Stumbling around, there's so much noise. I can't hear anything but the buzzing in my head. So many doors are locked and I must see them. And there is one who lives among them. Only they can release the monsters and ghosts inside. They are a ghost themselves, and they remind me of pain. How … Continue reading
Footsteps. It was always the footsteps that set me on edge. Across the fake wooden floor, his boots thumped around a quiet house.
It's been one of the hardest stories I've tried to write. Nothing in it feels good. There is no comedic relief. It is a raw horror with a near death experience, as well as an unnerving undertone of the reader - and even me - not being entirely sure of what's happening.
I want to know this entity and who he really is. He's far too interesting to try to block out or ignore.
I finally sought out Kate Bush's ['Snowflake'], and I discovered something awe-inspiring.
The rest is but a dream.
After all, the purpose of dirt is to feed the worms.
You’re alive and I’m rotting slowly
This is how I finally realized the power it had, and it had always been there. This sadistic alter, born of the darkest parts of me, was the reason for the cruel musings I'd be inundated with upon waking from sleep.
It always fascinates me, even on my darkest days, to see just what our brains can do. The places they can take us. The things they can make us see.