Algonquin legends say the wendigo was once a man like you and me. Poisoned by greed and gluttony, the man turned into a pale, gaunt creature with sunken eyes, reaching limbs, and an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Always hungry, the wendigo searched constantly for its next meal. The truth, however, is much worse. … More Beware the Wendigo
This July, my mother turned seventy. She and I don’t get along too well, and that’s putting it lightly. In fact, we hadn’t spoken for two years. Regardless, seventy is a big number, so even if she was a cruel, manipulative bitch, I decided I owed her a visit. So, I stopped by her house … More My Mother’s Company
Past the thorny brush In Oakwood Hollow Lies a silver pool Bathed in starlight. Shadows Dance while the streams froth, And a bitter wind scampers Among the leaves. A lonely traveler stops To wipe his beaten brow. The path has lost him And his wits have left him, For in circles he walks, Around and … More The Silver Pool in Oakwood Hollow
A Youtuber named Lucifer’s Nephew has just produced a narration for my story The Collector of Sorrows. If you liked the original story, take a listen to his video. Give him a sub and explore some of his other videos.
Beyond the mountain pass Lies a trail bathed In milky starlight. Mossy trees Hold the road With gnarled hands Clothed in silver And green. Pretty, pink Flowers bloom at your feet. Their soft scent Tickles your tongue. You Taste neither lilac Nor lily. Death Coats every fleshy bud. You hurry Your pace. Flowers fade As … More Beyond the Mountain Pass
I call myself a collector of sorrows. As a teen, I felt alone and ignored. My classmates bullied me, and my parents spent most of their time at work. They didn’t have the time or care to hear how Brett pushed me on the playground or how Tommy joked about my big nose. After a … More The Collector of Sorrows
A while ago I posted a link to a Creepypasta story I wrote. Here it is again if you never read it. If you like H.P. Lovecraft, this is for you. I will tell this story only once. Pass it around. Alter it if you like. But once I am done with the story. I … More Makhar the Small
Bloated bodies Full of hot air tumble Down hills cloaked In inky shadow. The evening stinks Of shame and festered regret That spurts from their pores. And the townsfolk hide. Death, They think, comes pouring Down the sloped mounds Outside their homes Where fires burn in stone chimneys And smoke pours up into the sky … More Bloated Bodies
