Category Archives: horror

Post-Apoclyptastic some more


Zombies are shufflers,

Anything running is just diseased,

Not deceased,

Like the vampires,

However they fly,

Generally anyway,

Extra-dimensional aliens are another thing altogether,

As they share a single consciousness,

Like you do,

Coffee is currency,

Nosferatu are allergic to caffeine,

And it makes you invisible to invaders,

But not to lunar crumbs plummeting to earth,

As the Nyarlahotep thing eats the moon,

Day and night; the sound of a great munching,

Or maybe that’s me,

Smoke from the cookie mill means that everything is okay though,

Maybe hunt for feral children to sell tomorrow,




There was once a glass coffin in the center of a lost woods, although how a woods can get lost is a strange question.  Once a day the coffin would sing and all the animals would come to listen.  One day a boy and girl were walking along the edge of the woods and heard the singing, which somehow calmed the animals down enough so that they did not attack, assuming of course that there were some bears and alligators amongst the animals listening to the coffin.  The girl was immediately enamored with the singing and asked the boy to open the lid to the coffin so she could see what was producing the sound.  As soon as the boy opened the lid the animals pushed him inside and the girl saw that it was not a coffin, but the entrance to a deep hole.  She grabbed the boy’s hand, but he was too heavy and slipped away.

Sasha wasn’t sure what the moral of her story was, but liked that the animals pushed the little boy in the hole.  She assumed the little girl battled off the animals and escaped, although questioned if she would bother to come back because the woods was lost, so was probably prone to wandering about trying to find its way somewhere, making it doubly difficult to find again, apart from the singing of course, which was probably some yet to be classified giant ground mole with a taste for little boys.  The right thing to do would be to get the police, but upon finding the woods missing, they would assume the little girl had eaten the little boy and imagined the woods and singing coffin so was obviously insane and fit for a strait jacket, which she would wear well because she was an exceptionally pretty little girl.



There are monsters about,

Hunger insatiable,

Minds run amok,

Writhing and Lurching

They tear themselves asunder,

Trying to be human,

Trying to be trusted

So that they may devour you,

But they are what they seem,

They are monsters.

Clowns in the walls


There are clowns in the walls

More than a few

They shake and scratch

Apparently coming for you

Unnamed by Ringling

Tortured by Barnum

Murdered by Bailey

Buried in the walls of a lodge on the mountain

Shadows out the window

Shadows on the walls

Green phantasmagoria

Moving through the halls

Maybe a trapeze artist or two

Footsteps on the roof

Hollow walls sealed suspiciously well

A great tomb on the mountain

North Fork Mountain Inn: really unpleasant experience.  Don’t go there.  Overpriced, lame.  Owners wouldn’t blink an eye if you disappeared into the woods.  In fact they’d probably raid your cabin refrigerator and serve your food for dinner at 45$ a plate.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a Motel Hell-like field of heads somewhere in the forest.


His name is Milo, he is married to Molly and they stare silently at each other each day waiting for the end of the world or one of their lives.  Molly was an accomplished photographer at some point, but now looks at her camera with the scorn of a jaded lover, or so Milo thinks.

Homage of sorts


It is a terrible shame.  The estate was immaculate in my youth, but has since fallen into a very regrettable state of disrepair.  Only the groundskeeper and his son reside on the property now; good working people, salt of the earth you know.  In my youth I thought the grand hall was the most amazing thing I had ever seen; it was the sight of countless family events and was by and large the crown jewel in an estate replete with splendor.  Mr. Pickerly bought the estate from us just last year and while he’s not the most social of gentlemen he invested a good deal of his not inconsiderable resources into restoring the home to its proper condition.  Just the other week I took tea with him and answered many questions which seemed to have been on his mind for quite some time.  In the process of renovating some of the ancillary rooms he had come across some peculiar volumes that I honestly have no recollection of being in the main library and can only assume that the groundskeeper or his son had taken up an interest in the occult.

The last I spoke to Mr. Pickerly he told me the most peculiar tale concerning the dumbwaiter.  Apparently while looking for the lowest point of the device he found an extra room in the basement and upon entering realized that it wasn’t a room at all, but the mouth of a long dark tunnel that seemed to run beneath the property.  He wanted to know if I had ever seen this passage, perhaps in my youth, but I had to tell him that I honestly had no idea that it existed.  There was a definite fear and excitement to his questions and although he indicated that he had not yet traversed the passage, he seemed determined to do so even after I warned him several times that it may not be structurally sound and I should be quite regretful to no not take tea with him again because some flight of fancy ended in him being trapped deep in the bowels of the estate.

It was quite a shock when I received a letter several days later containing the details of his first trip down the tunnel.  In my initial perusal of the document I immediately noticed frantically drawn illustrations of a spiral staircase ascending from an abyss; it appeared that he had written the letter over additional similar illustrations that he had for the most part erased.  The text of the letter proved to be equally enigmatic as Mr. Pickerly skipped entire sections of sentences and paragraphs; doubtless a reflection of his frantic mind groping for meaning in something where there seemed to be none.  I sent my doorman Richard over to the old estate with a care package of wine, cheese and bread, but he reported the old house as rather abandoned at the moment.

Fearing for the safety of my new acquaintance, I sent Richard back again, this time with several members of my staff with instructions to find either Mr. Pickerly or the groundskeeper’s son and deduce the cause of the apparent strangeness transpiring in the home I once called my own.

After two days I was at my wits end and was about to pick up the phone and call the authorities when there came a knock on my front door.  I opened the door upon a man possessing most of the physical qualities of Richard, but of age untold.  He silently passed me to enter the house and poured a glass of brandy without any regard whatsoever for my permission to do so.  After looking into the fireplace for no less then fifteen minutes he sat in my chair and removed a package from his coat.  An odd silence came over the room; so much so that my footfalls sounded like the gentle strokes of a paintbrush over canvas.  The package dropped with great weight on the end table and sound rushed back into the room; driving me to my knees with its unmitigated constancy.  He gestured to the misshapen paper envelop implying that I should open its crudely wrapped contents.  I did so carefully and looked upon what appeared at first to be a stack of blank paper.  Moments after laying eyes on the unbound pages, the Grand Hall appeared on the top page; a perfect representation of its heyday and my youth.

Following my looking on the now moving image, Richard started to speak and seemed to go on for hours regarding original language and accursed smallness.  He spoke of a library deep in the abyss of the old estate and the librarians thereof; grand and eyeless, lest they read the text of Undoing.  It took all of my strength to ask regarding the welfare of the other members of my staff, but he only snapped his frozen eyes at mine and continued his wearying monologue.

I awoke to a draft from the open front door and found no trace of Richard except for the pages he had left.  The pages did not seem affected by the wind, as if bound by some unseen power.  They remain untouched on the end table even as I write this, and visibly increase in weight by the hour.  Every day new cracks appear in the wooden table top and its legs.  I dare not touch it as I fear I will be taken by whatever took my doorman, but I cannot leave either.  My staff has abandoned me thinking me mad, but they do not see the pages, they cannot because it was not presented to them and therefore cannot understand.  On nights I sleep I dream of it breaking through the end table and then the floor, falling into the abyss, me with it, becoming part of some forbidden knowledge possessed deep in realms unseen.  Until that time I will look at the Hall and want to be there again young and unknowing.

Excerpt from in-progress


It was shortly after this that a block formed and Phillip was again relegated to endlessly trolling the internet for points of inspiration which simply did not exist.  He equated the phenomena to the numbness one eventually feels after extended drug addiction.  There was a village in the back of his mind populated by his memories, however they seemed to be very hard to impossible to draw upon.  He envisioned his first girlfriend living in a small cottage with his high school chemistry teacher; they had been married and three times a week she went to the outdoor produce market to buy fresh ingredients for Mr. Fisher’s dinner, dinners she should have, but never cooked for Phillip.  She turns and looks at the tree that juts ominously from the hill above town and suddenly hears the warning bell.  The crowd around her scatters as a large shadow emerges from a hole in the trunk and moves with terrible speed toward the town square.  She bangs on the now barred doors of her neighbors, but none will offer assistance.  She trips on a cobblestone and as she lies on the street in the village square she sees it; an owl the size of a pickup truck descending impossibly fast to her position.  As her eyes close she hears Mr. Fisher cry out her name, but it’s too late.  The last thing she feels in the coolness of the tree’s shadow as she is dropped into its trunk to be recycled into Sasha’s rival; Dominic’s dead fiancée’s sister, cue da-da-daaaa.