Send us a text

A coffin scratches, a sister rises, and nothing about identity or desire looks the same afterward. We take you inside Johanna von Vein’s Blood on Her Tongue, a gothic horror that swaps fangs for a parasite and turns the genre’s mirror toward patriarchy, power, and the right to survive. From the moody boglands to a drawing room where medicine becomes a muzzle, we trace how the novel uses body horror to ask a sharper question: if memory, love, and history remain, who has the authority to say a person is gone?

We start with the classic setup—letters, a mysterious decline, a death that doesn’t hold—then dig into the rupture that follows. Lucy, long eclipsed by her twin, faces a new Sara who is louder, hungrier, and truer to the life she could never claim. That hunger is more than flesh; it’s voice, sex, and selfhood in a time that calls women’s agency an illness. We talk through the book’s feminist spine: doctors who diagnose disobedience, a husband who confuses need with entitlement, and a social order that teaches women to apologize for breathing. The novel argues that vampirism isn’t a creature so much as a system that feeds on your future while calling it love.

Along the way, we explore queerness as truth under siege—Aunt Adelaide’s erased companionship, Sara and Katya’s stifled devotion, and Lucy’s desire exploited in grief—and how the parasite reframes “monstrous” as a demand to live. We press on the hardest moral knot: when survival requires harm, what counts as justice, and who gets to name the monster? By the end, we land on a fierce, messy liberation where personhood is a flame carried forward, not a body locked in place.

If you’re into gothic fiction, feminist horror, identity philosophy, queer narratives, and books that leave you arguing with the lights on, hit play, subscribe for our next reads, and leave a review to tell us where you stand on the final moral choice.