pour one out for spooky szn 👻🍂
Ghosts are lesbians and the ancient Greeks are gay. Let's talk LGBTQ+ stories.
Welcome to the first Himbo Reads! If you know me in person (I’m sorry), you know how I’m not a fan of horror and am really jumpy. Still, I powered through spooky season and consumed a bunch of scary content. I’ll spare you my thoughts on House at the End of the Street with Jennifer Lawrence. BUT, let’s talk Netflix’s The Haunting of Bly Manor, Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles, and finish off with a haunting short story by yours truly.
*Angry Dani walk*
✨Spoilers ahead✨
Right off the bat, we get some jump scares, teased up hair, and rude British men. I’m in.
We follow American Danielle “Dani” Clayton looking to escape the ghost of her past (literally) in London and take a job caring for the creepy nephews of an abrasive businessman — in what is described as a “there’s no insulation and bad piping” manor. The first four episodes of the series are addictive. Like Dani, you’re also trying to figure out what is happening around her.
We get to the masterpiece that is episode five where we learn Hannah is dead (💀) and her existence in limbo is explained. It’s outstanding writing. Hannah repeats the same scene with Owen (👨🏽🍳) multiple times and not once you get bored with it. Every single time you get another piece of the puzzle.
But then you get to episode six, and you start to wonder: Why did I need to see this?
In what seems like an effort to prove to the reader that the writers thought-out every detail of the lore, Bly Manor’s episode six, seven, and eight beats you over the head with what could’ve been left to interpretation. Episode eight, specifically, feels like backstory that could’ve been spread out through the season. It’s as if they filmed episode nine and they needed eight to help make sense of the ending.
Finally, shoutout to this himbo king. I don’t know you, but this is the funniest tweet about Bly Manor I’ve seen.
Should you skip it? No. It wasn’t my favorite but it was enthralling.
Did you like The Haunting of Bly Manor? Also, what was the point of Rebecca and Peter’s story?
An ode to the soft boi: Patroclus
I know I’m super late to the party with Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles. I’m not a fast reader and tbh I forgot about it for a while.
Miller retells the story of Achilles from the point-of-view of his companion (made lover in this telling) Patroclus — an exiled prince with a penchant for sulking.
In the first few chapters, Miller does what I think is a very smart move and tells Patroclus (and the readers) of the prophecy of Achilles’ death. Most of us know the story so we know it’s coming so might as well acknowledge it. And by doing so Miller gives you something else to look forward to: development.
My biggest issue? I was waiting for the damn horse (🐴) to make an appearance and all it got was half a sentence by the end! I wanted more horse!
Should you skip it? Nah. It’s beautiful writing and it’s an oddly uplifting story.
Did you like The Song of Achilles? Do you think Chord Overstreet could play Achilles in a live-action movie?
Story time 📚
The alarm didn’t wake Emmanuel up, it rarely did those days. On that Tuesday morning, it was the sound of the rain hitting the sealed window that brought him to consciousness. On Monday it was the neighbor’s music and the day before that it was the heat from his own body trapped by his blanket as an act of kindness for the cold body it usually held.
It wasn’t even seven in the morning, but there was no point in avoiding the inevitable. Emmanuel got up from the bed and like an automated machine, his legs knew where to take him. His hands prepared to push the bathroom door open and when he did his eyes knew not to look at his own reflection.
He noticed her behind the shower curtain. She must have thought it was too early to engage, as well. But she would. She always did, so he paid her no mind at that moment.
By the time Emmanuel brewed coffee, he brought himself to look at his phone.
Only two messages. The first in three days.
Did you get my package, honey? — Mom
And
Hi! — Mark Tinder
The air seemed thin in the apartment and his chest tightened. He noticed her again from the corner of his eye lurking by the bathroom door. Her decaying leg visible thanks to a rebel sun ray that found the chink in the armor of the blinds. A part of him enjoyed knowing she was there, but sometimes he would rather not see her. It was enough to know she was there with him every single day. Her perpetually wet, tangled hair. Her rotted face and feathery arms. She wasn’t scary anymore, more so revolting, and he would rather not deal with the sight of her.
“I thought it was too early for you,” Emmanuel shot back. “You didn’t come to wake me today.”
She didn’t answer. She never did.
After a few sips, Emmanuel’s coffee turned cold on the table. The television was off and the phone was on the floor. He can’t see her anymore.
“No, no, please. I don’t want to, please,” he pleaded. Tears traced the path of those before them. If his skin were stone he would have rivers carved in his face already.
And there she was. Her younger sister. More talkative than her sibling.
“A message from another man already,” she said standing in front of him. She liked to be seen. She demanded attention.
Her rotted face, like her sister’s, had the remnants of a once beautiful creature. It was mesmerizing when you looked past the gray tones of her skin and the missing left cheek that exposed a full set of teeth that could only be described as fangs. Her glossy black eyes and sharpened teeth were there for mere decoration now. At one point, Emmanuel thought, she and her sister had used them to carve into the flesh of people like him. A tradition lost to time, he figured. There was no point in physical torture anymore.
“And you are still dependent on your mother to survive,” she relished the words. “How much shame do you think she feels about you? It is probably killing her every day to know she is a failure by having you as her sole kin. She already knows that she will die alone.”
Despair and fear fed on themselves to inundate his soul. He tried to fight it as hard as he could but it only took a sip for Emmanuel to become intoxicated in your own loathing. In the end, that’s what he thought they were after, to feast on the bounty that was his self-loathing. The fangs, the claws, the rotted faces — Emmanuel was sure the sisters would trade them in a heartbeat for them to be able to visit him at the same time.
He ran through his allotted tears for the morning. It wasn’t too bad, it was a comfortable hurt. The only constant he’s had since the accident.
The younger sister smirked. “You keep telling yourself it was an accident? After all this time, you still deny that it was you who killed him. You cannot blame the drink, my dear, or even his rage.”
“No it wasn’t,” Emmanuel repeated to himself in a soft whisper meant to persuade himself. Deep down he knew she wasn’t wrong.
The day of the accident, Emmanuel felt the butterflies in his stomach. That was the day he would have a conversation he had been putting off for over a year.
“I slept with someone else.”
Five words that set off an argument seven years in the making. It wasn’t the betrayal that ignited the anger in his partner. In fact, nothing seemed to ignite any emotion in him for some time. His indifference to Emmanuel’s guilt is what prompted his boyfriend to break the dam of grievances. For hours Emmanuel kept pushing buttons, seeing how little by little he got his boyfriend angrier and angrier. Finally, he thought, some emotion. It was like a sporting event to Emmanuel: how far could he be pushed? And at the top of the stairs, he found out how far when his partner turned to scream so close to his face that Emmanuel thought his boyfriend was going to hit him. Emmanuel pushed back reflexively.
It wasn’t like in the movies. His boyfriend’s body wasn’t limp after falling down the stairs. He twitched and gasped for air. He was still conscious but unable to hear Emmanuel’s apologies or his screams at the emergency operators. The fight was never mentioned. It was ruled an accident and that’s what Emmanuel started repeating to himself.
The younger sister had left. She usually deferred her time to her older sibling after trips down memory lane. And in their tested routine, Emmanuel felt the tattered feathers of the older sister envelop him as he laid on the floor shedding what little water he had left in his body.
She was quiet, but she made sure he was never alone.
Emmanuel first met the older sister the day after his boyfriend’s funeral. He was scared, but who could he tell? No one would believe a decaying half-woman, half-bird creature was lurking in his new apartment doing… nothing. After selling the house Emmanuel had gotten a studio in the city, hoping larger crowds would help distract him. The fast-paced lifestyle and unsuccessful attempts at meeting new friends just reassured him that his only companions were in his apartment. He even tried dating apps and as he tapped the download button he felt her embrace guiding his hand. She often did things like that, to remind him that he wasn’t alone.
Emmanuel felt the butterflies in his stomach and decided it was time to retrieve his mother’s package. He could see the front door from anywhere in the apartment, it was opening it that was the daunting task. The moment he did, he would let the world in. And he was afraid of what it would find. The sisters never followed him outside.
If he could run to pick up the package outside his door, he wouldn’t be alone for too long and he’d have a reason to text his mother. And so he did.
The sisters remained, but it was the younger one who was interested in the package’s items.
Homemade sugar cookies, Cuban coffee, and rice.
“She knows you’re not eating,” she laughed. “How sad do you think she would be if she saw you know with your collarbone showing and your hallowed face? Do you think it would kill her?”
There was another item in the box. The younger sister was so amused with herself that she didn’t notice when Emmanuel grabbed the envelope. In his hands, he examined the slim rectangle-shaped paper with only “Emma” written in the front with his mother’s curved E that he could recognize anywhere.
“You already know what’s in there,” she said over his shoulder, so close he could smell her. A combination of wet soil and roses. It was comforting.
Just like her older sister, she guided his hands with her talons to open the envelope and reveal what he was dreading. A check. In the notes field, it said, “It’s not charity. You can pay me back when you can, my love.”
The younger sister had no more words for him. She left at the sight of the resolution on his face. If he was getting this check it was because the profit made from the house had run out. He had to get a job or move in with his mother. Either option required him to leave the sisters.
He couldn’t see the older sister at that moment. She never took more than a few seconds to tag her sibling. That didn’t matter right now, he needed to take action.
When the clock finally struck noon, Emmanuel went over to his bathroom and started filling the tub for a soak. It had been an hour since he last saw the sisters, and he was worried he would miss them before he left.
The tub was full of warm water and ready for him. He stepped in and laid down. When he looked up he saw her. The third sibling. She looked so much older than the other two that Emmanuel couldn’t make out her features. It was a random collection of gray flesh and black feathers barely clinging to a skeleton that still showed decaying muscles. She was standing over him in the water and she also smelled of wet soil and roses.
Emmanuel looked to the side and saw her two sisters standing watch. Stoic, without making a sound.
“Can I hug you?” He said to the eldest one standing over him.
Without saying anything, she knelt down to him and embraced him. Emmanuel felt her cold limbs hold him tightly, the water flooding every orifice in his face and for a moment his body jerked. But through the water, he saw the two younger sisters come over and join in the embrace. He wouldn’t leave them again.
If you or someone you know may be struggling with suicidal thoughts you can call the U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) any time of day or night or chat online.
Next issue: We talk female-centric stories: Luster by Raven Leilani and a short story by Lorraine Roque. If you haven’t read Luster, you can check it out here.
