ghoulnextdoor

Can you think of anything more goth than a marble gargoyle in a mourning veil perched atop a crumbling gravestone wearing perfume of honeyed funereal florals & infernal incense ash? That is exactly what this smells like. It also smells like what I imagine Anna Falchi in Cemetery Man smells like.

When I first wore Tomie, it seemed a simple. confectionary musk. I became overwhelmed when I thought it was beginning to remind me of a sort of candied heliotrope fragrance I tried a few years ago and felt an immediate revulsion towards, but when I obsessively began sniffing my wrist trying to pinpoint it, the momentary phantom was already gone. There is actually no comparing these two scents at all, but the thing is, from then on, I never stopped obsessively sniffing. Tomie crawls beneath your skin, a slithery jasmine-amber-flecked marzipan cotton candy ghost musk of a scent, but not a fresh, hot carnival cone of the stuff–rather, the soft, sticky filaments of floss caught in your hair at the end of the night. And maybe a bewitched someone is compelled to snip a few of those sweet, tangled tendrils while you’re sleeping because they’re an absolute psychopath, and maybe when you wake up in the morning the scissors are gripped in your own hands, the sultry tresses are tucked into your own little etched sandalwood box, and maybe, perhaps, the utterly obsessed psychopath is you. BPAL’s Tomie is both quietly haunting and all-consuming, the ghost of something you’re desperate to possess, but which is fully possessing you even as it slips through your fingers and disappears. This is exactly it. This is Tomie. They got her perfectly right.

Passing between worlds over an unfathomable span of time, an ancient journey’s ending, and the abundant exuberance of new life that springs from it. This is a scent that opens with an incendiary collision of superheated off-gassing resins and the euphoric kaleidoscope of a summer meadow in full bloom, a curious but joyful amber-floral conflagration. As the incandescent radiation of the crash site dims and cools and condenses, strange alien flora, dormant in the ice and dust of deep space, burst forth and blossom, a vibrant pageant of lush, aromatic petals unfurl and fruit and ripen and decay in the span of seconds, releasing soft, fleecy seed pods in a pillowy puff of bittersweet, powdery musk. Carried softly on the breeze, these small travelers burrow into the earth, float to the clouds, and enter warm bodies with an intake of breath. Other journeys. Other worlds.

Even though I have always wished it were otherwise, I have never sniffed a precious jewel, glimmering gem, or polished stone that smelled of anything in particular–even though the dazzling drama in those crystalline depths seem to promise, at least to me, that these geological treasures should somehow be radiating the most marvelous perfumes. Alas! Nope! It is sadly a wish I’ve long let go. Sphinx Skin, however, rekindles this daydream in the most fantastical and feverish ways, because I’m absolutely certain that if a moody, golden topaz had a scent? It would be the smoky umbral honey, spectral shed snakeskin musk of Sphinx Skin: heady, tobacco-infused amber with subtly shifting floral vanilla facets, a rich, sticky, resinous vein of dragon’s blood, and the faint, slithering earthiness of patchouli, dark, damp, rooty, and grounding. A stone formed from crystals in cooling magma (or so I understand), in reality, topaz probably smells of the fumes and vapors wafting amongst the cavities of igneous rocks in which it grows, but here, in the surreal secrecy of our intimate cocoon, where the writer and reader connect via a shared dream and can believe as we please - let’s choose to believe in exquisite lapidary aroma magic, and that a glowing sphere of topaz smells like a small bottle of Sphinx Skin.

Cat at the Table has notes of gentle white tea and mellow, soothing sandalwood and boasts label art by Leonard Foujita (whose paintings of unsettling girls with their unsettling dolls are some of my favorites!), and maybe it's because Foujita's cat has a Richard Scarry Huckle the Cat quality, but or maybe because it's just a still cat at a table, the calm before the storm, but there's an undeniable air of charming mischief to this scent, but also of quiet playtime, of nurseries and storytimes and naps. Of milky tea parties in heirloom china cups, puddings sticky with drizzles of marmalade, and the amber-eyed gaze of an old family cat watching with interest as the children's tea play and sup and grow.

White Cat is a crisp, airy lemon wafer with a creamy, fluffy vanilla marshmallow filling. But there's a resinous, ambery element as well; it's a cookie by way of incense-- you don't eat it, you scent the room with it.

Portrait of Magdaleine Pinceloup de la Grange née de Parseval is the perfumed approximation of your favorite TikTok cat; a whirlwind of musky fur, murky herbs, and backyard grassy litterbox bedevilment scratching at your tattered window screen to the frantically building beat of Darude's Sandstorm. This review will not hold up with time, and it won't make sense a year from now, and I don't even care because I know in my heart this is true. This is a scent, that, like the silliest memes, makes me giggle and makes me want to share it with someone and make them giggle too.

By Day She Made Herself into a Cat is a deep, profoundly relieving gasp of cool, nocturnal air when you've been exposed too long to a brutal slash of sunlight. It's exactly as the notes suggest, amber and inky black musk in perfect proportions. It smells like swallowing the dark stillness of a midnight dream. This is one of those scents that is very much A Whole Vibe, and if your vibe is Must Love Cats And Darkness, you will probably dig this one.

A Girl Knitting smells milky and fruity, except not fruit, but milk that once held fruit. And not exactly real fruit, but Saturday morning cereal fruit-shaped puffed grains and marshmallows. There's also a textural element; it smells of rustic textiles, musky, warm fleece with tiny flecks of twig and vegetal detritus not entirely combed out, a fuzzy, wooly strand of yarn spun straight from a freshly shorn sheep, knit with clacking wooden needles into a bulky beanie to keep your ears warm while you slurp your sweet, creamy fruity cereal milk.

This fragrance opens with an intensely nutty note; a woody, toasty/starchy extravagance of hazelnuts, mounded by decadent hands no stranger to excess, perilously piled inside a faceted garnet goblet and spilling over its vivid brim. A single rose blooms on an ornate table nearby, its aroma startling, dewy, and pure in contrast to the dry, powdery salt and crunch of the noisettes.

A shimmering, aquatic rosy floral; phantom twins connected by sadness & secrets, waltzing mournfully in the moonlight, their iridescent, flickering veils intertwining and unwinding, soaked in rose water and tears.

I have always loved the idea of having a “soft place to fall”; a love that offers safe harbor, that wraps you in its warm, uncomplicated embrace. This, I think, is far from the imagery that the idea of “amour fou”--mad love, or insane passion, is wont to conjure when you roll the concept of it around in your imagination. But that is what Amour Fou smells of to me: the dusty, woody soft shadowy green musk of moss, combined with the bitter/smokey birch tar scent of worn leather, combing to create a warmth that is equal to that of gently falling asleep at night, curled quietly in your lover’s arms. And, yet... perhaps that wild, frenzied amour fou simmers low and silent in your heart still and surges madly with every deep, dreaming breath they take beside you. What a marvel, this balm. This haven. This fever.

The sea, grey and restless on an overcast morning, just as the sun is glimmering through the clouds. A scent of marine breezes, salted shore, and fluttering sea grasses, with a gleam of something glowing and chilly, a streak of citrus, a lemony-floral-fresh yuzu, with a bit of a mineralic tang. Bioluminescent algae dappling a dark sea cave wall.

I can’t imagine a lovelier scent than this fragrant interpretation of the object my heart treasures above all things. The dusty-grassy-vanillin smell of faded pages from a favorite tale and a glossy, enchanted ink distilled from marzipan and apricots dried to small, sweet wrinkled pillows in a 100 years’ sleep.

Fiercely peppery upon first sniff, this is a bone-dry, nose-tickling experience that after time, morphs into a pleasantly herbaceous, aromatic sage that straddles the line between sweet and savory. Depending on time of day, temperature, body chemistry, and who knows what else, at this stage in its metamorphosis, it fluctuates between the honeyed haze of a ritualistic smudge and the astringent warmth of that essential herb in your granny’s Thanksgiving stuffing–and sometimes it is both at once.

The woody warmth of the sandalwood in Lorraine Cross glows like a solemn halo, bright and golden where upon the first light strikes and delicately crumbling to milky powder where the shadows possess it. The blooming beauty of the rose is the earthy floral tether that twines around the heart of this scent, anchoring it to this world. Lorraine Cross is a scent both lofty and grounded, comprised of light and darkness and summons visions of dignity, noble intent, and pure hearts. I can totally imagine Brienne of Tarth wearing it.

Inspired by the sparrow claw clasped Lydia cocktail ring and does indeed smell like how you might imagine our beloved goth icon and kindred spirit Lydia Deetz in 2016. Bitter at the onset, with a metallic tang, it swiftly evolves into a rich, leathery, balsamic amber fragrance. Sharp and biting, moody and mercurial, Lydia is indeed strange and unusual.

At first sniff, Briar Rose is a dusty late summer bloom, recalling somnolent stories of crumbling castles bound with prickling vines, charred spinning wheels, and moth-eaten slumber. It blossoms, furiously, into a full blown curse, ripe with lemon, berries, and anise, and finally wilts with the trembling fear of sleep and the scent of crushed, desiccated petals, marking the page of a terrible tale that all too often is more true than we can dream.

I am blind, initially, in the cool, murky patchouli-fied and daunting darkness of this fragrance, (somewhat similar to the dark, root-y Owl Moon from Chapter I) but in the dark there is a glimmering speck, a glowing point of warmth that begins to grow brighter. A kind traveler with a light aloft in the gloom, flickering and flaring, and redolent of a salty, maple/molasses note. This unexpected sweetness wonderfully balances out that coldly aloof, earthy dankness– a tender meeting of one’s shadow in the light.

This is a glowing, luminous scent, where the velvety opulence of the tuberose, the sultry, narcotic jasmine, and the clean, bright lily of the valley sing, crystalline and delicate, softening the earthy edge of the patchouli. A night-blooming bouquet, wrapped in a gauzy veil, and glimmering with the tears of the moon.

My first thought regarding Petite Planchette is that it is a dreadfully charming scent. Imagine, during an evening with the spirits, employing a delicately wrought planchette, carved of a sweet, somber wood, and connecting with a childish phantom. Peals of laughter float throughout the darkened parlour as she riddles and mocks, and a faint scent of sugared treats lingers when she falls silent. There’s a touch of something that won’t quite behave–not fruit, not cake or pudding, but a fruity-not-fruitiness that’s really quite bratty in its unwillingness to reveal itself. I can perfectly imagine golden-haired, tragically complicated Claudia of Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles smelling of Petite Planchette.

Planchette is quite elusive, and the message it communicates to me is mutable, mercurial. An undercurrent of sweet, fruity resin remains true, but apart from that, and in the span of five minutes, I catch alternating whiffs of honeyed cherry tobacco, dark, sugared confections, and lemony anise tea. I am reminded more of a lively, charged atmosphere wherein strangers sip and nibble amongst whispered chatter, and clasp hands excitedly, anticipating a custom, phantasmal communiqué from beyond–rather than the medium through which the ectoplasmic memo arrived.

A symbiosis of the moon and the magnificent night owl. A dark, rooty, sweet patchouli swirled with honey. A scent steeped in mythology and magic, Owl Moon opens with the blackest, earthiest patchouli (before learning of the notes, I actually thought it was vetiver!) and calls to mind cool, moist soil at the base of a pine tree through which all of the busy little night creatures slither and crawl, the pale, ghostly light of the moon glinting off their scales and wings. A yellow-eyed owl, perched overhead, meditates briefly before silently embarking on his nightly hunt; the sour, screechy scent of his nest, littered with rodent bones and pellets, serves as a warning nearby. This is the fragrance of potent night magics, rich and ripe with darkness and feral mysticism. The sharpness of the patchouli streaked with high-pitched honey combine to form an aura that is both graceful and grotesque, sacred and profane. It dries down to a spellbinding, narcotic musk within an hour or so, and I predict many a darkling will fall rapturously in love with this bewitching nocturnal perfume.

This is patchouli like I have never encountered it; wet, it is straight up patchoulified candy fluff, dirty spun-sugar. Dry, it is more complex, carmelized brown sugar and woodsy musk. I’m not usually one for foody or gourmand scents, but Silky Bat is a delightful, delicious creation.