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black leather five-hole doc martens, grey bamboo socks, black cotton twill trousers rolled/cuffed to mid-calf, black leather belt with silver buckle, grey cotton boxer shorts, black coil t-shirt, black cotton jacket with witch and moon patches and moss icon pin, grey woolen flat cap.
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it was with a sense of unease that i drove to that house on saturday night, slowly down winding roads, fog thick through the trees on either side.
near the entrance to the drive i saw a figure, stooped to a degree i would have thought impossible, the headlights of my automobile illuminating his ragged corduroy trousers of an indistinct earth tone, equally ragged dark green jacket, and bright orange safety vest, his skin the colour and texture of old driftwood.
in his hand was a long thin metal rod with a spearpoint on the end and he had a misshapen bag over his shoulder.
he didn’t seem to notice me in the slightest as he speared aluminum cans, bleached by sun, salt, and the awful passage of time.
shuddering, i slowly passed him and went up the drive, trees leaning toward each other above me as an unseasonable warmth crept in.
i took the crumbling steps, entered the house and called to the hounds, who shuffled toward me, for some reason bereft of their usual excitement.
we went outside and there, by the lichen covered back step, i noticed a small pile of dead mice, at least six, neatly stacked.
sweeping them under the steps with my foot before the dogs could notice, i went up the back steps, carefully so as not to slip, calling the lumbering beasts to me.
we went inside and, after feeding them dry kibble and boiled chicken, i lay upon the couch and waited for the febrile fecundity of this damnable place to take me.
jolted awake after an unknown amount of time by some creature jumping upon me, i looked down to see one of the mutant cats in my lap, certain that it had somehow grown even more digits, knuckles, and misplaced claws.
it was with horror that i noticed the sides of his head were aswarm with small black and brown things, slowly crawling across and digging into the soft tissue around the eyes.
i took him into the squalid bathroom, placed him gently in the sink and began the long process of removing dozens of ticks, some so swollen with gore that they burst open at the slightest touch.
as i did this, his brother came through the door and watched, quietly, unmoving.
when i was done, i sat down heavily upon the toilet lid, and watched them both walk off, once again each indistinguishable from the other.
looking ahead i noticed that the bathtub, stained grey from decades of damp, was filled to the brim with shoes of all kind, old and new.
finding inexplicable discomfort in this, i quickly left the bathroom, turning out the light, and made my way upstairs to imagine all sorts of fungal invasions into my lungs, brain, and bones until a fitful sleep claimed me and i dreamed of preternaturally slow waves on diseased oceans.
Post with 6 notes
friday night came, crawling and flailing, and found me once again down the long drive through the fen.
approaching the front door, the girl limped along next to me, face still lit by by that pallid glow.
i reached the steps before her and quickly told her to enter through the side door and take the great beasts out on leashes stiff with filth so she wouldn’t see what lay on the crumbling concrete in front of me.
two birds, both out of seasons, lay upon the step.
an emaciated looking robin and a cardinal, shocking in its redness, lay facing each other as if the tiny corpses had been arranged, left there with some unknowable intent.
perhaps it was the strange twin felines that haunt the place.
but perhaps it was something altogether else.
i swiftly went inside, grabbed a paper sack, and swept the frail broken avians into it, to deposit in the large plastic drum at the end of the long drive to rot with whatever else was inside it.
the stench upon lifting the lid was almost unbearable and i gagged as i tossed in the little brown bag before wearily waking my way back to the house which seemed to suddenly lean westward in an unhealthy manner.
i sighed and cursed under my breath and went inside.
sleep took me early, but fitfully.
there is no real rest to be had, here.
Post with 6 notes
while in my auto, driving back to that squalid house of horror, i was forced to stop for a bit as a small herd of rheumy underfed milking cows blocked the road, eying me balefully through cloudy orbs, udders swollen and distended bringing nothing to mind so much as great pale pink ticks ready to burst.
sighing with the patience that comes from knowing that you are in the midst of your damnation, i rolled the window up to lessen the stench wafting from the sickly cattle and waited for them to finish their aimless stroll across the lane and then sped along before they could mindless wander back.
under the fading afternoon light and long shadows, the house looks no less sinister and so, resigning myself to whatever grotesque tragedy this endeavour had become and with a quiet soft shudder i grabbed hold of the outside door, tattered nylon screen fluttering around me as the door, barely more than a white ruin, creaked open.
swinging the sturdier, and somehow filthier, interior door open i was immediately set upon by the hounds who, in all of their nervous excited, knocked me about and my spectacles flew back off my head, landing amdist the half rotted thorny roses.
backing out to retrieve them, i left the door open and the hounds swept past me, running in circles, or perhaps spirals, opposite each other.
chuckling at this small bit of cheer, i sat upon the crumbling steps and took a bit of solace before bringing them back in to be fed whatever awful kibble they were due before i scuttled away.
i fear that tonight may bring the worst.
Post with 14 notes
i have survived a second night in this house of damp and quiet horror.
the wolfhounds continue to be aggressively affectionate and the mutant felines aloof, while the strange teenager lurks in odd corners, face lit by a ghostly blue glow.
the house itself creaks through the night, seeming to sink down into further shambles as the surrounding swamp swells upward, grey and foetid.
there is no charm to be found here, nothing quaint and ‘woodsy.’
only a damp that remains unseasonably warm, regardless of the weather without, and a sickening subtle smell of dead sweetness.
the small fortune in books that i had brought with me lay torn and chewed, strewn about the floor and stickyslick with spittle as if rent and partially devoured by the jaws of some beast, mad with grief and panic.
there’s nothing i would call edible in this house, so i must return to my own home for the day to feed and fetch some bottles of water as the tap smells slightly of drainage and tastes of strange metals.
proper sleep still eludes me, not simply because of the still stale air and the humid warmth but also due to one of the wolfhounds insisting on pawing at my face whenever sleep came close to taking me.
is this what usher felt?, i ask myself but, as expected, i receive no reply.
only five more nights of this and then, if i remain among the living, my freedom.
Post with 9 notes
in a swamp, in a house that quite literally makes me sick with two polydactyl cats (who also make me sick* and just absolutely love to try and lay across my face), two giant monster dogs, one billion and three ladybugs, water that tastes strangely like lead and anthrax, and i’m relatively certain that i’m going to die in my sleep and horrid things reminiscent of something like cattle crossed with jellyfish will burst from my sinuses and begin feasting on whatever passes for neighbours.
i can’t even explain how much i look forward to collapsing in my own bed for a bit, tomorrow.
(*i don’t mean that as any judgment on the little fellows, they just wreak havoc with my innards and the interior of my skull and all five of my lungs.)
Post with 9 notes
four major modes of what i would consider horror fiction*:
1) the weird (as typified by the bulk of lovecraft’s work.)
—the horror comes from ‘outside.’
2) the strange (as typified by the bulk of aickman’s work.)
—the horror is ‘native.’
3) the spectral (as typified by the bulk of m.r. james’ work.)
—the horror comes from the ‘past.’
4) the ugly (as typified by the bulk of matheson’s work.)
—the horror comes from the ‘rational.’
(*for the purposes of pretty much all of my critical thinking/reading on the subject, ‘horror’ is largely a construction of the 20th century and beyond beginning with the wider publishing of ‘dracula’ and ‘the beetle’ and with many important antecedents [the gothics, poe, the romantics, etc.])
Video with 7 notes
mark bell was one of those rare musicians who actually made a difference and changed the landscape of modern and contemporary music and i will miss him like a motherfucker.
rest in power, brother.
Post with 3 notes
black leather five-hole doc martens, brown argyle woolen socks, black cotton twill trousers rolled/cuffed to mid calf, grey cotton boxer shorts, black leather belt with silver buckle, white cotton undershirt, white cotton short with sleeves rolled to the elbow, black woolen tie with fetisch park pin, grey woolen flat cap.
Photoset with 5 notes
as ever! all postcards, hand written letters, typescripts, old bones, and the like to:
p.o. box 2842
let the dead worry about whatever happens on rainy wednesdays.
Quote with 5 notes
What a sad paradox, though Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze the path into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.
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