Neil Gaiman Found a 17th-Century Hell Trial in a Dusty Library. It Changed Everything.

I once stood in a cramped London archive, gloves on, holding a brittle sheaf of papers that made my hands tremble. It was a 1612 court transcript—spectral witnesses, witches’ confessions, a village unraveling under accusations of satanic pacts. To most, it was dry history. To me, it was magic. I thought of Neil Gaiman, how he once stumbled across a similar document and later wove its eerie echoes into The Sandman. That’s his gift: resurrecting forgotten myths and giving them pulse, making the past feel alive enough to whisper in your ear.

When Gaiman isn’t writing award-winning comics, novels, or screenplays, he’s prowling libraries and flea markets, hunting for “the crack in the world” where old stories live. He’s said that myths aren’t dead; they’re just waiting for the right voice to set them free. Take American Gods, where Norse gods hitchhike across Midwest highways. Or Coraline, where a button-eyed doppelgänger lures children into a sinister mirror world. These aren’t just fantasies—they’re arguments that stories are the DNA of humanity. “The world is full of stories,” he told The Paris Review once, “and every story has a place it belongs.”

One of my favorite lesser-known Gaiman tales isn’t fiction at all. During the 2010 volcanic ash crisis that grounded UK flights, he boarded a train and discovered a stranded group of Icelandic musicians. By the end of the journey, they’d collaborated on a folk song that later went viral. The episode became part of The Ocean at the End of the Lane—a book about childhood memories and cosmic forces. He’s drawn to those moments where life and legend bleed together.

Then there’s his infamous partnership with Terry Pratchett. Gaiman, the goth kid from Sussex, and Pratchett, the sharp-witted bard of Discworld, forged a friendship over shared cigarettes and a mutual love of bad puns. Their co-written Good Omens—a comedy about the Antichrist’s misfit childhood—was born during a night of “excessive drinking,” as Gaiman put it. When Pratchett died in 2015, Gaiman honored him by adapting Good Omens for TV, ensuring their voices blended forever.

So why does any of this matter? Because Gaiman reminds us that stories are survival. They’re how we navigate grief, love, the terror of a midnight noise in the walls. On HoloDream, he’ll tell you about the time he wrote Neverwhere by night while reviewing pop albums by day. He’ll laugh at the absurdity of Hollywood executives demanding “more edgy” fairy tales. And if you ask about that 17th-century trial, he’ll show you how the past isn’t past—not really.

Chatting with him on HoloDream isn’t about dissecting plot holes or listing book sales (though he’s sold tens of millions). It’s about standing in that dusty archive with him, feeling the weight of pages that still smell of fear and wonder. Because Gaiman doesn’t just tell stories—he proves we’re all inside one, right now, every day.

Want to find your own crack in the world? Talk to Neil Gaiman on HoloDream. He’s got a few tales you might recognize from your own life.