back. You were in desperate need of a hot shower and a good night’s sleep after a night like this, and you groaned at the thought of the mountain of work you had waiting for you upon your arrival.

Kimberly stumbled, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, almost pulling you down with her. You steadied her, bracing against her dead weight as she babbled about the Halloween decorations lining the street. Glancing around your surroundings, you silently admired the quaint houses dotting the sidewalks, pumpkins and foliage adorning their porches.

“Heyyy look, it… it’s mister boogeyman….” She spewed out, grip tightening on your arm suddenly. Her words made your stomach drop. Following her gaze, you froze, Kimberly nearly bumping into you as your feet locked into place. A towering figure stood ahead on the sidewalk, clad in the unmistakable mechanic suit and white mask you had seen countless times during your studies. Your heart seized in your chest, details from case files and crime scene photos flashing through your mind, apprehension winding in your gut.

It’s just a prank, you reasoned with yourself, knowing the streets were full of replicas of the killer during the Halloween season. But as you stepped closer, unease churned in your gut. The figure stood perfectly still, like a statue, the faint flow of jack o’lanterns casting eerie shadows across his masked form. Kimberly laughed, sticking out her tongue at the male before you could stop her. “N-nice costume, creep.” She called, pointing at him.

Your nails dug into her wrist as you quickened your pace, keeping your gaze forward, though you couldn’t help but spare him a glance as you passed by.The void of the eye holes in the mask burned into you, your mouth instantly drying at the sight. “Sorry…” You squeaked out over your shoulder, hating the tremble in your voice. He didn’t move, but you could feel his gaze, heavy and chilling as you continued walking.

The headlights of a taxi cab crested over the hill, and you stopped abruptly, frantically waving your hand. Relief washed over you as the car squeaked to a halt in front of you. Throwing open the car door, you  practically shoved Kimberly in, ignoring her drunken protests before climbing in behind her. The taxi driver glanced out the window, brows furrowing at the Michael Myers impersonator on the sidewalk.

“He with you?” You whipped your head around.

The masked man stood in the same spot as before, watching. Shaking your head quickly, you turned back to the driver. “No. Just drive, please.” He grumbled at your command, putting the car into gear and tearing away from the sidewalk. 

Your gaze creeped to the back window, leaning against the glass as you watched the masked man fade into the distance behind you. Only when he disappeared from view did you relax, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Kimberly slouched against the seat, tracing her knee with her fingertips, mumbling to herself.

You could practically feel the disappointment wafting off of the taxi driver, but you didn’t care, wanting to get back to the safety of your room as soon as possible. The rest of the taxi ride went smoothly, the outline of your apartment building entering your vision after a short time. 

Leaving the taxi driver a generous tip, you dragged Kimberly from the car bed and led her towards the building. Balancing Kimberly against you, you fumbled with your keys, pushing the door open and maneuvering her carefully up the flight of stairs, trying to avoid any safety hazards as you went. Hauling Kimberly into your shared apartment, you quickly dumped her onto her bed before rushing to grab her a glass of water.

By the time you returned, beverage in hand, a passed out Kimberly met your gaze, snores filling the room. Begrudgingly, you set the glass on her nightstand, pulling a blanket over her costume clad body before turning away, shutting the door behind you. 

As the door shut, exhaustion hit you like a wave. Kicking off your shoes, you head to your room, skin itching for a hot shower. Ripping the tiara from your hair, your fingers scratched your scalp, a satisfied groan escaping you as you massaged your skin.

Picking up a sleep shirt and a pair of shorts, you shoved the pile of clothes Kimberly left on your bed onto the floor, mentally noting to pick up your room in the morning. You turned, arms full of clothing as you headed towards the hallway for the bathroom.

The phone rang, the shrill landline tearing through the silence, and your blood ran cold. 

Snatching up the phone, you pressed it to your ear. Who calls this late at night?  “Hello?” You grumbled, irritation seeping into your tone at the delay of your pursuit of a hot shower. “Detective Langley speaking.” A gruff voice answered. A rustle of papers sounded out through the telephone, noise grainy against your ear. “... Is this miss (l/n)?” Your pulse quickened.

“This is she.” “I know you’ve been working with Detective Harmon for months now,” Langley said abruptly, voice sharp with urgency and something else you couldn’t quite place. “If you were anyone else I wouldn’t be calling, but–” He paused, seemingly debating whether to continue. “... I have something better than case files for you. Can you be ready in ten minutes? I’ll have a cruiser parked at campus.” Another pause, this one more heavy.

“We think… He struck again.”

Blood pounded in your ears, shower forgotten as the words echoed in your mind. Excitement coursed through your veins as you dropped your pajamas onto the counter. “I’ll be ready in eight.”

__

Hair still damp from what was probably the fastest shower of your life, you shoved your keys into your bag, beelining towards the patrol car parked at the curb. Fumbling with the passenger door, you glanced at the officer inside, who you could only imagine was Detective Langley.

The older man sat in his seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel, dark eyes meeting your own. You clambered into the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt before shutting the door. Detective Langley shifted the car into gear, pulling away from the curb and moving towards an unknown destination. He glanced at you expectantly, and you quickly pulled out your small voice recorder from the bag, items shuffling around as you pressed the record button.

“Log seventy eight. Thursday, October 29th, 1980. Time is–” You glanced at the dashboard for the time. “–Eleven forty-five.” Setting the device in your lap, you waited for the officer to speak, mind swirling with possibilities. 

Adrenaline began to pump through your veins, heartbeat quickening as you were possibly being escorted to a live crime scene. After pestering detectives for months, attending multiple press conferences and participating in many ride-alongs, this could be your big break for new evidence. You would be experiencing everything first hand, the prospect sending your head spiraling.

Officer Langley shuffled uncomfortably at being recorded, pausing slightly before speaking. “Victim is a 19 year old babysitter. Distress call came in at eleven fifteen from the victim’s employers who arrived back from dinner to a silent house. The child she was caring for was unharmed, but–” He faltered, eyes flickering to your own before finishing “... but the victim was found dead on scene.” Your heart dropped at that, the reality of the situation quickly setting into place.

Someone was murdered, and you were going on scene.

“Suspect is still at large, with many indicators pointing towards Myers. Same MO, same timeline.” Langley finished, clearing his voice suddenly. You took that as your queue and pressed the pause button on your recorder, staring at him expectantly. “Look kid, this is nothing like the crime scene photos or briefs you’ve seen. This is an active crime scene, and there’s a few rules you have to follow.” Your spine straightens, and you wait for instruction.

Langley sighs, eyes steely as he cruised down the road. “You are a civilian, remember that. No touching, no pestering, and god no puking. You watch, take notes, and maybe ask some questions.” Your heart flutters, eyes trained forward as the telltale red and blue peeked over the horizon, illuminating the dashboard. “Thank you, Detective.” You whisper, nerves leaving you giddy as the car slowed, crime scene tape blocking the street. “Don’t mention it, kid. I’m doing this as a favor.” He said gruffly, and you didn’t question further. 

Police cars lined the street, officers swarming the house as a terrified family stood in the front lawn. A press van idled against the curb, a newscaster speaking to the camera with the house in the background, trying to flag down an officer for questioning. You swallowed thickly, watching the chaos unfold in front of you.

Detective Langley parks the car, and you jolt out of the seat, grabbing your notebook and pen. Popping the trunk, the detective quickly pulled a blue vest over his chest, grabbing a bag before circling the car to the passenger side. An identical vest was shoved into your hands, and you quickly slipped it on.

Detective Langley moved towards the lawn, pulling the crime scene tape upwards and allowing you to slip underneath. As you stepped forward, a hand quickly grabbed your shoulder, halting you in place. “Remember, no touching. And for the love of god, no recording.” You nodded, hands gripping the notebook tighter. 

The air felt heavy, tainted with the prospect of death. You meekly followed the detective in front of you, trying to ignore the puzzled looks of other officers brushing past you. Reaching the front porch, the flash of a camera within the house illuminated through the windows. A rush of officers moved through the front door, and Detective Langley pushed forward, stepping into the house. You ducked in behind him.

Immediately, the bag dropped to the floor, and he pulled the zipper open. Realization hit you like a wave, you were suiting up. Mimicking his movements, you quickly pulled booties onto your feet, covering your shoes. Slipping a plastic poncho over your head, the fabric crinkled as it settled around your knees. Detective Langley paused, fishing something out of the bag before handing it to you. A ponytail.

You quickly bunched your hair on top of your head, not wanting to interfere with the investigation. Pulling on a pair of sterile gloves, you straightened, covered head to toe in anti-evidence attractant. Detective Langley moved forwards, and you silently trudged after him, dwarfed in the billowy poncho and booties. As you walked, a foul odor hit your nose, causing your face to scrunch ever so slightly, brows furrowing at the smell.

The smell was metallic, mixed with an earthy scent that made your stomach flip. The scent of death, you thought, pushing past another officer before entering the living room of the house, trying to steel yourself as you braved onwards. Another flash blinded you momentarily, and you blinked.

The temperature dropped with every step you took, as if you were walking into a grave, goosebumps settling across your skin. Something horrible happened in the room ahead of you, and you glanced at the wall of the living room, stomach dropping at the bloodied handprint streaking against the yellow wallpaper. 

Stepping into the kitchen, you froze, blood turning to ice. A few mere feet in front of you, was a body. The first thing you noticed were her eyes, open so wide with only one expression, the sight making you falter: terror. Her face was frozen in a moment of raw fear, mouth gaped open, eyes staring back into you, unmoving, unyielding. Her blue sundress was covered in blood, the crimson pooled around her and soaking into the tile below.

Skin deathly pale, covered in gashes, no doubt from a knife. You grimaced, glancing at her stomach, naval cavity torn open so feverishly you could see the yellow of her ribs, organs poking out of her, intestines spilling onto the floor. And the smell, a mix of blood and raw flesh so putrid the singular drink curdled within your stomach. You paled, head reeling as you gaped at the body, fingers gripping your notebook so tightly your knuckles turned white. 

Officers moved around the body, unphased by the gruesome sight as they tried to collect evidence. You stood frozen in place, ears ringing as you imagined her final moments. A terrible struggle. A desperate attempt to escape. A knife raised in the air. A blood curdling scream. Then, silence. You squeezed your eyes shut, the imaginary scream rattling you to your bones.

The black and white photographs of the crime scenes you were used to were nothing compared to the live scene, the nature of it all leaving you feeling light headed. Detective Langley approached the body, and you weakly followed him, swallowing thickly. Crouching over the body, he glanced at you trying to avoid the pool of blood creeping towards your bootied feet. 

“See this?” He gestured, finger extended above the body, tracing the laceration on her stomach. The closeness of her body was worse, you could practically feel the terror radiating off of her, final moments ingrained permanently into the house. You trailed his movements, trying to ignore the view of the ruptured liver engorged on the tile floor. “One laceration to open her up, then short, quick stabbings. That’s why her organs look like mush.” Langley muttered, and you grimaced at the crude words.

“A rage killing…” You said, mind flickering to the countless pictures you had seen in the past, frozen in time. The detective nodded, standing once more. “What do you think, kid? Your theory still make sense?” You faltered at his words, staring back at the mutilated body in front of you. Pausing, you exhaled sharply, pushing yourself into research mode. 

Flipping through the pages of your notebook, your gaze met the detectives once more, emotion seeping from you as you got to work. “The MO is identical; babysitter around Halloween found in the wrong place, wrong time. Her wounds are strikingly similar to–” You flipped through another page, wracking your brain for other victims.

“–Bob Simms, who also had severe lacerations to his abdomen. This however… seems more personal. See the ligature mark around her left wrist?” You gestured to her arm, confidence quickly invading your senses, the buzz of gore falling from your mind. “He tied her up, and she escaped. He likes the chase, but when his victims defy him, he reacts poorly, losing control.” You paused, before muttering, “– Like an enraged lover.” Detective Langley pondered your explanation, nodding.

“I’m surprised. You know more than I expected.” Another blinding flash of the camera, and you glanced down at your notes, quickly flipping to a blank page to sketch the basic layout of the body, marking points of interest.

“What’s the civilian doing here?” An officer grumbled out, and Langley shot him a deathly glare.

“She’s with me, working to crack the case. What are you doing?” He bit out, and the younger officer paled, stammering out an apology before moving back to investigate. Turning back to you, Detective Langley huffed. “Take some time to jot down some notes, I have some paperwork to fill out. Good work, kid.” Brushing past you, Langley disappeared into the sea of officers, leaving you alone.

Thoughts whirled through your mind, and you stared at the body once more, lips pursing at the sight. The more you stared, the more confident you became in your theory, the hands-on approach towards the violent killing meaning only one thing:

Michael Myers was a predator.

A sexually deprived, anger driven force of nature that sought pleasure within his obsession for violence. The one thing he craved to invoke being the last thing his victims ever feel: terror.

Your mind clicked, and you scribbled the sentence down in your notebook, writing: introduction? before circling the passage. Tucking the notebook under your arm, you quickly slipped out of the suffocating house, desperate for fresh air. Stepping into the night, you peeled the poncho over your head, discarding it in a marked bin on the lawn.

Stripping the protective layers from your body, your breaths greedily drank in the fresh air, savoring the scent of pine and freshly mowed grass. Around you, the crime scene continued to bustle with life– flashing lights, murmured voices, the crunch of boots on gravel. Your gaze drifted past the chaos, drawn to the dark treeline sprouted behind the house. Dense shadows swallowed the foliage, faint outlines of pine branches drifting in the chill October breeze. 

A shuffle in the distance caught your attention. You squinted, zeroing in on the movement. Settled in between two bushes, something shifted– a figure, still as stone, blending in against the trees. Your breath caught in your throat, panic gripping you as you gaped forward. Another patrol car rumbled down the street, the headlights cutting across the line of trees as it curved around the bend.

For a split second, the light caught something. A flash of white.

Your mind flickered back to the bar, to the masked man who stood motionless on the sidewalk. Horror churned in your gut, the realization slamming into you full force. It wasn’t a costume. It was real, it was him. Michael Myers; waiting, watching. 

The sound of gurney wheels squeaked against the gravel, tearing your eyes from the scene. The body bag, black and heavy, was escorted by two officers to the waiting van, enticing you. It was only a second, your gaze shifting before moving back to the treeline, where the figure had been.

Your chest tightened as you stared at the bushes, the bushes empty. You scanned the treeline, eyes straining for any movement. He’s gone. Pulse quickening, you glanced down at your notebook, tucked in your grasp. Had you imagined it, the tension from the grizzly scene making you see things?

The flash of white, the outline of his silhouette against the treeline— it felt so real. 

Detective Langley reappeared at your side, the sudden presence startling you. The older male chuckled at your jumpy state. “Crime scene jitters?” He mused, gruff voice teasing. You hesitated at the question, debating telling him of your discovery, but the words died on your tongue. “Yeah… I guess so.” You muttered, eyes still trained on the treeline. He patted your shoulder reassuringly, calling over another officer.

“Get her back to campus,” He ordered before turning back to you. “When the pictures are developed, I’ll send them your way. If you have any more ideas or theories, give me a call.” Digging into his pocket, he produced a card, his number written on it. You thanked him, taking the small piece of paper and tucking it into your notebook. Another officer led you to the cruiser you arrived in, and you shakily slid into the passenger seat, dumping your notebook into your bag.

The ride back to campus felt like a blur, the events of the past few hours burned into your skull. Exhaustion weighed down on you in a vice-like grip, but sleep never came, leaving you tossing and turning, mind going a million miles a minute.

Each time you closed your eyes, the image of terror on the butchered girl’s face stared back at you, sending bile rising in your throat. You stared at the ceiling, imagining the treeline. The rush of lights, the flash of movement. The white of his mask, watching silently.

You wondered if you would ever sleep again.

__

You tried to convince yourself that it was just stress, but something felt off. Your body ached from long nights of restless sleep, terrorized by vivid nightmares that jolted you awake, drenched in sweat and goosebumps covering every inch of skin. Images of the crime scene burned into your brain, the hollow eyes staring back at you in the woods.

Your room was a chaotic mess, papers, notebooks, maps, photos, and almost illegible handwriting covering every surface. The few days after the crime scene had sent you down a rabbit hole, with you spending every waking moment hunched over your desk, typing away at your computer screen. Each bump in the night, each shadow cast along the wall somehow traced back to him. Your masked killer invaded your life, even outside of your research. Walking back from the library one night, the streetlights cast unnatural shadows against the sidewalk, shifting under your gaze. The quiet was deafening, broken only by the patter of your footsteps in the late hour. But it was always there– the subtle noise of shuffling behind you, always watching. Always waiting. You had whirled around, scanning the darkness, seeing nothing.

Yet the feeling was always there, the sensation of being followed coating you like a second skin, creeping into your bones and sending your brain spiraling. You had picked up speed, terror gripping your chest, only relieving slightly when you reached your apartment, locking the door behind you. But as you turned to shut the curtains, your stomach dropped. Under the faint glow of the streetlight in your peripheral vision, a figure stood there, the white mask catching in the light.

But as soon as you shifted your gaze to the movement fully, it was gone. 

The days began to blur together as you poured over your work, trying to settle the feeling of constant dread in your stomach. But no matter how fast you typed away at your dissertation, no matter how long you engrossed yourself into your research, the feeling remained.

Even Kimberly began to notice the shift in your behavior, cautiously leaving food at the foot of your door, begging you to relax, to take a break. But the dissertation had you in its hold, demanding you continue onwards, pushing you to the brink. As the deadline to your dissertation approached, so did the inexplicable things that began to haunt you.

Your door would slightly be open when you returned from class, ajar and leaving a crack of light into your room when you were certain you had locked it. Your papers would be shifted, unorganized chaos jolted as evidence would be stacked differently than when you had left it.

Pieces of information would be underlined or circled, even though you were sure you hadn’t touched them. It was always worse at night, faint creaks and heavy breathing seeming to come from outside your window, even from the second floor. As time passed, though, things began happening that you couldn’t chalk up to paranoia, something real.

You had been stewing in your room, shuffling through papers and editing your final draft of your dissertation when the phone rang. The shrill sound had startled you so badly you almost dropped your coffee mug, the liquid dangerously close to spilling from your mug. Thinking it was Detective Langley asking for progress, you had picked the phone off the receiver quickly, pressing it to your ear.

“Hello?” But there was no answer, heavy silence on the other line. You almost ended the call, confused, when you heard it. The breathing, rough and oppressive, was very same that you could practically feel pressing down your back during sleepless nights. “Who… Who is this?” Your voice had trembled, fingers gripping the phone like a lifeline as you strained for an answer. 

The line went dead.

You slammed the phone on the receiver so hard the plastic had cracked, blind panic tearing through your chest. Kimberly’s words rang through your head from that fateful night, taunting you. I don’t know how you aren’t terrified of Mr. Boogeyman. But now, you knew. He was like a shape in the dark, a creature of the night feeding off your fear, growing bolder as your paranoia began to take hold.

And that was the most terrifying part of all. 

 The murders hadn’t stopped, either. Almost nightly, Detective Langley would summon you at ungodly hours, desperate for your input on another case. The bodies began to pile up, a mountain of evidence continuously being added to your work as your point was all but proven. The scenes became all the more violent, crimes of something you could only describe as passion rattled you to your bones, each victim becoming more mutilated, more disfigured.

The last crime scene had finally broken you, vomit spewing from you as you ran from the house, stomach twisting at the decapitated body of another unfortunate babysitter. Haddonfield was put under curfew, children were shuttled home in groups, and parents refused to let their teenage daughter babysit for others. But nothing could stop the carnage. You were spiraling, and fast. Tension began to build within you at your heightened stress, lack of sleep, and the deadline hanging over you like a death sentence. 

The apartment door slammed shut behind Kimberly, rattling against the cheap metal frame so loudly you jumped. Lifting your head from the kitchenette table, you glared, bloodshot eyes worn from pouring over your notes. Kimberly dumped her book bag onto the floor at your feet, smushing a stack of papers that you gingerly grabbed off the floorboards.

“Jesus girl, you need to calm down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kimberly groaned, shrugging off her jacket before reaching into a cabinet, grabbing a mug and a handle of vodka before making herself a drink. You glanced behind you, staring out the window into the pitch black. “I saw him again,” you bit out, voice tight with nerves. “–He was right there, outside the window. Just standing there.” Kimberly rolled her eyes, a sharp laugh escaping her, although it sounded forced.

“Him? You mean Mr. Boogeyman? You have got to be kidding me.” She took a gulp of her drink, grimacing at the bitter taste before turning to you. “You’ve been obsessing over him for weeks, certain he’s ‘after you’”, she said, airquoting her words snarkily before adding, “–You’re just paranoid.”

You grit your teeth at her words.

“I’m not paranoid.” You snapped, practically snarling at her. “I know what I saw. He was there.” Kimberly sighed, worry settling into her frame as she smiled pitifully at you, as if you were insane. It made your blood boil. “Look, I get that you’re super into this whole true crime thing and want a shot at being Miss Detective, but you’re letting it get to you. I mean, really?”

She scoffed, throwing up her hands. “You think some infamous killer is stalking you because you want to prove that he’s a pervert? Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”You swear you see red. “I’m not crazy.” You seethe, stomach churning at the word.

Crazy– she thought you were crazy.

Kimberly sighed, brushing her hair out of her face before speaking, chewing at the bottom of her lip. “I’m sorry. It’s just– I’m worried about you. If it’s bothering you that much we can call campus security. Do you want some tea or something?” Her voice wobbled, and you rolled your eyes. Security wouldn’t stop him, if anything it would only make him more angry. You ignored her, turning your attention back to your work, going through highlighted passages and making changes.

The sound of glass shattering had your gaze shooting to Kimberly, whose mug was in pieces on the tile. “Damn it!” She cursed, dropping to her knees. You stood, rushing over to the paper towels before kneeling across from her. You padded at the liquid silently, tension thick between the two of you as you cleaned her mess. Kimberly slowly picked up the pieces of the mug, and you finally noticed her shaking hands. 

__

The ear-splitting sound of your alarm clock jolted you from an uneasy night’s sleep. Groaning, you tore yourself away from the bundle of sheets, blindly slapping your hand down on the clock, silencing the noise. You yawned, rubbing your tired eyes as you stared at the clock. The glowing red numbers read 6:00AM. Your breathing hitched, nerves crackling in the air of your bedroom. Today was dissertation day. You sat frozen in your bed, anxiety weighing you down against the sheets.

Months of research, sleepless nights, crime scene tours, and the questioning of your sanity have led to this moment. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or terrified, but you were too tired to care. Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stretched, trying to shake the exhaustion that clung to your skin. Things will finally settle down after today.

They had to. 

Creaking open your door slowly, you peeked into the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted to your nostrils as you stepped into the shared space, however Kimberly’s usually boisterous presence was absent. You glanced at the counter, an array of empty bottles of liquor staring back at you, and you sighed. You hesitated outside her closed bedroom door, deciding against waking her to apologize for your behavior.

It looked like she had a long night. Opting to not start another fight, you grabbed a mug, pouring the liquid gold that you considered to be your lifeline into the cup, warmth seeping into your hands. You sank into a chair, pulling out your prepared stack of notecards, flipping through them absentmindedly as you drank. 

After what felt like the longest hot shower of your life, you steeled yourself to your fate and began preparing for the day. The dissertation defense was scheduled at 11:00, and by 10:00 you were dressed in business professional– pressed shirt chafing against the material of your blazer. Fiddling with the tailored sleeve, you checked your appearance in the mirror for what seemed like the hundredth time, smoothing out your slacks nervously.

The overall look screamed professionalism and sophistication, though you spent at least 15 minutes deciding between heels or loafers. Sighing, you chose the heels, slipping them onto your feet for the extra mile. Running a hand through your hair, you grabbed your notecards, speech recorder, and a printed copy of your dissertation, taking one last look in the mirror.

“You can do this.” You breathed out, forcing a confident smile.

The walk to the campus building was brisk, heightened by the bundle of nerves churning in your stomach. Shivering against the October breeze, you pulled your blazer closer to your body, braving onwards. Passing students chatted happily, their carefree nature buzzing in the air as you brushed past, running possible scenarios through your head.

Muttering to yourself, you tried to pinpoint your key phrases as you walked, the telltale brick of the graduate student conservatory cresting the horizon. Pushing through the heavy wooden door, the smell of old books and cigarette smoke filled your nostrils, and you took a deep breath inwards. Approaching the small conference room, you tried to shake the nervous tremble in your voice, professionalism quickly overtaking your form.

Glancing into the conference room, a board of five suit clad figures discussed your work, each having meticulously read your dissertation in the previous days. Doctor Strigler, the head of the Sociology and Human Behavior department, relaxed in his swivel chair, waving you inside. Swallowing thickly, you entered the room, settling behind the oak podium and flipping through your notecards.

“Good morning, miss (l/n). Take a moment to prepare yourself, and then we can begin. After a standard presentation of your findings, you will be cross examined, followed by a final Q+A, and then you are free to wait outside until the decision is made.” Doctor Strigler smiled fondly, adjusting his spectacles. You nodded, palms sweaty as you pulled out your printed dissertation. Clearing your throat, you settled, pushing your nerves away before starting.

“Good morning gentlemen, it is my honor to present my findings on what we consider to be one of the most prolific, yet mysterious serial killers in our great state of Illinois–” Your voice trembled ever so slightly.

“–Michael Myers.”

For the next two hours, the room was a blur of academic rigor and prowess. You presented your findings on the masked killer with practiced confidence, taking the committee through multiple recorded pieces of evidence, showing crime scene photos, and more. Occasionally, questions interrupted your presentation, some easy while others required you to contemplate before responding.

During the cross examination period, you defended your points passionately, citing your mile-long list of sources and evidence. As you talked, the nerves melted away, replaced with a calculated sense of confidence that highlighted your almost obsessive nature towards your theory. After what felt like centuries, the committee called time, thanking you for your presentation and excusing themselves to deliberate.

You paced the hallway, wracking your brain for any mistakes you may have made in the heat of the moment, wringing your hands nervously. 

The door to the conference room swung open, Doctor Strigler stepping into the hallway to wave you down. You halted your movements, almost skidding across the floor. This was it– the moment that decided your fate. You swear your heart was going to beat out of your chest, and you had the sudden urge to retch. The anticipation hung over you like a death sentence, and you steeled yourself, squaring your shoulders before approaching the older male.

Smiling warmly, he extended his hand towards you.“Congratulations, Doctor (l/n).” Tears instantly welled in your eyes, your body feeling a thousand times lighter, the unforeseen weight lifted from your shoulders. Your cheeks hurt from how wide you were smiling, and you quickly grabbed the Doctor’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

Stammering out your appreciation, you rushed back into the conference room, thanking each of the committee members and picking up your extensive collection of files scattered along the desk. Practically sprinting out of the room, you fought the urge to skip out of the building, arms full of paperwork, feedback, and your research materials.

The walk home felt surreal– the sun shining brighter, the birds chirping joyfully, and the breeze carrying a newfound lightness with it. You thought of all the ways you would celebrate with Kimberly after a sincere apology, bracing yourself to the possibility of spending the night at Fowl Play again. The thought alone made you smile, your pace increasing as you hurried home to break the good news.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were giddy with excitement, the afternoon beginning to fade into the evening with the October chill setting in. Practically bouncing up the stairs in the apartment building, you rushed into your bedroom, dumping the stack of papers onto your desk.

Kicking your heels off, you shrugged off your blazer, hanging it in the closet before heading back into the kitchen. “Kim-bear, I’m home! Come on out, there’s something I’m dying to tell you!” You half expected Kimberly to pounce on you at your words, squealing and shaking you like a ragdoll. Instead, silence was your only response, lingering heavily in the air. 

Opening the overhead cupboards, you grabbed two wine flutes, the reality of your accomplishment sinking in. “I did it…” You whispered, setting them down carefully on the counter before turning to the fridge. The bottle of white wine glared back at you, unopened– you and Kimberly using it as a milestone market, not opening the bottle until one of you passed your respective dissertations. Digging through the cupboards for the wine opener, you called over your shoulder. 

“Kimberly, you’ve been in there all day.” The telltale pop of the cork echoed around the kitchen, but still, there was no response from your roommate. Your frown deepened as you poured the sauvignon blanc into the glasses. “Look, I know I’ve been an ass recently,” you admitted, tone softening as you glanced at her closed door. “–But I did it, so we’re celebrating whether you like it or not!” 

Nothing.

Setting down the bottle with a hollow thunk, you grabbed the glasses, padding over to her room. Although closed, the crack under the door flooded with light, signaling she was home. Irritation prickled at your skin, but the longer you waited, the more it was outweighed by unease. “Kim-bear?” You called again, knocking against the door, wine sloshing in the glass. You pressed your ear against the wood, straining for any noise.

No footsteps, no sound of her hushed voice, even the telltale noise of music playing non-stop on her vinyl player was absent. Just silence. Your palms grew clammy, glasses balanced in one hand as your fingers hesitantly brushed against the cool metal of the doorknob.

“Kimberly.” You urged, panic beginning to set in, voice barely above a whisper. You gritted your teeth, worried you’ll run into a very hungover roommate who was not in the mood to chat. “I’m coming in…” You warned, twisting the doorknob and pushing into the room.

The sight inside stopped you mid stride.

The bedroom was a mess– mirror smashed against the carpet, shards of glass covering almost every inch of the floor. Papers, photos, and cassette tapes were strewn across the room, desk chair overturned, legs shattered into splinters. And there, draped against her bed, was Kimberly.

At least, what was left of her.

Blood stained feathers coated her skin, pillows torn to shreds at her side. Shirt cut clean open, a nasty gash sliced through her midriff, ribs protruding from the open cavity of her chest. Her organs were on full display, liver ruptured and pressing against the gnarled entrails of her intestines. There was so much blood– pooling from the open carcass, staining the sheets in a deep scarlet, covering every surface within its reach. And the smell, the metallic scent of blood mixing with her open cavity in a way that made your stomach flip.

The wine glasses slipped from your fingers, shattering against the floorboards. Your stomach lurched at the gruesome sight, throat choking on a scream that refused to come. You dry heaved, bile rising to your throat as you suffocated on air, blind panic tearing through your skin. The world tilted around you, spinning as your knees wobbled, the sight of her glassy eyes staring straight into your soul. A gargled sob finally tore through your throat, and you slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cries, the horror of the scene sinking into you.

Blood dripped from the edge of her bed, winding down her limp leg before dripping onto the wooden floorboards in sickening plops. Your breathing hitched, suffocating you under the weight of realization. Her wounds were fresh– gaping, raw, and impossibly brutal. Her last breaths were probably moments before you walked in the door, a flash of horror sending white hot fear stabbing through your chest.

You had just missed the act, meaning her killer was still here. 

A faint clatter came from behind you, the sound subtle– like the scrape of metal against wood. Your heart seized within your chest, the hairs on the back of your neck standing straight up. The all too familiar feeling of being watched settled over you like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating. You turned slowly, worried about any sudden movement resulting in your certain demise.

Your gaze landed on the bathroom across the apartment, the doorway an ominous void of inky black. Your brain screamed at you to look away, to run, but you were frozen in place, legs bolted to the floor. The darkness seemed to shift, alive and writhing, a figure emerging from what you could only describe as hell.

First, the pale mask appeared– eerily blank, followed by the navy of the mechanic suit, fabric soaked with so much blood it looked black. His broad shoulders shook with the same ragged breaths that kept you awake so many nights before. He tilted his head just slightly, examining you. The light caught the knife clenched in his fist– your roommate’s blood still dripping from the blade, and your knees wobbled.

You leaned against the doorway, bare foot crunching on shards of broken glass, needles of pain slicing up your leg. But you couldn’t move– no matter how much you screamed at your legs to run, your body betrayed you as it remained rooted to the floor. The only thing you could do was stare– gaping at the legend you had spent the better part of a year dissecting, eyes tracing the inhumane shape of a man who had spent a lifetime dismantling lives.

Michael Myers had finally come for you, the devil paying his due. 

Your brain wracked with silent begs of mercy, but all that escaped your lips were broken sobs. You knew nothing could save you now, any pleads of salvation useless against him. And as much as the terror short circuited your brain, you couldn’t deny the curiosity pooling within your stomach. The specimen you had been obsessively studying for what felt like a century stood just feet away, the probability of your theory practically proving itself as an image of Kimberly’s disfigured corpse flashed through your mind.

He took another harrowing step forward, and the inquisitiveness bolting you in place shattered, replaced by the primal urge to escape. Legs faltering, you propelled yourself forward, sprinting towards the door leading into the hallway. Pain shot up your legs as the glass embedded deeper within the flesh of your feet, but you refused to stop. Practically launching around the kitchen counter, you stumbled over your discarded heels, almost crashing into the wall. Breaths coming out in frantic puffs, your hand stretched towards the door, your only saving grace. Your voice finally returned, a scream so raw with emotion it rattled your ears. “HEL-”

A hand too large to be human clamped down around your mouth, yanking you backwards by your jaw.

Immediately, you dead weighted– pressing downwards as you clawed forwards, fingers desperately trying to reach for the door. Wailing screams pressed against the meaty palm, the noises almost completely silenced as you tried to wrench yourself from his grasp. Flailing your limbs, you struggled like your life depended on it, clamping your jaw down so hard into the palm of his hand that you drew blood.

Michael huffed, pulling you backwards with such force you lost your footing, bloodied soles of your feet slipping against the wood. Your back hit the hard expanse of his chest, blood– Kimberly’s blood– instantly soaking through your thin blouse and pressing into your skin. The blade of the knife was pushed against your throat, and you grimaced at the cool metal biting into your skin, the sharp edge slightly drawing blood. 

The mantra you confidently spouted all those weeks ago echoed in your head, chiding: He likes the chase, but when his victims defy him, he reacts poorly, losing control.

You stilled at that, heart in your throat– life in the hands of your own personal boogeyman. Those horrid breaths wafted from his mask, fanning over the top of your head, ruffling your hair. He smelled like death– rather, he was death, dragging you into the depths of hell. Your research told you he liked fear, practically basking in it– but was it more than that? Was the gratification in the initial scare itself, or the control he asserted over his victims?

You squeezed your eyes shut, cursing your brain– constantly analyzing, dissecting. Your heels dug into the floorboards as he stepped backwards, head craning into his chest to try and alleviate the sting of the blade against your neck. He maneuvered you with ease, pulling you towards your bedroom. 

A small part of you flushed, stomach dropping– your room.

Your research papers were still scattered across the desk, the walls coated in notes– like an obsessive stalker, about to be unveiled by the subject of your research. Every detail of his history, every violent act, every conspiracy documented with extensive detail. You mentally cringed in his hold, wanting nothing more than to curl into yourself from the embarrassment, the irony of it all.

Michael kicked your door, the wood splintering beneath his boots as he pulled you into the room. The pressure of the knife against your neck alleviated, the deadly weapon clattering against your desk, splattering droplets of blood across your printed dissertation. Hand still holding your mouth under his bruising grip, he pushed you into the desk.

Sparks flew across your vision– the world spinning as your skull cracked against the wood, disorientation rattling your brain. Your right temple felt like it was burning, a warm gush of blood dripping down your eyebrow, filling your eye with stinging pain. You moaned weakly, blinking as your dazed vision began to clear once more.

Vision settling, a crude sketch of the mask in the bushes that fateful night stared back at you, taunting you. You wanted to die– not from his knife, but from the mortifying realization that your work was on full display. Your hands were forced behind you, tearing you from the self-deprecating spiral, a hand pressing them against your back, holding you flat against the desk. Your hip bones dug into the edge painfully, breasts uncomfortably squashed beneath your weight as you wriggled against the hard surface. 

You protested immediately, desperate noises sounding too lewd for comfort pressing against his palm. His hand released your jaw, teeth audibly clattering together as you begged, “Please, don’t look–” frantically before something was shoved into your mouth. You choked slightly, the taste of worn clothing coating your tongue. He gagged you– you realized, aching jaw throbbing.

The research you had worked tirelessly on shifted beneath you, and your eyes shot upwards to the collection of polaroids, crime scene photos, and police sketches of the very man holding you down. Your room looked like an obsessive shrine, theories connected with red twine pinned along the entire expanse of drywall.

You swallowed thickly, humiliation churning in your gut like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. You weren’t his typical MO, but your research must have hit a nerve from the masked killer. He was going to kill you– you had delved too far within the rabbit hole, and now you would pay for it with your life.

You squeezed your eyes shut, heart hammering within your chest as an eerie sense of acceptance washed over you. 

You half expected him to rip your heart from your chest, feasting on your flesh before he fled the scene, but you knew he would use that god forsaken knife. You knew him too well, the months of research proving just exactly how he would kill you– slowly, intimately.

The smallest voice inside of you revelled in the fact that you were right, aware all along just how deep he had fallen from grace. You braced yourself, expecting the blade to tear through you– instead, a torn paper was slammed down onto the table next to your head. You jolted from the sudden movement, quickly reading the crumpled paper.

Your eyes widened, breath faltering as you writhed against his grip, twisting your wrists so vigorously that you were certain your skin was rubbing raw. The scribbled line you had written for your final introduction glared back at you, a cruel reversal of your own research being used against you:

Michael Myers was a predator.

You weren’t just terrified– you were transfixed, the idea of him actually reading through your notes… was it a sign of acknowledgement? The hand that wasn’t pinning you to the desk brushed your hip, and your breathing hitched, silencing your analyzing thoughts. Cheek scraping along the wood of the desk, you met your captor’s gaze– peering into the void.

Fingers curled around the waistband of your slacks as he stared back at you, challenging you. The blood drained from your face as your slacks were tugged roughly down, catching at your knees. Goosebumps erupted along the exposed flesh, bare ass hanging off the edge of the desk– a harrowing realization tearing through you.

You weren’t just an unlucky researcher who got too close to the sun, you were prey– and the boogeyman finally came to collect. The rough pads of his fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh, kneading the skin so curtly your stomach somersaulted.

You should want to scream– to run, to pound your fists into his chest and claw at his skin– but all you could do was watch his exploratory movements. He was studying you, just as you had done towards him for the better part of a year, curiosity stilling you against his touch. This was so wrong– you were supposed to be dead by now, blood pouring from your skin as life drained from your eyes– not sprawled half naked over your own research.

Your thighs clenched as the scratchy material of the jumpsuit brushed against your skin, hips meeting his. Gaping at that devilish mask, you refused to avert your eyes– even as your panties were ripped away from your body you stood firm, entranced. Was he experimenting with you before ending your life, or was he finally, finally cracking under the pressure from the lack of intimacy? The beast of a man behind you jerked forward slightly, hips grinding against the fat of your ass– but you were too focused on your inner ramblings to care. 

A ragged huff escaped the male hovering over you, breath fanning your back as realization slammed into you. He wasn’t doing this for him– he was doing this for you, giving you the concrete evidence you were missing in your theory.

The thought made your head spin, warmth pooling in your stomach– Michael had read your research, combed over the countless theories with meticulous detail, and now he knew the perfect way to make you pay for your pitiful investigation. The knife haphazardly draped against the dissertation was lifted, and a pang of fear stabbed into your chest.

Was this it? Were you going to be found half naked and covered in bloody handprints over your own research? You tried to track the weapon with your eyes, but Michael quickly ducked out of view behind you– leaving you in the dark. 

A cool sensation fluttered over your left asscheek as a finger brushed over the skin, wet and slimy. You cringed at the feeling, trying to arch away from the mysterious liquid as it— your eyes widened— dripped down to your lower thigh. The finger trailed lower, through the crevice of your ass and coating your inner folds, smearing your skin with the liquid.

The telltale scent of iron invaded your nostrils as the thick fluid clung to your skin, sticking to your folds. Your stomach fluttered in betrayal at the action, the finger lazily dipping into your folds to smear more– your stomach tightened– blood onto your pussy. He was using your best friend’s blood to prepare you, to ruin you.

The thought made your lip quiver, your own juices mixing into a concoction of dizzying sin and lust. The air was thick with tension, a sense of anticipation and shame quickly washing over you. The object of your obsessions was teasing you, somewhere inside making the darker parts of your mind swoon. 

Michael’s finger pushed inside of you, testing the waters. You shivered at the feeling, clamping your jaw shut so as to not expose your thoughts. The finger curled within you, and with it, your stomach flipped. Michael grunted, seemingly pleased with the warmth coming from your folds, and quickly withdrew his finger. The rustling of fabric tore you from the daze, and you strained your head above the desk– barely able to make out the monster of a man unbuttoning his mechanics suit in your peripheral.

Your breath hitched. This couldn’t be happening– it was all just a fucked up dream you were having, the obsessive nature of the killer finally manifesting itself in the darkest of ways.

Yet the warm press of bare hips against the fat of your ass was very much real, the outline of his cock nestled dangerously close to your blood tinted folds. You screwed your eyes shut, fuck you were not prepped enough for this– mentally or physically you couldnt decipher. A deep huff sounded out behind you, Michael’s patience wearing thin, and his cockhead caught against your folds as he pushed forwards– coating himself in your juices. 

You whimpered as his free hand gripped your hip, blunt nails digging into your flesh while he steeled himself, inexperience radiating off of him as he finally aligned himself to your core. You tried to relax, a shuddered breath escaping you at the prospect that this was going to hurt, and badly. Your captive hands curled into fists, digging into your palms as your bit into your inner cheek for comfort. And without so much as a warning, Michael sunk inside of you.

A choked gasp spilled from your lips at the stretch, feeling as if you were being torn in two by the almost inhumane size. Tears welled in your eyes, teeth gritting against each other as Michael stuttered forward— inch by inch. Helplessly, you clenched around him, body screaming for relief, but your silent pleas went unanswered.

Cockhead dragging against your gummy walls, his tip dug mercilessly into your cervix, causing a flash of white-hot pain to erupt within you. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, drawing blood, and you sucked on the metallic taste for comfort. God, you felt like you were dying– stabbing pain encompassing your lower half as you tried to arch away from the onslaught. 

Michael shuddered, hips stilling once he was fully submerged in your warmth. Tears streamed down your cheeks onto the wooden desk as relief washed over you, the burn of it all settling in the pit of your stomach. You were so full, stuffed to the brim to the point where the pressure was unbearable. Any solace of comfort was ripped away as he moved, pulling out quickly before slamming his back into you.

Black spots shot across your vision– a broken moan tearing from your throat as your cheek dug into the wood. The hand gripping your wrists tightened, your fingers tingling from the lack of blood flow as Michael settled into a deep, grueling pace. It was too much– too rough, the force of his thrusts causing the wood of the desk to clatter against the wall.

Papers crumpled beneath your weight as you were forcibly rocked to the movement, wood splintering into your cheek as you chafed against it. Your body barred down, staccato pants spilling from your mouth as you laid there and took him. If this had been anyone else, you would have been embarrassed at the way you could barely breathe, but with every sharp thrust you fell further from sanity.

He was ruining you, seemingly pushing so far you could feel it in your throat. Michael bottomed out suddenly, and you swore you saw stars, body spasming as he kissed your cervix. Any shame that you had been gripping onto seemed to vanish into thin air with every thrust, your hips pressing so hard against the wood you were sure there would be bruises.

Fuck it felt like you were being dragged into hell itself, the devil reincarnated destroying you for all others.

Sweat clung to your hairline, the room burning as Michael fucked into you like a man gone mad. Involuntary grunts, gasps, and moans bounced off the room, raw with emotion– and you finally realized they were coming from you. It was so wrong, so lewd to be tainted by the very person you had obsessed over, but it felt too good for you to care. The underside of his cock brushed against that oh so sensitive spot so sinfully your toes curled.

You were consumed with it– taboo and all, stomach tightening as Michael’s hips rocked into you.

Brows furrowing, you abandoned any semblance of control or consciousness, chasing the high that sprouted in your stomach. You felt like you were going to break, stomach fluttering at the sting of his sheer size. You were practically milking him, clenching down so hard you swore you could have heard him hiss from behind you. The hand that was gripping onto your hip like a lifeline tangled within your hair, yanking you upwards.

You gasped, pain needling your scalp as you arched to meet his demands. Refusing to let up, Michael continued his merciless pace, using your hair as an anchor against his thrusts. The cool material of his mask brushed against your shoulder, causing another gargled moan to seep from you at the action. You were a mess– button down clinging to your sweaty skin as you subconsciously angled your hips to accommodate the shift in position. 

The outline of his cock was much more evident now, scraping against your walls so brutally your heart caught within your throat. Your body tensed, praying– begging to find release. Practically teetering on the edge, you wrenched your head from his grasp, turning to meet his gaze.

You just wanted to see him, the monster you had spent countless nights studying.

The hazy light of the bedroom caught his mask; the devil staring back at you. A sea of blue met yours, pupils so dilated they looked black. Those eyes– not the animalistic thrusts, not the churning of your insides– but those eyes threw you over the edge.

A guttural scream tore from your throat, body spasming as you came around his cock. Michael’s hips stuttered against your at the sudden shift, a deep groan invading your senses as you fell from grace. Your eyes rolled to the back, head hanging weakly as you gasped for air. Electricity jolted through you like a live wire, and you shuddered, fluttering around him. Michael huffed, composure quickly falling away as you clung to him like a lifeline, his own orgasm fast approaching. 

He shoved you forwards once more, pressing you so hard into the desk you felt as if you were going to melt into the woods. He pushed forward– once, twice before finally, finally he finished. Hot, thick ropes of cum coated your insides, and you subconsciously fluttered at the feeling. Michael stilled, hips flush against the fat of your ass, cock throbbing as you both struggled to come down from the high.

You sank into the wood, exhaustion weighing you down, head still spinning from your orgasm. Michael slowly withdrew from your sputtering form, the void quickly overtaking you as he tucked himself back into his jumpsuit. The ache of his cock quickly overtook you, and you winced, fear beginning to settle into your stomach.

Michael had gotten what he had wanted– now what?

You squirmed against the hand still pinning you to the desk, babbling utter nonsense in the hopes it would spare your life. The knife that rested just inches from your face was lifted, and your eyes screwed shut, waiting for the final blow. 

But it never came.

The hold on your wrists eased up, and you quickly fell backwards, knees weak and legs trembling. You quickly whipped your head around, trying to shield yourself from any attacks, but you were met with nothing. Your room was empty, door wide open as your personal boogeyman seemed to flee into the night. The knife was nowhere in sight, seemingly vanishing into the air. Your frantic gaze scanned your room for anything out of place, any secret hiding places he could have gone to, but everything was the same as you had left it this morning.

Your knees gave out at that, and you crumpled onto the shaggy carpet. Tears of relief, fear, shame– and something else you couldn’t quite place dripped down your face. You were alive, somehow spared. The events of the day quickly came crashing down: your dissertation, Michael, and– your eyes flicked to the open door once more– Kimberly. You pushed yourself upwards once more, knuckles gripping the desk as you rose to your feet. Wobbling slightly, a blank patch on your desk caught your attention, stopping you in your tracks. 

Your printed dissertation– it was gone.

Your breathing hitched, stomach knotting at the sight. Somehow, you already knew where it had disappeared to. Lip quivering, you stumbled into the kitchen, mind still reeling. The sensation of him lingered, thick and heavy, the evidence of what he had done to you– with you still dripping down your thighs. You cringed at the feeling. Kimberly’s door remained open, and you sucked a breath through your teeth, refusing to look.

Hands fumbling for the receiver, you quickly punched in Detective Langley’s number, gripping the kitchen counter so hard your knuckles turned white. The line rang, and you shifted your gaze to the window. The sun had nearly vanished beneath the horizon, painting the sky in a crimson hue that made your skin prickle.

It was the same red that was smeared on your skin, the same red that pooled beneath Kimberly’s lifeless body– the color of blood. 

The dial tone droned in your ear, and for a moment, everything blurred, the phone shaking in your hand as the horrifying truth gnawed at your stomach. You had spent months dissecting the mind of a killer, and he had finally come for you.

And yet, you were alive– untouched yet violated, unscathed yet completely undone. The phone continued to ring, and a thought flickered in your mind, wrapping around your heart like a vice. You had never been the observer, you had always been the subject. 

And worst of all– he knew it too.

[qqueenofhades]

do you have any advice for those in the very early stages of thesis-writing? currently desperately clinging to the mantra of "shitty first drafts," et al

Unfortunately, there is no place where you will more whole-assedly have to embrace the "shitty first draft" mantra than in academic writing, especially in thesis writing, especially if this is your first-ish crack at an advanced and major piece of original research. I'm not sure if this is for an undergraduate senior thesis, a MA-level thesis, or (my true and heartfelt sympathies) a PhD dissertation, but the basic principles of it will remain the same. So there is that, at least. This means that yes, you will write something, you may even feel slightly proud of it, and then you will hand it into your supervisor and they will more or less kindly dismantle it. You have to train yourself to have a thick skin about this and not take it as a personal insult, and if your supervisor is remotely good at their job (not all of them are, alas) they will know how to be tactful about it and not make it feel like a direct and extensive commentary on your private worth as a person. But you will have to swallow it and do what you can, which can include -- if you're the one who has done the research and know that's how you want to present it and/or you are correct about it -- pushing back and having a conversation with them about how you think your original approach does work best. But that will come later. The first step is, yes, to mentally gird yourself to receive critical feedback on something that you have worked hard on, and to understand that no matter how much you grump and grumble and deservedly vent to your friends and so on, implementing the feedback will usually make your piece better and stronger. That is the benefit of working with a trained expert who knows what makes a good piece of research in your particular academic field, and while it doesn't get easier, per se, at least it gets familiar. Be not afraid, etc.

If you're in the writing stage, I assume that you've moved past the topic-selection and general-research stage, but allow me to plump once more the services of your friendly local university library. You can (or at least you can at mine and probably in any decently well-equipped research university) schedule a personal consultation with an expert librarian, who can give you tips on how to find relevant subject databases, create individual research guides (these might already be available on the university library website for classes/general topics), and otherwise level you up to Shockingly Competent Research Superhero. So if you're still looking for a few extra sources, or for someone else who might be reading this and is still in the "how the heck do I find appropriate and extensive scholarly literature for my thesis??" stage, please. Go become a Research Ninja. It's much easier when you have a minion doing half the work for you, but please do appreciate and make use of your university librarian. It's much more effective than haphazard Google Scholar or JSTOR searches hoping to turn up something vaguely relevant (though to be fair, we all do that too), and it's what your tuition dollars are paying for.

Next, please do remind yourself that you are not writing the whole thesis in one go, and to break it down into manageable chunks. It usually does make sense to write the whole thing semi-chronologically (i.e. introduction, lit review, chapter 1, chapter 2/3/4 etc, conclusion), because that allows you to develop your thoughts and make logical connections, and to build on one piece to develop the next. If you're constantly scrambling between chapters and zig-zagging back and forth as things occur to you, it will be harder to focus on any one thought or thread of research, and while you might get more raw output, it will not be as good and will require more correction and revision, so you're not actually hacking yourself into increased productivity. You should also internally structure your chapters in addition to organizing your overall thesis, so it makes sense to draw up a rough outline for section A, section B, section C within the body of a single chapter. This will make you think about why the segues are going in that order and what a reasonably intelligent reader, who nonetheless may not have the specialized knowledge that you are demonstrating for them, needs to move understandably from one section to the next.

Some academics I know like to do an extensive outline, dumping all their material into separate documents for each chapter/paper and kneading and massaging and poking it into a more refined shape, and if that works for you -- great! I'm more of the type that doesn't bother with a ton of secondary outlines or non-writing activity, since that can lead you away from actually writing, but if you need to see the fruit of your research all together in one place before you can start thinking about how it goes together, that is also absolutely the way that some people do it. Either way, to be a successful academic writer, you have to train yourself to approach academic writing in a very different way from fun writing. You do fun writing when you have free time and feel inspired and can glop a lot of words down at once, or at least some words. You do it electively and for distraction and when you want to, not to a set timeline or schedule, and alas, you can't do this for academic writing. You will have to sit your ass down and write even when you do not feel like writing, do not feel Magically Inspired, don't even want to look at the fucking thing, etc. I have had enough practice that I can turn on Academic Writing Brain, sit down, bang something out, sit down the next day and turn on Academic Editing Brain, go over it again, and send it off, but I have been in academia for uh, quite a while. The good news is that you can also automate yourself to be the same way, but the bad news is that it will take practice and genuine time invested in it.

As such, this means developing a writing schedule and sticking to it, and figuring out whether you work best going for several hours without an interruption, or if you set a timer, write for a certain time, then allow yourself to look at the internet/answer texts/fuck around on Tumblr, and then make yourself put down the distraction and go back to work for another set period of time. (I am admittedly horrible at putting my phone away when I should be doing something else, but learn ye from your wizened elders, etc.) You will have to figure out in which physical space you work best, which may not be a public coffee shop where you can likewise get distracted with doing other things/chatting to friends/screwing around on the internet/doomscrolling/peeking at AO3, and to try to be there as often as possible. It might be your carrel in the library, it might be your desk at home, it might be somewhere else on campus, but if you can place yourself in a setting that tells your brain it's time to work and not look at WhatsApp for the 1000th time in a row, that is also beneficial.

Finally, remember that you do not have to produce an absolutely world-beating, stunningly original, totally flawless and perfect piece, even in its final form. Lots of us write very shitty things when we're starting out (and some of us, uh, still write very shitty things as established academics), and you do not have to totally redefine your entire field of study or propose a groundbreaking theory that nobody has heard of or anything like that. A lot of academic work is small-scale and nuanced, filling in spaces on the margins of other things or responding or offering a new perspective on existing work, and it's best to think of it as a conversation between yourself and other scholars. They have said something and now you're saying something back. You don't need to be so brilliant that everyone goes ZOMGZ I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF THAT BEFORE; by its nature that happens very rarely and is usually way out on a limb (extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, etc); you just need to continue the dialogue with a reasonably well-constructed and internally plausible piece. So if you think of it that way, and understand that a shitty first draft will usually develop into something that is good and valuable but not SHOCKING NEW REVELATION clickbait hype, you will take some of the pressure off yourself and be more able to shut up that perfectionist voice in your head. However, all of us have some degree of imposter syndrome and it never entirely goes away, so you'll have to manage that too. Etc etc as before, it doesn't vanish altogether, but it gets easier.

And last but not least, though I'm sure I don't have to say this: for the love of fuckin' god, do not use ChatGPT. Even the genuinely shittiest paper in the world that you still worked on researching, organizing, and writing with your own brain is better than that. Trust me.

[radiantcircle-if]

The Radiant Circle

The Radiant Circle is a work-in-progress contemporary fantasy interactive novel with elemental magic, a heavy hand of romance, and a salt-sprinkle of mystery. The story is rated 18+ and may contain triggering content for some.

↪ introduction (updated 7/22/24) ⟢ demo (upcoming fall/winter)

You were born without any magic into a long lineage of sorcerers who serve the Night Circle—a division of the Radiant Circle, the central governing body that maintains order among sorcerers. Even now when you live outside of the magical community, you’re still required to report to the local leadership about the magic you still don’t have.

Of course, only after having accepted a life without magic, you awaken a latent magical power too great to be yours. Myths speak of such a sorcerer, a Resonant Soul capable of mastering all four elements, reincarnated throughout history to bring balance to the magic community. So little is truly known, but that can’t be you.

But what if it is?

Thankfully, as an investigative journalist, what you do best is hunt for the truth. To unravel the secrets of your soul, you’re forced back into the world of sorcery to navigate ancient rivalries and contend with those who may fear your newfound power and seek to bury it for good. 

Because while most didn't believe the myths to be true, others have been preparing for your return. Most of all? You four souls bonded to yours for eternity.

Play as the main character ⟢

Choose your name, appearance, gender, and sexuality.

Develop your personality as a harmonizer or disruptor—will you bring unity or will you bring destruction?

Gain mastery over elemental magic as the Resonant Soul—how much mastery in each element is up to you.

Travel the world while earning or losing influence through your decisions—will your reputation precede you or will you remain unknown?

Five romance options ⟢

Two pansexual men, one lesbian, and two gender-selectable romance options... and a hidden sixth romance option... with the potential for more to unlock later.

Four soulmates who will be revealed over the course of the story—your bonds, whether platonic or romantic, are yours to develop.

And if you don’t like romance, you can improve your friendships instead.

Or if you’re a misanthrope, deteriorate all your relationships to your liking.

Good endings? Check. Bad endings? Also check.

You ✦ 26-year-old journalist from Seattle, USA (ℹ) Rejected by the magical community because your magic never awakened, you once sought to understand why before later turning to a career of journalism to attempt to uncover truths that don’t have to do with magic. Your dissertation was titled “Unveiling the Hidden: A Comparative Study of Secret Societies and Their Influence on Modern Media." After landing your dream job as an investigative journalist, you're returning home to Seattle for your assignment.

⟡ tropes include main character (surprise! you're the main character), insider/outsider, the most wanted (because you are a…), person of mass destruction, (possible) living legend, (possible) lust object, (seemingly) cosmic plaything…

Arseau Nassiet ⟡ High Justicar 31-year-old water sorcerer (he/him) from Seattle, USA (ℹ) A talented water sorcerer, your older brother Arseau is well loved within the Night Circle's upper echelons, but he'd never brag about it. He has been away from home for over a decade, raising ranks within the circle alongside his best friend. He coordinates his visit home with yours during the holidays so he can see his favorite younger sibling (never mind that he has only one sibling—you).

⟡ tropes include protective older brother, brainless beauty (yeah, he's a himbo), the caregiver/caretaker, the confidant (if you want), the informant, nice guy (someone has to keep the peace between the Pico brothers), the reliable one...

César Pico (RO) ⟡ Archumbricar 31-year-old earth sorcerer (he/him) from Tijuana, MX (ℹ) One of the highest ranking earth sorcerers in the world, César is seen as the unofficial heir of the current Night Luminary—and he takes the role seriously. As your brother's best friend, he has been a permanent fixture in your life as far as you remember—another persistent reminder of the magic that has remained inaccessible to you and the community that left you behind. He's at least an attractive reminder, even if it's unfortunate that his rare smirk proves that he knows it.

⟡ tropes include the hero, the cold & brooding heir, older brother's best friend/forbidden love, age gap, opposites attract, danger deadpan, glory hound, tall dark & handsome (obviously) ⟡ solo-route (with a possible rivalry with his brother), borderline enemies to lovers, (possible first love), forced proximity, maybe the slowest burn

Rafa Pico (RO) ⟡ High Justicar 27-year-old fire sorcerer (he/him) from Tijuana, MX (ℹ) The younger brother of César....and also his left hand man even though he doesn't take his position within the Night Circle very seriously. He doesn't take anything very seriously except his freedom. Especially his freedom to flirt his way into anyone's good graces.

⟡ tropes include the explorer, the charming playboy, childhood/long time friend, (his) unrequited crush (on you), the (horny) bard, speed demon, hell seeker, elegant classical musician... ⟡ solo-route (with a possible rivalry with his brother), friends to lovers but he never really saw you as a friend, forced proximity, slow burn

Gazi Gharib (RO) ⟡ Photojournalist 28-year-old (she/her or he/him) from New York City, USA (ℹ) Your roommate and best friend ever since you moved to NYC, they're always ready to help you investigate something new and dangerous.

⟡ tropes include the innocent, the best friend, the encouraging charmer, the serial romeo, the casanova, agent mulder (the believer), empathetic communicator, spirited competitor, the klutz ⟡ solo-route or poly-route with Deniz, besties to lovers (and you can start at the lover bit if you'd like cause this one is a...), faaaaaast burn

Deniz Yılmaz (RO) ⟡ Private Investigator 26-year-old (he/him or she/her) from Istanbul, TR (ℹ) Your next-door-neighbor and childhood best friend. You haven't kept in close contact, but they're the first person you think of seeing when you visit home.

⟡ tropes include the jester, agent scully (the skeptic), street-smart investigator, hardboiled detective, erudite stoner, literal-minded/snark knight combo, childhood friends, loyal supporter, gadgeteer genius ⟡ solo-route or poly-route with Gazi, childhood friends (or was it more?) to lovers, (possible second chance romance...), somewhere between slow and fast burn

Dr. Noel Sung (RO) ⟡ Journalist 41-year-old (she/her) from London, UK (ℹ) Your graduate school mentor who you credit for preparing you to land a job at The New York Times as prestigious as it is. She's now your direct supervisor, and she has quite the assignment for you.

⟡ tropes include the magician, high-powered career woman, absent-minded professor(/former forbidden love?), age gap, charismatic intellectual, intuitive leader, pragmatic idealist, deadpan snarker, determinator, shrinking violet, (your possible unrequited crush on her goes here)… ⟡ solo-route, workplace romance (technically; she's your boss now), slow burn

An ancient, hidden society of sorcerers ⟢

The Radiant Circle is the central governing body that maintains harmony and order among sorcerers, as well as keep their community secret. It was originally formed and led by the Resonant Soul (called the High Guardian—this is you) and the most powerful elemental sorcerers of the time (called the Founding Guardians—these are the four souls bonded to you) as an alliance of sorcerers from across the New Kingdom of Egypt.

After its formation, the magical community grew, and eventually, the Radiant Circle was divided into four smaller regional circles called the Ephemeral Circles: the Night Circle (you know the most about this one), the Dawn Circle, the Day Circle, and the Dusk Circle. These four circles, also called luminariates, are the main governing bodies of the current world of sorcery. Every known family of sorcerers lives under the eye of the Radiant Circle and one of the four Ephemeral Circles.

Only the Resonant Soul can be the High Guardian of the Radiant Circle. Only the four souls bonded with Resonant Soul can be the Founding Guardians. During periods where the Resonant Soul or the Guardians aren’t alive, these positions are left vacant and the Ephemeral Circles meet as the Radiant Council annually instead. Unfortunately, it's been so long since there has been a Resonant Soul that there aren't many people left who remember who sits at the top of the hierarchy.

You live as a Threshold—an uninitiated sorcerer, typically a child who can't use magic yet—within the luminariate called the Night Circle. You sit at the bottom of the hierarchy, but every other sorcerer you know? César is an Archumbricar, the right hand of the Night Luminary and leader of the Night Circle. Arseau and Rafa are César's High Justicars, his right and left hands. Your dads even play a role, advising the Luminary from their position in the Night Weave.

A single soul that can control all four elements, reincarnated once again—you ⟢

Before you became the Resonant Soul, you were a child born without magic to two prominent sorcerers sometime before recorded human history begins. Back then, it was common to put the child of every sorcerer through a resonance ritual, even children of sorcerers born without magic who always died in the process. But where there's a will, there's a way, and someone really wanted you to live and created circumstances that bound your souls together—one into endless reincarnation and the other into endless immortality.

You meet the four original Guardians over the course of hundreds of years. Your bonds are unique and have chained the fate of their souls with yours so that they are reincarnated in an endless cycle by your side. Even so, you've lived more lives without them than with them, lived more lives without magic than with it. Almost as if you're fighting a losing battle against knowing your true soul.

Only the Resonant Soul can resonate with all four types of elemental magic, but your magic remains locked away until you regain your memories (how're you supposed to regain memories you don't remember you need to regain? then again, how safe would it be to give you all that power and no recollection of all the mistakes you've made?). The Guardians are known for their extraordinary abilities in one element; their magic isn't sealed away, only their memories (which still isn't convenient—how are you supposed to know who they are if they don't know who they are?).

⟢ retweets & asks are welcome! there is no better writing motivation ♡

〉 Sections: Profiles, Editorials, Articles, Ask Me, Answers, Quotes

[pumpkinpaix]

You have questions! We might have answers.

What is this collection?

As Maria puts it: this collection is a critical look at some of the things that we, the editors, think have made CQL such a hit around the world. Of course, part of that success comes from the webnovel MDZS and the show CQL themselves—we love the characters, the mystery, and the drama, who doesn’t?! However, the authors in our book also look at topics like translating danmei (both officially and unofficially), adapting danmei for new audiences, and interacting with fandoms and fanworks. The larger argument of the book is that all of these things played a huge role in CQL’s visibility and success, and we wanted to start making those moving pieces visible, especially for audiences who mainly watched CQL in translation.

You keep using the word “academic”—what does that mean, exactly? 

Maria: Ok, not to get pedantic here, but this actually touches on some things that I’m really excited about for the book. Traditionally, academic work is written by people who have a deep expertise in the subject (signified by having a PhD and doing specific kinds of research), and then the work itself is peer-reviewed (i.e., sent to other experts in the field for them to evaluate whether it’s sound, original, and interesting enough to publish, without knowing who wrote it). And both of these things are true about our book—our authors have deep knowledge and the book was peer reviewed—but also. We specifically asked for chapters from younger scholars and from fans who also have deep knowledge about topics that academia doesn’t always know or value enough, and we include an interview from the fan-translator K. who did the Exiled Rebels translation. So the hope is that: this book is academic, and also—more!

Who are you? 

Yue studies adaptation, fantasy, and popular culture texts using a feminist lens. She wrote an early, influential article about danmei adaptations and also has a book about feminist adaptations of Chinese fantasy.

Maria studies fanworks, contemporary fantasy, and genre literature. She’s scrambling to finish her dissertation right now.

How were the chapter spotlights chosen?

Voluntarily! The concept of a small social media promo was kicked around by some of the contributors and those interested in the idea filled out a short interview with what they wanted to share. We'll be posting about 2 introductions and 2 spotlights a day for the next week or so!

Who's running this social media campaign anyway?

Not the publishers! A few enthusiastic collection contributors got together and, with the assistance of the editors, have put this promotion together. We do not in any way represent Peter Lang in an official capacity! We just worked hard and wanted to share. :)

Are you making any money off of royalties from this book? 

LOL not even remotely

What about this promotion?

also no. alas

Where can I find this book? 

You can find our listing on Peter Lang’s website here. As for other retailers, a quick search should turn us up!  

How can I access this book if I cannot buy it from Peter Lang / [book retailer of choice]?

As collection editors and contributors who signed a legal agreement with Peter Lang, we have granted Peter Lang exclusive right and license to edit, adapt, publish, reproduce, distribute, display, and store our contributions, and we must cooperate fully with the Publisher if the Publisher believes a third party is infringing or is likely to infringe copyright in the contribution. 

That being said, these are academic papers, which means that contributors may make copies of the contribution for classroom teaching use! (These copies may not be included in course pack material for onward sale by libraries and institutions). Of course, any linking, collection or aggregation of chapters from the same volume is strictly prohibited.

(FAQ may be updated periodically!) (all posts on Catching Chen Qing Ling)

[ghnosis]

ghesties: help the Ghost PhD Lady get early band info

hey all, I'm writing the introduction to my Ghost PhD dissertation (#ghesis) and I need citations for some things, PARTICULARLY early interviews or early band history.

can anyone get in contact with @slavghoul? their DMs are off and so are asks.

basically, what I need is to be able to back up claims I'm making about the band - here's a snippet to explain what I mean, see highlights

(image text: A mere [time frame] after releasing songs on MySpace, and Papa, a disgusting, eerie old man [quotes here] was already talking about the length of his Phallos Mortuus in interviews: an interview with Metal Hammer UK from 2012 features Papa Emeritus I referring to himself as John Holmes, “the 13-inch-cocked porn star,” in a mix that also includes Hitler, the Pope, and Dracula (Doran 2012). Sexually-charged comments appeared in interviews with every Papa, including gender-neutral comments (Decibel 2013 p86) and references to specific, maligned kinks [Primo pissing on ghouls – I need to reach out to Slav]. As the Ghost project evolved, the Papas evolved as well, as if in response to this sexual attention.)

bonus points if anyone knows anyone who ran or submitted to Ghoulish Perversions here on tumblr

please reblog for bigger reach!!!!!!!!

[sagevalleymusings]

An Overly In-depth Analysis of Spinning Silver Many Years Late

`When I first started writing this in 2022, I had recently finished reading Naomi Novik’s Spinning Silver for the first time. I wanted to remember a particular quote in the book, and stumbled upon some reviews from 2019, when the paperback was released.

The quote I was looking for: You will never be a Staryk Queen until you make a hundred winters in one day, seal the crack in the mountain, and make the white tree bloom.

The reviews: 

…read Temeraire and Uprooted at least ten times, but couldn’t reread this. The relationships between the two main men and two main women are abusive. Certainly, there’s trauma involved, but it’s not a woman’s job to heal men’s trauma through sacrificing themselves…

…I adored Uprooted (had some issues, but still loved it completely), however Spinning Silver just felt off – not as magical, terrible “romances”, too many POVs, etc. All in all, it just wasn’t as gripping. I liked Miryem’s character, but the other two protagonists were very bland “strong female characters…”

I hate this. I hate this so much. I hate this enough that I’m going to write an excessively long post defending Spinning Silver for three years. For everyone that doesn’t want to read a masters-student dissertation of an essay or who hasn’t read the book yet and wants to go into this spoiler free, here’s the TL:DR version. There are no romances in this book. The two reviewers above are trying to apply the enemies to lovers tropes they loved so much in Uprooted to a grimm fairy tale about politics, feminism, and Jewish persecution. There are no romances in this book. This is hard to grasp, because two of the main characters are married, and that marriage is a major part of the plot, but no one in those marriages including the men wanted the marriage in the first place. To call it “abusive” is to read modern expectations onto a historical political marriage that, while not inaccurate, fundamentally misunderstands the point and the context in which the story takes place. 

Also, I would recommend the audio book, if you have trouble with multiple points of view. They are all in first person, and although it starts out with just two, we add more and more POV until there’s 5 or 6 total. The reader Lisa Flanagan does an excellent job distinguishing POVs which will make this aspect of it easier. Read the book, particularly the audiobook. But if you are reading this book looking for romance, you’re going to be disappointed. It’s still one of the best if not the best re-imagined fairy tale I’ve ever read. Here’s an excessively long post about why.

The Introduction

The very first thing we’re introduced to is Miryem as our narrator explaining that stories aren’t about “how they tell it” but getting out of paying your debts. So how do “they” tell it? The introductory story is about a girl having sex out of wedlock who is left in the lurch because the “lord, prince, rich man’s son” has a duty. 

It’s about saving yourself for marriage. Even in how “they” tell it, who the man is doesn’t matter and no one is in love. Your duty to your family comes first. 

This story is not about romance. The story this story is subverting is not about romance. Even in how “they” tell it, romance isn’t a good thing. 

In actual fairy tales, not Disney princess stories, romance often has nothing to do with it. These are stories for little children to get them to obey their parents. Rumpelstilskin is about ingenuity and perseverance. Even in a story like Cinderella, the romance is entirely incidental - the story is about hard work, strength through adversity, and moral superiority. The marriage itself isn’t romantic in the sense that the two main characters fall in love. These stories are older than the modern concept of love. For authors with a strong sense of familial duty and nationalism, writing about something as subversive as romantic love would go against their goals.

This is the setting that Spinning Silver takes place in. It’s a modern fairy tale set in a regency era. The fairy tale Miryem tells in our introduction paints romance as a bad thing. You marry out of duty. 

But Miryem from the start tells us that filial duty isn’t what the stories are really about. They’re really about paying your debts. Within the first 2 minutes of this book, it’s already told us three times that this story isn’t about romance. Once in the setting of a fairy tale about filial duty, once in the denial of how they tell it, and once in the revelation of the real interpretation.

The Power of Threes

The power of repetition and specifically of threes comes up over and over again in the book. In many cultures across the world, three has special significance. From the fairy tale side of it, Rumpelstilskin itself contains layers of threes within threes. Rumpelstilskin makes a bargain for the miller’s daughter on the third night. The queen has three days to guess Rumpelstilskin’s name, and guesses three names each day.

It’s likely that these repetitions of threes in fairy tales come from the Christian backdrop they were written in, which at times focuses on the third path in the middle of two binaries, or the significance of building power, though it’s difficult to make any sweeping, central claims about why three is significant because fairy tales are so widespread across countries, time, and religion. But it’s important that Novik is writing this from a Lithuanian Jewish perspective, so there’s a subtle shift in the interpretation and meaning of the rule of threes. I’m not Jewish, so what specifically this is as grounded in Novik’s ancestry is something I can’t be clear on.

During my research, one explanation that seems to resonate with the symbolism of this book is a Chabad interpretation. From chabad.org: The number three symbolizes a harmony that includes and synthesizes two opposites. The unity symbolized by the number three isn’t accomplished by getting rid of number two, the entity that caused the discord, and reverting to the unity symbolized by number one. Rather, three merges the two to create a new entity, one that harmoniously includes both opposites. 

Lithuanian Judaism is majority non-Hasidic, so this is just one tangentially-related explanation of the importance of threes. I’m sure there’s other interpretations I’m missing because I can’t possibly begin to know where to look. But I like this explanation for grounding the story because I think it fits well with the symmetry of our protagonists and their husbands (or lack thereof), and the way the story is building to their creating something new.

So when the very first thing we are shown within the first two minutes of the book is a thrice denial of romance, we need to take Naomi Novik seriously when she says that the book is about getting out of paying your debts. Or, at the very least, this is what Miryem thinks the book is about. The way in which the characters grow and change does reveal some of the original cynicism in this thesis, but ultimately this is a story about what we owe each other, and how that debt comes for us if we don’t pay it. And on top of that, Miryem describes the love interest of the miller’s daughter as “lord, prince, rich man’s son” (3 possibilities). Who this love interest is doesn’t matter in the slightest.

All this to say that within the first two minutes of the book, if you are still reading this expecting a romance, you aren’t listening to the author.

Jewish Heritage

Also within the first few minutes of the book, we learn that Miryem is a Jewish moneylender in a fantasy version of Russian-occupied Lithuania some time in the Middle Ages. I’m not going to get too deep into this. I am, as I said, not Jewish, and these characterisations edge very close, on purpose, to deeply anti-Semitic tropes. But understanding what Novik is saying about her heritage and her family’s persecution is critically important to understanding the book. 

Naomi Novik is a second-generation American. She’s Lithuanian Jewish on her father’s side, and Polish Catholic on her mother’s side. In many ways, Spinning Silver has been treated as a spiritual successor to Uprooted. Uprooted is set in a fantasy version of Poland, Spinning Silver is set in a fantasy version of Lithuania. Both stories are about Novik’s heritage, and the stories from her ancestors. Spinning Silver is a lot more obvious about this, but there’s a non-zero amount of Catholicism in the way the Dragon structures his magic, and in the older folk magic that lives in the trees.

Spinning Silver is much more explicit, and Novik has said as much, that Miryem’s family is supposed to reflect her father’s family and his experience as a Lithuanian Jew.

Our book takes place in a fantasy version of Lithuania in 1816. That’s a very specific date I’ve picked out for a book that otherwise appears to be ‘the ambiguous past.’ How did I come to that conclusion?

I did a little bit of research to try and determine when and this is what I came up with: Lithuania didn’t exist until the 13th century. Lithuania didn’t have a tsar on the throne until Russian imperialism in the late 1700s. Restrictions on Jews’ ability to work in craft or trade began around 1100 in Europe, and began to wane around 1850. In Lithuania, this fluctuated depending on the specific time period, so we can a little further narrow the timing down to after the mid 1600s but before the 1850s, probably during early Russian imperialism. Leadership is religious, either Eastern Orthodox or Catholic, who at the time believed that charging interest was sinful, so employed members of other religions, specifically Jews, to do their money lending for them. Because of the association with sinful, dirty work, and previous oppression as a religious minority, this led to a significant rise in anti-Semitism, coming to a head with a series of Jewish pogroms in Russia from (officially) 1821-1906, leading millions to flee and thousands of deaths. So we can narrow our estimation down to about 80 years, between 1820-1900.

Then my historian partner started reading it with me and exclaimed, "is that a reference to the Year Without A Summer" so actually 1816, but you can also see how easy it is to narrow that date down even as an amateur just by examining the exact flavor of anti-Semitism in the text. Which is why, even after I learned about the year Without A Summer, I left my aimless searching in.

Most audience members probably don’t know this much detail about history, but Spinning Silver is very clearly written with an audience understanding of this history in mind. We’re supposed to see the rise in anti-Semitism throughout the book which adds a layer of tension because at any moment, the politics in the wider world and rising anti-Semitism might catch up to our protaginists, and Miryem and her entire family could be killed. 

That’s it, book over. Anti-Semitism sweeps through, destroys everything it touches, and none of the clever problem-solving of any of our heroines matters. It’s over.

This dark possibility looms over the story like a storm cloud the entire time. The most explicit reference is when Miryem uses the tunnel her grandfather dug.

“I pulled it up easily, and there was a ladder there waiting for me to climb down. Waiting for many people to climb down, here close to the synagogue, in case one day men came through the wall of the quarter with torches and axes, the way they had in the west where my grandfather’s grandmother had been a girl.”

The fear of persecution isn’t just something of the past. It is something that people in this community are actively thinking about and planning contingencies for.

We’re five pages in and I’ve barely gotten through the first five minutes of the book. I could do this for literally the rest of the book if I wanted to - five minutes later, Miryem as narrator starts talking about a festival at the turn of the seasons between Autumn and Winter, which she calls “their festival” and resents the townspeople for it because they’re spending money they borrowed from Panov Mandelstam on it. Meanwhile, Panov Mandelstam is lighting a candle for the third day of their own festival, when a cold wind sweeps in and blows the candles out. Her father tells them it’s a sign for bed time instead of relighting them, because they’re almost out of oil. Panov Mandelstam is reduced to whittling candles out of wood because, “there isn’t going to be any miracle of light in our house.” I didn’t catch this the first time around, because I’m an ignorant goyim I wasn’t thinking about this book as an explicitly Jewish fairytale. But Novik is obviously making a reference to Channukkah, and the fact that Panov Mandeltam doesn’t relight the candles for Channukkah is powerfully unsettling. And then on the eigth day, Miryem takes up her father’s work and collects the money he’s been neglecting, and there is light in their house for Channukkah after all, but the miracle is hard work, not magic. The entire book is like that, layers upon layers of meaning with every sentence. Subtle clues before the curtain is pulled back. I want to teach a seminar using only this book on the definition of “show, don’t tell.”

Good and Evil

But at some point I’m going to have to move on, and so let’s talk about trauma, poverty, and morals.

Novik introduces the townsfolk as Miryem sees them, but not all the townsfolk. Each person introduced by name winds up coming back later, enacting some kind of harm. But it seems to me that this harm is foreshadowed in each instance.

First, we’re introduced to Oleg. Oleg’s wife is described as being Oleg’s “squirrelly, nervous wife.” This isn’t the only time it occurs to me to wonder if Oleg beats his wife, but I think the description is intentional. Oleg eventually tries to murder Miryem, for explicitly anti-Semetic reasons, but I think this violence is foreshadowed in the way we see him interact, in brief flashes, with his wife and son, and how they’re always described as being a little withdrawn, a little afraid of Oleg, and not very sad that he’s gone, except in the part where this is going to be a financial burden on the family.

Next introduced is Kajus. Kajus who had borrowed two gold pieces to establish himself as a krupnik brewer (the krupnik he brews would lead to Da’s alcoholism). His solution to Miryem banging on their doors is to offer her a drink. Clearly getting people hooked and indebted to him is a tactic he’s used to success more than once. 

The last person introduced in this sequence is Lyudmila. Again, we are given a set of three. Lyudmila is different. Lyudmila never borrowed money. She doesn’t have a direct reason for despising the Mandelstams. Or at least, she shouldn’t. And yet, her distain jumps off the page. Lyudmila is the quiet, insidious voice spreading lies and rumors about the Jewish family in town. Her violence is not explicit. But it is the same.

The last person we’re introduced to, given an entire separate section to his own, is Gorek.

Good and Evil part 2 - is Wanda’s Da an evil character?

Gorek, who’s better known for the rest of the book as Wanda’s Da, is also introduced to us first as a borrower trying to get out of paying his debts. Gorek is a violent drunk. This is established repeatedly. Gorek is not a good man.

But is he evil? Certainly he seems to be the antagonist of Wanda’s story, and there’s no love lost when he dies. But I think it’s interesting that even Gorek, in many respects, is sympathetic. He’s not very different from any of the other men in this town. Oleg is violent. Kajus profits off the many people in the town that drink their troubles away. Gorek is not uniquely awful even if he is particularly awful. And even for Gorek, the text takes pains to remind us that he buried his wife and five children. His life is hard. Their plot of land is sat next to a tree where nothing will grow. How much rye did they waste before they learned that lesson? And when Mama was alive, they had enough to eat in the winter, but only because she was very, very careful to divide everything up. On his own, Gorek couldn’t make that math add up, even before he started drinking his troubles away. Gorek is facing a life where unless something drastic changes, he and his children will slowly starve to death, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

So he sells his daughter for one jug of krupnik a week. Gorek has made his bed; he doesn’t want to keep living. He’s drinking himself into the grave he dug for his wife. But in the meantime he does still need to take care of his children.

I don’t say this to forgive his actions; I do think Gorek’s actions are unforgivable. Some people cannot be redeemed, they can only be defeated, and Gorek is one of those people. But at the end of the book, Wanda and Sergei and Stepon still bury him when they go back to Pavys, next to the rest of their deceased family.

Gorek is a product of his environment, and that environment is cruel and cold. The people it produces are by and large cruel and cold. No one in the town bothers to bury Gorek. No one stops him from hitting his wife and children. There’s nothing at all strange, according to the rest of the town, about his selling his daughter for drink.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Gorek is not evil, but I also think that this book is taking pains to present with sympathy the kind of environment which creates people like Gorek. Like our Staryk king, who was entirely prepared to force himself onto Miryem even though neither one of them wanted it. Like Mirnatius, who did not himself commit any acts of violence, but who was perfectly willing to benefit from the violence being committed with his face. The world is cold and cruel, and it is very, very easy to become cold and cruel from it.

The Power of Threes revisited: Miryem’s magic

Even Miryem says that she’s had to be cold and cruel to be their family’s moneylender. We don’t see very much of this. But she does after all agree to have someone work in her house for essentially no pay. We don’t necessarily realize it, because it comes at our own turning point, but Miryem has to learn empathy just as much as her Staryk king does. When she agrees to allow Flek and Tsop and Shofer to help her with her trials.

I read Novik’s new anthology Buried Deep and Other Stories and in that collection she says it’s a line from the Staryk king about Miryem’s magic that made her want to expand what was originally a short story into a full book. “A power claimed and challenged and thrice carried out is true; the proving makes it so.”

Fairy tales are about hard work. This line from the Staryk king isn’t just a way of constructing magic, it’s just literally true. If I get a job as an accountant, despite not knowing anything about accounting, and I don’t fail, then by the end I will be an accountant. I love this, that the magic in Spinning Silver is just hard work.

Miryem’s magic is another rule of threes. The Staryk king challenges her to turn silver into gold three times, to make the magic true, and she does it – with mundane means, through ordinary hard work, but it’s done. She barters freedom for a day by turning three storehouses to gold, and she does that too – with wit and hard work, but it’s done. The Staryk king challenges her that she’ll never be a Staryk queen, unless she can do three feats of high magic, and she does each one. Or rather, each one gets done, and Miryem has a hand in it. But the first feat of high magic requires the assistance of one other person. The second – the assistance of three. Much like each trial before it grew in magnitude – first 6 coins, then 60, then 600 – so too do all three stories grow in magnitude. It would stand to reason then that the third test of magic would require at least three upon three people. But Miryem is not the only protagonist in this story.

Circling back to Romance: Arranged Marriage is Bad That’s Obviously The Point

In addition to the rule of threes woven repeatedly in Miryem’s story, the entire story itself is a Triptych. One story is the story of the girl who could turn silver into gold. One story is the story of the children who find themselves lost in the woods and stumble onto a witch’s house full of rich food. One story is the story of the duke’s misfit daughter who marries a prince. They are all of them different fairy tales. And at the end of the story, they all come crashing into each other. The white tree belongs to Wanda’s story, bought with six lives.

Three sets of three people in each story

There are many, many examples of threes woven throughout this story, but it was only three years into writing this essay that I realized that the marriages themselves are a set of three as well. After all, only Irina and Miryem get married, right?

But Wanda is offered a marriage proposal. In a story with less magic, Wanda would have married Lukas, and been yet another generation of poor, miserable women that died in childbirth. But Wanda says no, a thing entirely unheard of in this era. Women didn’t say no to marriages arranged by their fathers.

And at the end of the story, Wanda is still unwed, with absolutely no indication that this will ever change. Wanda’s agency, this rejection of marriage, is treated with the same weight as the marriages themselves. Saying no is just as valuable as Irina’s political marriage, or courting for a year and a day and marrying for love, as Miryem eventually does.

And Miryem does marry for love. She originally has no choice in the matter, but that contract is rendered void when the Staryk king is forced to let her go. We don’t see the year’s worth of courting because it’s not relevant to the story because this is not a romance but I really don’t want to lose this point because I think Wanda’s story sometimes gets forgotten precisely because it doesn’t have a marriage. But Novik is explicit about this through Wanda’s story. Irina had no choice, not really. So it never occurred to her to say yes or no. She kills the man who sought to marry her – Chernobog wanted to marry Irina, not Mirnatius. Irina murders her would-be husband, Miryem divorces hers, and Wanda says no. Yes, the arranged marriages in this book are abusive – Novik knows that and tears them down one by one and rebuilds them into something with far more agency, that our women protagonists chose.

The Story

So we’ve come all this way and learned that Spinning Silver is not a romance, not really. The married couples in the story do come to love each other, after a fashion. But that love blooming was not the point. The point was…

Well it was about getting out of paying your debts, wasn’t it? Novik told us very explicitly that it was about getting out of paying your debts right on the first page. It’s not how they told it. But she knew.

Miryem spends the entire book making her fortune from nothing. Wanda takes over the work from her. Stepon takes over after Wanda. The debt that the town owed to Josef was a major thread over and over again throughout the whole story. Oleg tries to kill Miryem over it. The Staryk king seeks Miryem’s hand because of it. Raquel had been sick because their dowry had been spent. Wanda comes to their house to pay off the debt. Nearly everything in the book can be traced back to the debt against Josef Mandelstam.

And then, in Chapter 25, Josef sends Wanda with many letters to the people of the town forgiving all the remaining debt that was owed. The people of Pavys get out of paying their debt.

But… how do they get out of it? Not through any trickery of their own, not really. There is a stated implication that fear was a big part of it. Sending Wanda with letters of forgiveness would mean that they would not be harried or harmed while they were wrapping up affairs in the town. But Josef also doesn’t need the money. They have a home of their own, many hands to make light the work, blessings from the Sunlit Tsar to establish their place in the world, and blessings from the Staryk king that will ensure their safety even through a hard winter. They want for nothing, so they do not seek to reclaim what is theirs.

And in a way they got all those blessings through paying their debts, but in a way they did not. The Staryk way of paying their debts teaches us something very important about what a debt really is. The Staryks don’t keep debts. They make fair trade. And if they can’t make fair trade, there is no deal. Or at least, they say they make fair trade. They didn’t trade for the gold they steal from the Sunlit world, though I suspect they would argue that the pain that is caused to the people of that world is trade for their putting a monster on the throne. And Miryem rightly points out that they had been raiding for gold and raping the people of Lithvas long before Chernobog sat on the throne. They make fair trade. But only with those they view as their equals.

But the Sunlit world is even worse. The Tsar doesn’t make fair trade. He spends magic like water and steals the lives of people that didn’t bargain with him to pay for it. In the Sunlit world, people take as much as they can with as little return as they can get away with. Not everyone, of course. But it is of particular note here that in this story, Jews are vilified particularly because they ask for fair trade in return. And the people they loan money to don’t want to give it to them.

But fair trade can only go so far. The Staryk king is trying to make a road back to his kingdom, and he can’t, because there is nothing of winter that they can find in the warm summer day. And he cannot take Stepon’s white tree seed, because it was bought with six lives, and given to Stepon alone, and there is nothing that the Staryk king can barter with that would measure against a mother’s love. But Stepon wants to see the white tree grown, so they find a way to plant it. Irina digs hard soil in apology, and the Mandelstams sing a hymn to encourage growth, and although none of this was done for the Staryk king, he still uses the work to create his road.

Sometimes, fair trade isn’t enough, and one must trust that it is to the benefit of all to aid each other.

The truest way of getting out of paying your debts… is to abolish the concept of debt.

That’s right, motherfuckers, eat your kings and burn the banks to the ground, love is the anti-capitalist manifesto we made along the way!

This section was going to be a little bit of a joke, but the more I think about it, the more it really isn’t. Miryem’s magic makes wealth meaningless in its magnitude. Wanda’s magic is having food and shelter to spare. And Irina’s magic is having just leadership that rules for the people, not for power. Novik’s fairytale ending is collectivism. She tells us three times, through three stories of hardship. And it isn’t even about becoming a princess, because Wanda marries no one, and lives in a magical house that seems to always have everything they need. So long as they do what they can to take care of it.

The real magic is community. Doing for yourself what you can, and reaching your hand to another when you can spare, so that they might do the same. And so long as we all do that together, the darkness cannot come in to feast.