Dori Lumpkin’s Antenora is a chilling, intimate exploration of girlhood, queerness, and the oppressive weight of religious fanaticism. Through Abby’s confessional narration, we’re drawn into the suffocating town of Bethel, Alabama—a place where church and community are indistinguishable, and both are intent on rooting out anything they fear or misunderstand.

At its heart is the bond between Abby and Nora, whose childhood friendship—full of forests, dirt, and whispered secrets—blooms into something tender and forbidden. As their relationship deepens, so too does Bethel’s scrutiny of Nora, a girl whose defiance and strange gifts challenge the town’s fragile order. Lumpkin’s prose masterfully captures the dread of living under constant judgment, with Bethel’s “Christian concern” masking a voyeuristic cruelty.

The novella’s horror is visceral and layered, weaving supernatural elements—snakes that may come back to life, whispers of possession—with the all-too-human horrors of homophobia, misogyny, and communal betrayal. The religious rituals and exorcisms are terrifying not just for their violence, but for how they magnify the town’s paranoia and Abby’s helplessness.

Despite the heaviness, Antenora finds space for moments of small joy and queer defiance. Abby and Nora’s love, though fragile, is a quiet rebellion against a community that would erase them. Lumpkin’s ability to evoke both tenderness and terror within such a compact story is remarkable - Nora and Abby will be living in my heart for a long time to come.

Dark, witchy, and unapologetically sapphic, Antenora is a powerful meditation on betrayal, survival, and the bittersweet strangeness of girlhood. It’s a story that lingers like a ghost. Thank you, Dori, for this magically strange story.