Stillborns in Gothic Literature

 To write a stillborn child into fiction is to write silence into sound, and absence into form. In Gothic literature, where the boundary between life and death is always porous, the stillborn becomes a potent symbol of lost potential, unnatural science, divine punishment, or the horror of maternal grief. Yet the subject is rarely written directly. It’s too painful, too quiet.

The Romantic tradition thrives on exploring the depths of individual emotions. In Gothic novels, the death of a child, stillborn or not, hurts because of the deep emotional bond between the character and the deceased. The loss isn’t arbitrary or distant; the relationship is rich, textured, and full of promise, creating an intense emotional backdrop that amplifies the sorrow. The tragedy hits deeply because it touches on love, hope, and a future that will never be realized.

Grief, especially the loss of a stillborn child, cannot be processed quickly. In Romanticism, characters often retreat into themselves, seeking meaning or solace in solitude. The Romantic hero or heroine is marked by a wrestling with the meaning of life and death.

In Frankenstein, Victor assembles a man but fails to consider what it means to give life. The Creature is not stillborn, but he is still wrong-born—unnatural, unloved, unfinished. His “birth” scene is soaked in horror, and Victor, his maker, instantly rejects him. What follows is not a father-son story, but an abandonment. The stillborn metaphor lingers: a life that was never meant to be, a form that shouldn’t have opened its eyes.

In Mademoiselle Frankenstein, I approach the subject not with clinical detail but with spiritual delirium. Océane suffers a violent stillbirth and thereafter believes she can undo fate. She preserves the heart. She gathers flesh. She sews love into sinew. The resulting creature is not her child, but grief made animate. A stillborn rewritten into something worse: a revenant she mistakes for resurrection.

When we read about stillbirth in Gothic fiction, it’s not as a medical tragedy but a spiritual rupture. A body without breath. A room prepared but never used. Not for shock, but for sorrow. The restraint with which these scenes are described is harrowing. The horror is soundless. The loss is more than one person can hold. Readers understand. Readers have known this silence too.

What child’s death in Gothic fiction has hit you hard?