Warning: light spoilers for The Haunting of Hill House lie ahead.

Pop the champagne! Hand out the cigars! Open up the Red Room! It's time to celebrate one of the most richly developed lesbian characters to ever grace the horror genre.

Last weekend, The Haunting of Hill House swept over Netflix like a wildfire as tons of terror loyalists and curious newbies streamed the new saga. From reflections on family trauma to contemplations on the never-ending cycle of grief, post-show discussions have predominantly focused on the series' impactful overarching themes.

And while those intensely existential takeaways are more than worth discussing—seriously, read this—focusing on one's mortality can be, frankly, a bit of a bummer.

So, instead, let's take time to spotlight the regularly tragic series' most positive win by honoring Theodora Crain, the glove-adorned, kickass lesbian hero who stole scene after scene and finally brought Hill House into the 21st century.

As any fright fanatic will tell you, horror is a tricky genre. On one hand, the shocking nature of its content can break antiquated societal boundaries and result in nuanced, progressive discussions.

On the other hand, that free pass on traumatizing audiences can also permit the formation of unchallenged, socially tone-deaf narratives that force the cultural conversation back a few steps. See the ever-persistent stereotype of the "magical negro" and the still routine degradation of Native American culture throughout horror history.

As a result, plenty of minority groups struggle to find themselves properly represented within the genre—and queer people are no exception. In particular, harmful depictions of "predatory gays" and presentations of lesbian relationships intended to pander to the male gaze permeate scary content to a laughable extent. Not to mention, the "first to die" phenomenon regularly claims queer victims as well as people of color.

This pattern of prejudicial portrayals is what makes The Haunting of Hill House's Theodora Crain such an important addition to the horror landscape. Theo's existence as an out and proud lesbian champions LGBTQ representation without sacrificing character complexity.

Image: Jackson Lee Davis/Netflix

Like the rest of the Crain siblings, Theo is a layered, nuanced, and damaged adult, still haunted by the events of her childhood. Her terrifying experiences with the supernatural—as well as the death of her mother—combine with her status as a middle child to force her into a position of self-imposed isolation. Focused mainly on self-preservation, Theo keeps her adult romantic relationships firmly at arm's length, a behavior that gets her compared to a frat boy at one point and reflects the markedly lasting effects of her trauma.

Theo's suffering throughout the series is no less personal and certainly no less severe than that of her siblings—and her sexuality neither obstructs nor fuels the torture Hill House inflicts upon her. As audience members, we are not forced to witness Theo being harmed more because she is a lesbian, but her sexuality is not hidden from our view, either. (Notably, Theo's homosexuality is established within the series' first half hour.)

The Haunting of Hill House allows Theo to develop and act as any other character would under the petrifying circumstances without denying or exploiting her queerness.

Netflix's adaptation is finally bringing to life the queer character fans of the original novel have been seeing since 1959.

What's more, Theo's characterization is funny, fearless, and hugely likable. She is not relegated to stereotypes like "angry lesbian" and her story arc does not focus centrally on her sexual encounters. Her complicated relationship with her brother's career as well as her clairvoyance takes center stage—a narrative decision that arguably gives her the most powerful subplot of all five siblings. (I didn't know I needed a psychic Olivia Benson in my life, but it turns out I really, really did.)

The best part of all of this? Netflix's adaptation of The Haunting of Hill House is finally bringing to life the queer character fans of Shirley Jackson's novel have been seeing since 1959. Many who have read the original text agree Theodora has always been a gay character and, as one Twitter user points out, Theo has been represented as more and more clearly queer with each passing adaptation. While the pressure of 1950s censors kept Jackson from pursuing an explicitly lesbian presentation of Theo at the time of original publication, Theo's implied sexuality has always been present. With this latest imagining, it is finally in full view.

Theo's season finale gesture of throwing out her prized gloves—capable of subduing her clairvoyance and preventing her emotional connection with other characters—is a little ham-fisted. But, considering this queer character's arduous journey to acceptance, it is also quite apt. After decades of regularly toxic and obscured portrayals, queer characters are finally coming to horror as they are: complex, imperfect, and original.

While quality representation remains too sparse throughout the genre, these steps forward are still victories worth celebrating. And, perhaps, as they mount between scary novels, films, and series, we will finally be able to leave the ghosts of horror discrimination behind.