Rachel Denham-White: Gothic literature and being brave

There are no constraints on what you write because there are no constraints on human fear, logical or illogical.

Rachel Denham-White

KSP Upcoming Writer-in-Residence, 2026

Pictured Above: Rachel Denham-White

Rachel Denham-White - Q&A

Upcoming Writer-in-Residence 2026

What first drew you to horror as a genre, and what keeps you writing within it?

I wasn’t a big fan of the genre growing up, as I had an over-active imagination and was very easily scared as a child. However, that changed when I turned eighteen and developed an intense interest in horror films as a medium to be studied. My interest shifted to incorporate Gothic literature, which is still my favourite genre to read and study. I’ve often described researching the Gothic as a black hole – you start looking into one sub-genre and suddenly you’re three decades, 15 different topics, and 40 academic papers removed from what you set out to explore.

I don’t think I consciously choose to write horror, but all my story ideas just naturally fit within the horror genre (probably because it’s the type of art I’ve surrounded myself with). There are no constraints on what you write because there are no constraints on human fear, logical or illogical. Why say “that doesn’t make sense” or “that’s not biologically accurate” when looking at a shambling monstrosity of tortured human flesh?

How do you define “fear” in your work—what kind of horror are you most interested in exploring?

The main topic of horror I explore – as a plot point and metaphorical/thematic through-line – is the fear of control. To loosely quote Diana Wallace in her essay “Uncanny Stories”, the Gothic allowed female writers a sense of validation, through voicing their feelings of tension, powerlessness, constraint, and imprisonment that they couldn’t express through more realistic genres. I think this fear of external and internal control is very present in my main character Elspeth, as she rigorously polices her thoughts, words and actions. She is terrified of her own fear because she can’t understand it; she feels as though she needs a ‘reason’ to be afraid to be taken seriously, which is a very confining way to be.

Another element of control in this story is control of narratives and histories, and this is where the kunstkammer comes in. There is a fabulous book by Lorraine Daston and Katharine Park called Wonders and the Orders of Nature, which is all about the evolution of the cabinet of curiosities. When you place an object into the kunstkammer, it becomes whatever the curator wants it to be, regardless of its origins. All the objects in the cabinet in my story are put there because they are considered beautiful, their single purpose is to be admired and aesthetic. This lent itself some really unsettling imagery about what happens when we reduce people to just their bodies, pure objectification with no consideration for the self or identity. I see that as controlling the narrative of a person’s existence – ‘taking away their story’ is the phrase I use a lot in the book.

Horror has long explored otherness—how does queerness naturally intersect with horror for you?

There’s the short answer and the long answer to this question. My short answer is: monstrosity or otherness is such an apt metaphor for the queer experience throughout history, so of course being LGBTQ+ naturally intersects with horror.

The long answer is that I’ve tried to approach Otherness in a slightly different sense in this novel. There’s a very apocryphal story from history that I love, so I’m going to relate it here (even if it’s probably not true): Queen Victoria refused to criminalise acts of lesbian sex because a) she believed that women were not capable of doing such a thing and b) by drawing attention to it as a punishable offense, it might give women ideas. It’s hilarious, true, but I’ve always found it deeply sad, and it feeds into my theme of ‘Other’ in this novel. Elspeth literally cannot define her needs because she has no alternative to compare herself to. The idea of loving a woman is so unthinkable (because it is never acknowledged as a love that can exist), that she has no other choice but to consider her desires, and therefore herself, as a mistake, an aberration, a deviant, even a monster.

How does neurodivergence shape the way you experience fear, suspense, or sensory detail—and how does that show up on the page?

Elspeth is quite a closed-off person who struggles with human connection, so I was always thinking about the sensory elements affecting her worldview. The big one is touch: she is constantly aware of sensations of touch that she doesn’t appreciate. This lends itself very well to my writing, as bodily sensation is a major part of the horror genre – think about all the times you physically experience fear through adrenaline, cold sweat, stomach churning, and so on. But for Elspeth, the horror is present from page 1 before anything has even happened, because she is so hyper-aware of being uncomfortable in her body. It manifests in different ways – sensory overload, panic from an unexpected or unwarranted touch – but it is also a big part of her character growth.

I stress the sensations of touch on the page so constantly and in so much detail during the first half of the book, because when Elspeth starts getting more physically comfortable with her main love interest Madeline, it’s a game changer for her. I think that understanding your limits and being comfortable with your body is a big part of the neurodivergent experience, so I really wanted to stress how Elspeth learns to approach the world on her terms. But I also make clear that she hasn’t “outgrown” or “gotten over” anything, instead it’s an “I am asking for consideration of what makes ME feel safe” situation.

What responsibilities, if any, do you feel when representing neurodivergent characters in a genre that can be intense or overwhelming?

I feel a staggering amount of responsibility. Writing about mental health is a challenge, because it’s so different and subjective for every reader. Also, as I am self-diagnosed and in the process of looking into evaluations, by writing this character who feels and acts so specifically, I often feel like I’m encroaching on the neurodivergent experience as an outsider. Plus, there is a lot of hate-filled and ableist language from Elspeth’s relatives in this book, so I worry that I’m contributing to the perception that being on the spectrum is a burden, when it is ABSOLUTELY not.

But you never know how the book will be interpreted, and so I am very aware that my language and intentions (although they feel genuine to me) can be seen as harmful. Now that I’ve finished The Kunstkammer, I’m eager to collaborate with sensitivity readers before I start preparing this book for publication. I want to talk to as many people as possible about Elspeth’s character, and whether it’s safe and ethical to write her the way she is.

Do you see horror as a cathartic space—for yourself or for your readers?

Absolutely. On one level, horror can offer a flood of endorphins after reading something scary, and that’s cathartic. But I also see the genre as a liberating space. As horror is speculative fiction and can show a distorted, exaggerated version of reality where monsters are real, it’s a fabulous medium for voicing fear and anger at the world. I mean, nuance is always necessary, but I think it can be just as effective to get your message across through a societal issue pushed to its absolute, ridiculous extremes using fear or horror or disgust – the 2024 film The Substance is a really good example. I also think that’s why the femgore style is really taking off.

I remember there was one instance in my residency where I was really struggling to articulate my themes of objectification. So I just laid down on the floor and started talking through everything I felt. I’d been reading the news about the Epstein files, and it was so awful seeing how these victim’s bodies were policed and abused and controlled, with horrible stories of violence every single day. Then I started thinking about the huge rise in pornographic AI deepfakes on Grok – the more I thought about it, the more I kept telling myself, “Extend the metaphor. Why are you so angry? Go deeper, go deeper, get angrier, what are you really afraid of?” And 90% of my wording from that time on the floor ended up in my chapter. It feels absolutely fabulous to express all of my rage in this novel; I would describe some parts of the book as a scream made words.

Which authors, filmmakers, or artists have most influenced your approach to horror?

So many! Too many to count.

But The Kunstkammer originally started as my homage to four creatives: Jan Svankmajer, Stephen and Timothy Quay, and Angela Carter. Svankmajer and The Brother’s Quay are stop-motion artists, and I absolutely fell in love with their separate filmographies after watching their work on YouTube. All three work with puppets, dolls, and old objects like vintage toys and paper cutouts, and then they reframe them through dark and disturbing imagery (often involving a lot of raw meat). Also, like the Gothic genre itself, their films are incredibly intertextual, i.e. full of references to other artists. So I wanted the atmosphere and imagery of The Kunstkammer to replicate the feeling of watching a Jan Svankmajer or a Brother’s Quay film.

Angela Carter is probably my favourite writer of all time. While I wouldn’t call any of her novels/short stories ‘horror’, they definitely have horror elements to them (and she frequently pays homage to Gothic writers like Poe and Wilde and Radcliffe). Her work is akin to Shirley Jackson, always “off” and deeply unsettling. I think one of her most underrated books is her first one: Shadow Dance, which was published in 1966 and is set in an antiques shop. Her writing is prosaic, opulent, and suffocating, just like being surrounded by esoterica on all sides and not knowing where to turn. There have been so many moments of writing this book when I’ve stopped to read my favourite chapters from Shadow Dance to help me find my place in the scene.

What do you hope queer and neurodivergent readers feel when they finish one of your stories?

In this case: absolute joy. While The Kunstkammer is a horror novel, the journey that Elspeth and Madeline take from point A to point B is deeply rewarding and precious to me. I derive a lot of satisfaction from seeing how their love (and Elspeth’s acceptance of herself) develops, and I hope the readers do too.

On a deeper level, there is a lyric from singer/songwriter Malinda Kathleen Reece that has always stuck with me. Her song I’m Not There Yet is about coming to terms with your queer identity, and this is an ethos that I really try to impart in my ending. My characters have seen some of the worst violence in the world and they’re going to have to live with that for the rest of their lives. But it’s just as important that they acknowledge this pain. Because when they’ve healed, they can say “Nothing will change that this happened, but we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” From my own personal experience, I think being brave enough to understand that you are part of a larger (often traumatic and violent) picture is a fundamental part of being queer, because it’s a jumping-off point to inspiring change and leaning in to finding love, connection, and solidarity. It’s a weight, but not a burden, if that makes sense.

Rachel Denham-White is an emerging writer living in Boorloo/Perth. In 2022, she graduated with her Bachelor of Arts (Hons), writing her dissertation on the Postfeminist Gothic movement in the works of her favourite author, Angela Carter. She is the Book Reviews Co-Editor of Limina journal and currently works for Good Reading Magazine. Rachel has been featured in Westerly, Voiceworks, Haunted Words Press, Broken Antler Magazine, Banksia Journal, Limina journal and anthologies from Rhiza Edge Press and IFWG Publishing. She is currently working on her debut horror novel.