A room of her own
Kat Somerville has inherited a house in the town where she grew up. Her mother sent her away when she was nine, and Kat has carried the hurt of that rejection for years. Now her mother is dead, and Kat is bringing her own daughter, Sybil, back to that house.
“Their hope is specific and modest: enough space for each of them, somewhere they might finally settle.”
On the bus, Sybil asks whether she will have her own room. Kat tells her they both will. It is a small exchange, but it makes you want this move to work. Their hope is specific and modest: enough space for each of them, somewhere they might finally settle.
Chicago has felt cold and cramped. Comfort Notch arrives in orange and gold, its trees lining the streets. The artwork gives Kat’s decision an appeal we can feel before the story starts making us doubt it.
Love does not make old pain disappear
Kat wants to give Sybil a better childhood than her own. Wanting it does not remove the hurt she is carrying. She loses her temper. She grips Sybil’s hand too tightly. Then they are playing imaginary games together or promising to destroy the dragons in Sybil’s book.
Kraus lets both versions of her occupy the story. Her love is clear, and so is the effort it takes to keep old pain from becoming something her daughter must carry. She can be caring, funny, impatient, and frightening within the same relationship.
Comfort Notch has its own ways of passing things down. Children sing a rhyme about someone called Biddle. Kat remembers it from school. At first, it returns her to the feeling of being little. Then you listen to the words. Familiarity starts to feel like a warning.
The leaves escape the panels
One afternoon, Kat encourages Sybil and two local boys to jump into a pile of leaves. The boys say they are not supposed to: it is not safe. Kat reassures them. She raked the pile herself. For her, this is a chance to give the children an ordinary pleasure.
Chris Shehan softens Kat’s face as she watches them. Jason Wordie fills the scene with golden light, and leaves drift into the white spaces between the panels. The children seem surrounded by autumn even outside the frames. For a moment, the page holds the childhood Kat wants for Sybil.
Then the boys’ mother arrives, grabs them, and slaps Kat. She accuses Kat of knowing nothing about protecting a child. The page remains bright. The leaves are still beautiful. What changes is our understanding of the scene, and that makes the color more unsettling than an abrupt turn to darkness would have been.
What followed her home?
Kat needs to understand why her mother sent her away. She also needs to understand what the people around her are afraid of. As she looks into the town’s history, those questions grow harder to separate.
For me, that is what makes The Autumnal compelling. We have seen what Kat and Sybil could have here, so the threat has something concrete to take from them. The trees that made the town welcoming are everywhere. So are the neighbors who know its rules.
The eight-issue story is complete in one volume. Choose it for the way the family drama and the folk horror tighten around each other. Kat came home hoping to give her daughter a different childhood. The question is how much of her own has followed her there.
