Showing results for title "The Castle of Otranto", by author "Horace Walpole" in Genre Fiction

On the day of his wedding, Conrad, heir to the house of Otranto, is killed under mysterious circumstances. His calculating father, Manfred, fears that his dynasty will now come to an end and determines to marry his son's bride himself, despite the fact he is already married. But a series of terrifying supernatural omens soon threaten this unlawful union, as the curse placed on Manfred's ancestor, who usurped the lawful Prince of Otranto, begins to unfold.

Hours before his wedding, fifteen-year-old Conrad, heir to the house of Otranto, is crushed to death. His father, Manfred, Lord of Otranto, sees only one recourse to protect the family lineage. He will divorce his wife and marry the boy’s bride-to-be. Her wishes be damned. When the fearful and resistant Isabella takes flight, Manfred follows in mad pursuit. But it is he who must outrun a greater fear: a curse cast on his family generations ago.

Four full-cast dramatisations of classic Gothic novels, plus documentaries exploring the genre’s rise and enduring appeal Dark deeds, dastardly villains, innocent victims and supernatural happenings – these are the terrifying tropes that make up Gothic fiction, a genre that has captured our...

The Castle of Otranto is regarded as the first Gothic novel. The son of Manfred, Prince of Otranto, is mysteriously killed on his wedding day by a huge helmet. The event leads to a fast-paced story of jealous passion, intrigue, murder, and supernatural phenomena unfolding in an atmosphere of thunderclaps, moonlight, and dark castle walls, mirroring the inner turmoils of the characters themselves. Horace Walpole's tale, an immediate success when it first appeared in 1764, is a classic of its genre.

Visions have always been...my pasture. I almost think there is no wisdom comparable to that of exchanging the realities of life for dreams. Old castles, old pictures, old histories take one back into centuries that cannot disappoint. I waked one morning from a dream of which all I could recover was that I had thought myself in an ancient castle and that on the uppermost banister of a great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat down to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to say or relate.