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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of graphic violence, death, and racism.
Kat Dunn’s Hungerstone is a reimagining of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1872 gothic novella Carmilla, a foundational work of vampire fiction that predates Bram Stoker’s Dracula by 25 years. Le Fanu’s novella, first serialized in the literary magazine The Dark Blue and later collected in In a Glass Darkly, follows Laura, a lonely young woman living with her father in a remote Styrian castle. After a mysterious carriage accident, a beautiful young guest named Carmilla is left in their care. The two young women form an intense, romantically charged bond, but Laura soon begins to suffer from strange nightmares and a wasting illness. It is eventually revealed that Carmilla is in fact Countess Mircalla Karnstein, a centuries-old vampire preying on young women in the region. In the novella’s climax, General Spielsdorf, whose niece Bertha died from Carmilla’s attentions, leads a party to the Karnstein tomb, where Carmilla’s body is discovered preserved in blood. She is destroyed in the traditional manner—staked, beheaded, and burned—and Laura, though physically saved, is left haunted for the rest of her life. This ending, in which the male authority figures reassert order by annihilating the female monster, stands in sharp contrast to Hungerstone, where Carmilla becomes a catalyst for the protagonist’s own liberatory violence against patriarchal power.
Le Fanu’s novella is notable for establishing the archetype of the lesbian vampire, exploring themes of queer attraction and female sexuality at a time when such topics were taboo. Modern scholars often view the titular vampire as a figure of liberation whose “vampirism is a metaphor for her deviant sexuality” and whose passionate, dominant personality “defies societal expectations for a woman” (“How Le Fanu’s ‘Carmilla’ Became a Queer Icon.” The Mourning Paper, 2025). Over the past 150 years, Carmilla has been adapted repeatedly across media. Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1932 film Vampyr drew loosely from the novella, and Hammer Film Productions produced the “Karnstein Trilogy” in the early 1970s (The Vampire Lovers, Lust for a Vampire, and Twins of Evil), which emphasized the story’s erotic elements. Roger Vadim’s Blood and Roses (1960) offered a more psychological interpretation. More recently, the Canadian web series Carmilla (2014-2016), created by Jordan Hall, reimagined the story as a contemporary college-set queer romance and spawned a 2017 feature film. The novella has also inspired graphic novels, operas, stage plays, and countless prose retellings.
Hungerstone borrows its mysterious guest’s name, Carmilla Kernstein, and her seductive, liberating influence on the protagonist, Lenore. Just as Le Fanu’s Carmilla awakens a repressed desire in her victim, Laura, Dunn’s Carmilla awakens Lenore’s literal and metaphorical hunger, helping her break free from the constraints of her passionless Victorian marriage. Dunn updates the queer subtext of the original into overt text and shifts the moral framework, so that the “monstrous” female appetite is no longer something to be purged but something to be claimed.
Hungerstone is set against the backdrop of Sheffield’s booming 19th-century steel industry, a world of immense wealth, technological innovation, and brutal labor conditions. The novel references two key historical realities of this era, the Bessemer converter and the Sheffield Outrages. Patented by Henry Bessemer in 1856 and first demonstrated publicly in Sheffield, the Bessemer converter was a pear-shaped vessel that blasted air through molten pig iron to burn off impurities, allowing steel to be produced in vast quantities at a fraction of its previous cost. The process transformed Sheffield, already a center of cutlery and edge-tool manufacture, into the steel capital of the world. By the 1870s the city’s population had swelled past 280,000, its skyline crowded with furnaces, and its rivers blackened by industrial runoff. Fortunes were made by a small class of ironmasters and works owners while the labor force endured punishing hours in conditions that produced high rates of grinder’s asthma, crush injuries, and fatal accidents around molten metal.
These conditions produced some of the most militant trade unionism in Victorian Britain. From the early 19th century, Sheffield’s skilled trades, including saw grinders, file cutters, fork grinders, and edge-tool makers, had organized into small, fiercely protective craft societies and used union dues to support members during illness, unemployment, and strikes. When individual workers refused to pay dues or accepted work under non-union rates, union enforcers retaliated with a practice known locally as “rattening,” which entailed stealing tools, driving bands, or wheel-nuts to prevent the offender from working. In the 1860s these intimidation tactics escalated into serious violence, including beatings, shootings, and the use of gunpowder to blow up the homes and workshops of non-compliant workers. The most notorious incident was the Hereford Street explosion of October 1866. This drew national outrage and prompted the government to establish a Royal Commission the following year to investigate what became known as the “Sheffield Outrages,” a period of “explosions and murders carried out by union militants” against non-union workers and exploitative employers (“Sources for the Study of the Sheffield Outrages.” Sheffield City Council, 2018). Testimony before the commission exposed the involvement of union leaders like William Broadhead of the Saw Grinders’ Union, who admitted to organizing several attacks.
Though the revelations damaged the reputation of the Sheffield trades in the short term, the commission’s broader findings contributed directly to the Trade Union Act of 1871, which for the first time gave unions legal recognition and protected their funds, and to the Conspiracy and Protection of Property Act of 1875, which legalized peaceful picketing. The novel integrates this history when a journalist questions Henry about declining safety at his factory and Lenore discovers Henry is violently suppressing labor organizers and denying compensation to injured workers. This context frames Henry’s personal cruelty as part of a larger, historically documented system of industrial exploitation.
Hungerstone participates in a well-established literary tradition of reclaiming the “female monster,” a figure long used in patriarchal narratives to represent anxieties about female agency, sexuality, and rage. This tradition reframes the monster not as a villain to be destroyed but as a sympathetic figure whose monstrousness registers the violence done to her. The foundational critical text for this movement is Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar’s The Madwoman in the Attic (1979), which argued that 19th-century women writers repeatedly split their heroines into a docile “angel” and a rebellious “monster,” projecting forbidden female desires onto figures like Jane Eyre’s Bertha Mason. Their reading opened the door for a generation of writers and theorists to reinterpret literary monstrousness as coded female protest.
A key creative text in this movement is Jean Rhys’s 1966 novel Wide Sargasso Sea (1966), a prequel to Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. Rhys gives a voice and history to Bertha, Rochester’s first wife, reimagining her as a woman driven to madness by patriarchal and colonial oppression. This approach “subverts depictions of womanhood shaped by patriarchal culture” and “exposes the rage of women entrapped in traditional, reductive and confining notions of femaleness” (“Mitchell, Jane. “Reclaiming the Monster: Abjection and Subversion in the Marital Gothic Novel,” Studies in Arts and Humanities, 4(1), 53-72. Jan. 2018).
Rhys’s novel is only one entry in a much wider tradition. Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber (1979) rewrites European fairy tales to reveal the predatory logic of heterosexual marriage and to grant her heroines transformative, often bestial power, work theorized in her own polemic The Sadeian Woman (1978). Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire (1976) and its sequels reimagine the vampire as an object of tragic sympathy rather than horror. Margaret Atwood’s The Robber Bride (1993) reclaims the folkloric female villain as an anti-heroine. Helen Oyeyemi’s White is for Witching (2009) fuses gothic haunting with exploration of the horrors of racism, while Carmen Maria Machado’s Her Body and Other Parties (2017) revisits gothic and horror conventions to explore queer desire and female embodiment. Barbara Creed’s The Monstrous-Feminine (1993) draws on Julia Kristeva’s theory of abjection (articulated in Powers of Horror [1980]) to provide a theoretical scaffolding for these reclamations, arguing that the female monster embodies precisely those energies patriarchal culture must expel in order to sustain itself.
Hungerstone applies this same lens to the vampire archetype. Lenore begins as a conventionally dutiful, if unhappy, Victorian wife. Through her relationship with Carmilla, her repressed hunger and rage are unleashed. Her final act of killing and dismembering her abusive husband completes her evolution into a “monster.” Like Bertha’s final, fiery rebellion in Wide Sargasso Sea, Lenore’s monstrosity is depicted as a horrifying but necessary act of liberation.



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