Welcome back for the third and final part of our Pride Month horror spotlight! As I discussed in our previous two posts, I recently asked a group of fabulous LGBTQ+ horror authors the same question: who’s your favorite queer character in horror that really changed your life?

And now I’ll let our writers in our third installment share their favorites!

J.A.W. MCCARTHY: I first saw Lucky McKee’s 2002 film May at a time in my life when I was facing my sexuality again, after years of shelving that part of myself. Bisexuality was often portrayed as an identity invented by people who wanted an excuse for their indecisiveness and promiscuity. I had friends who believed that. When I saw the titular May yearning for companionship and understanding, her desires clear-eyed and open regardless of gender identity, I saw a piece of myself.

I can’t say if May would identify as bisexual, pansexual, or something else. What I know is that she’s lonely, hungry, and honest in her need for connection. Though she was ostracized as a child for a physical difference, she remains hopeful in adulthood, eager for companionship even as she stumbles through social interactions and struggles to keep her urges at bay. She becomes infatuated with a male mechanic and female coworker, optimistically exploring relationships with both. Angela Bettis portrays May with an aching vulnerability and guilelessness, making her increasingly unhinged actions believable in her pursuit of love and acceptance. How could you not root for May? The problem is, she takes things way too far.

Despite her actions (mind the CWs), I found myself identifying and sympathizing with May back in 2002 and today. Like her, I know the pain of being hungry and lost, searching for another soul who will understand and embrace me, bad-weird parts and all. While there are many queer characters I love, May is my tender underbelly turning towards the light.

L.L. MADRID: Dorian Gray was one of the most attractive monsters in the show Penny Dreadful. With his soulless nature, he wasn’t a role model, but I couldn’t help but admire how unapologetic he was regarding his sexuality.

When Penny Dreadful first aired, I was a quiet, semi-closeted bisexual. I’d only had casual flings with women and been in just a couple of serious relationships, both with men, which felt safer. My youth had been church-heavy, and it was hard to get rid of the ever-lurking sense of shame.

Dorian had no shame. He didn’t concern himself with gender norms or social standing. A true hedonist, he sought pleasure, taking lovers he found alluring. He didn’t deny or suppress his fluid sexuality and reveled in the diversity of his partners. Dorian Gray inspired me to cease thinking about those who would disapprove and to create queer characters who may feel shame, but never about who they love.

KATHERINE SILVA: One of my first introductions to queer characters in horror was in the 2000’s with Willow Rosenberg and Tara McClay of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. The beautiful and dark places their relationship went as they grew closer, the hurtles they had to overcome and the loneliness they felt were all so palpable and rare for television, especially in shows aimed at young adult audiences. To this day, I think they are two of the best depictions of a lesbian relationship in horror because they show that queer characters are allowed to be fully-developed powerful individuals who are more than the tropes their sexuality is often portrayed as.

MARTIN AGUILERA: The queer character in horror that haunted my adolescence and, to a degree, impacted my life, was the character of “Nothing” from the novel LOST SOULS by Poppy Z. Brite. As a teen in the mid-90’s I was fully aware of my sexuality, and thankfully never struggled with owning my identity to myself or the people in my circle, but growing up in El Paso, Texas was a very alienating experience for me. I was in love with the prose of Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, Clive Barker, V.C. Andrews, and the queen Anne Rice’s sensual, gothic Old World vampires. But it was Poppy Z. Brite who showed me a character who felt as alienated and isolated as I did, and who was also contemporary. That’s what really made him stand out. “Nothing” was a version of me, but also a version of the emo boys I was attracted to at the time, and his descent into darkness was equally profound and entirely titillating. I’ve never forgotten him, or the novel, which isn’t talked about as much anymore, but I hope is ready for rediscovery, along with the complete body of work by Poppy Z. Brite (now William Martin).

HARALAMBI MARKOV: As with most media, there is a significant delay between horror anything being released in the US and it finding its way to Bulgaria. Being a former communist country meant much catching up to do, so it wasn’t until my late teenage years I watched the Nightmare on Elm Street series. I was particularly drawn to A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge, agreed by everyone to be queer-coded on steroids and it really did me in as a closeted teen.

My heart raced every time Jesse Walsh appeared to the screen and confronted not just Freddy but something else that I didn’t have the language for then. Part of it was definitely the fact that Mark Patton was cute, but also that he was vulnerable and displayed masculinity that didn’t conform to the macho male archetype that I grew up with. Jesse quelled my worries that I was very much wrong. I remember how viscerally I lived through Jesse’s discomfort as a young queer person and the sense of isolation that comes with your entire reality being upended by some internal force that you can’t name. I was going through it at the time and honestly, Jesse Walsh calmed me down a lot during those years where I fought my own demons. Cheers to the male Final Girl!

MAE MURRAY: Lestat and Gabrielle de Lioncourt. I know it’s probably a cliche, and I wouldn’t be surprised if others said the same, especially about Lestat, especially if they’re Gen X or Millennial. But reading The Vampire Lestat as a pre-teen truly changed the trajectory of my life. I first read it over 20 years ago, and I still remember the lighting in my bedroom and how I was lying on my belly, feet kicked up, when I read the Wolfkiller scene (IYKYK). Anne Rice had a way of living through her characters, both Lestat and his mother Gabrielle, who, when turned into a vampire, began to dress as a man and cut her hair short. Anne Rice herself said she never felt like a woman. “I would see a gay man in the park and think, ‘That man has my body,'” she once said. “I felt like an imposter as a woman.” “I feel like I’m gay and forget I have a gender.” In Lestat, Rice showed me how to be fearless in feeling. In Gabrielle, she showed me another way to be a woman. And in all her works, she showed me how to create queer worlds that are alive.

CATHERINE LUNDOFF: Dr. Frank-N-Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show was probably the first bi/queer media character that I was aware of before I came out. Out, loud and deliberate, no coding needed, no ambiguity – it was a revelation in 1982 or so when I first saw him! My high school friends and I would dress up as the characters (I was Magenta) and go see the Rocky in Greenwich Village in the early 1980s and it was one of the first times that I can recall having a sense of belonging. Just a bunch of freaky, geeky high school kids who would eventually come out as queer or as crossdressers in later years. Bearing in mind that this was the height of what would be historically known as the AIDS Crisis and we were in NYC’s epicenter for the plague, having someone represent being queer as joyous and powerful, if a tad fucked up, was pretty amazing. I can still sing along with most of the songs and cheer every time I see Tim Curry in any role because what he gave us was a gift to be treasured.

RACHEL BOLTON: Many bisexuals can relate to the idea of “do I want to be her or with her?” When I was young, I did not understand that this feeling was attraction to women. But there was one male character who invoked this in me, Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock Holmes. While not straight up horror, the Granada adaption of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s short stories have strong horror elements. The Hound of the Baskervilles is a gothic mystery and several cases are quite gruesome.

I remember watching Brett’s Holmes with layers of admiration. It was more than just a crush, I wanted to be as observant, smart, and capable as he was. This blend of desire and mimicry was normally reserved for characters like Shego from Kim Possible or Judy Funnie. I dressed up as a detective for career day and made my sister and friends play Sherlock Holmes with me.

While Jeremy Brett never publicly talked about his sexuality, he was known to have relationships with men and women. I admire him as Sherlock Holmes for more than just being under the same part of the rainbow. Brett was committed to portraying an accurate version of the character and stories. During the end of the series, Brett continued playing Holmes even as he was struggling with bipolar disorder and dying from a lifetime of complicated health. His only complaint on set was saying, “But, darlings, the show must go on.”

CHAD STROUP: Though this choice may be a bit too recent to qualify as my “favorite” queer character in horror, I’m going with Owen from I Saw the TV Glow, because the portrayal of this tragic soul deeply affected me and has stuck with me since. Upon finishing the film and soaking in Owen’s journey of existential horror, I was awestruck. Yet at first I wasn’t sure why, so I allowed the story’s impact to sit with me for a few days. Then it hit me–Owen’s tragedy could have easily been mine had I not finally lived my truth. As someone who came out as nonbinary fairly late in life (at about age 47), I was at risk for living an inauthentic existence. Growing up as a teen in the late 80s/early 90s, I didn’t have access to the same vocabulary and support many queer people have today. Despite occasionally toying with gender in various capacities, there was no epiphanic moment. Only confusion and thoughts of, “Oh, I’m just weird, I’ll grow out of this.” And so I locked it all away instead. Just like Owen. Fortunately, my story has a far less somber ending, as finally coming to an understanding of my personal relationship with gender has led to me becoming a much more content and complete human. I only wish Owen could have been so lucky to experience the same joy.

THERESA DERWIN: This one is tricky as a woman coming out in her forties, especially as a late bi awakening descended on me. Ironically, everyone I then told – and it took years – said “Oh I knew” or “Oh, I assumed.” So, I have to be honest, Orange is the new black hit that button. At the same time I was devouring American Horror Stories; the first run. And a figure in a certain black body suit.

In retrospect it was obvious. I was reading Clive Barker, Poppy Z Brite, Christopher Fowler – And then I found Spanky.

Something about Spanky – and let’s face it, that original kinkster cover – spoke to me. Spanky was the brave, sexual, sarcastic and cheeky devil I wanted to be. He helped Martyn discover his real self.

I was never that comfortable with my body or the feminine aesthetic. That came later in life but even now it’s easier to wear joggers or shorts with t-shirts.

In later years the discovery of the kink (BDSM) community gathered me in its arms and welcomed me. I started going to the BBB event in Birmingham and finding new friends, new family.

To be fair, my family did kind of notice I was a rebellious little devil.

And now, in my fifties and my post menopausal era … I’m even more so.

AMANDA HEADLEE: How could I have known, as a teenager in the late ’90s, picking up Sabriel by Garth Nix for the first time, that the book was the beginning of a chapter that would lead me down a road toward understanding who I am?

Garth Nix’s Old Kingdom series has had a profound impact on my life as both a reader and a writer. These dark fantasy novels shaped my love of fiction, magic, and worldbuilding. I still find myself reflecting on how Nix constructed the Old Kingdom and its unique magic systems, as well as the depth he brought to every character, from the protagonists to the supporting cast. Looking back, I can see just how much these books have influenced my own approach to storytelling.

But it wasn’t until I read Clariel, the fourth book in the series, in my late 30s (yes, I know I was a bit late to the book), that the series took on a much deeper personal significance for me. There was something about the protagonist, Clariel, that resonated with me in a way no fictional character ever had before. She is most fulfilled when pursuing her own interests rather than seeking romance. She resists her family’s attempts to push her toward marriage and struggles to understand the complexities of romantic relationships and society’s fixation on them.

Her strongest desires are never framed in terms of love or partnership; instead, they center on independence, nature, and the ability to determine the course of her own life.

What I admire most about the book Clariel is that these traits are never presented as a lesson or reduced to a label. Clariel simply exists as herself. Her asexuality emerges through her thoughts, feelings, and actions rather than through explicit explanation. As a reader who spent much of her life feeling out of step with expectations surrounding romance and attraction, I found something deeply familiar in her experience.

After finishing the book, I learned that Nix had intentionally written Clariel as an asexual character. I was familiar with the term, but I had never taken the time to explore what it really meant. Curious, I started reading. One article led to another, and before long, I found myself learning about asexuality, aromantic identities, and the broad spectrum of experiences they encompass.

The more I learned, the more I recognized myself in what I was reading. For the first time, I had language for feelings (or the lack thereof…no pun intended) that had accompanied me throughout my life. Things I had once dismissed as personal quirks or as simply failing to meet social expectations suddenly made sense. I wasn’t broken, and I wasn’t missing something everyone else seemed to have. I simply viewed attraction, relationships, and connection differently. I now understand that romance doesn’t have to be a priority in my life and that I don’t need to squeeze myself into the perfectly shaped “ideal woman” box that society deems acceptable.

When I first entered the Old Kingdom, I was captivated by bells that bound the dead, ancient magic, and dark journeys through Death. I never imagined that years later, the most important thing I would find there would be something far quieter: a character who helped me
understand myself more clearly than ever before.

Sometimes self-discovery doesn’t arrive in the first chapter. Sometimes it arrives decades after the story has already begun.

And that’s part three in our spotlight on queer horror characters! Please check out part one and part two of our series as well! And be sure to celebrate queer horror all year-round! 

Happy reading, and happy Pride Month!