Pickman's Models

[bobbole]

Ozy Worldyz, Memoirs of a tormented soul

[charnel-grounds]

Otto Dix (1891–1969)

“Nächtliche Erscheinung” (Nocturnal Apparition)

lithograph, 1923 — source

[pickmansmodels]

🩸 Blood Moon #3

Abigail Blake's Diary

March 23rd, 1916

I feel as though I will shrink into oblivion in this house. With each passing day the walls expand and the shadowed corners grow deeper. Have the windows always been so small? I can’t recall. I can see the townspeople moving about on the other side. But they are too far away and I cannot hear them.

They called frequently to offer their condolences after father passed. There was no shortage of hot meals, warm embraces, and kind words. But I grew tired and started to turn my visitors away with timid apologies - especially Margaret Keane and her son.

Margaret called every day for a week, cradling the infant in her arms. As we sat in the kitchen and exchanged empty words, all I could see was the rosy flush of blood pulsing beneath the child’s translucent skin. Why should she be blessed with another perfect, healthy child on the day I lost the only person I had left in all the world? Every twitch and stretch of those tiny, plump limbs set my teeth on edge until I wanted to scream.

I know it is wrong to think so. I have begged God’s forgiveness for allowing such a thought to enter my mind. But the other god - the one I hear in the marshes on silent, foggy nights - does not seek repentance. He seeks only b

I must not write of such things anymore. I will pray another rosary and attempt to sleep. I hope father’s God can still hear me, if he ever did at all.

🩸STORY ARCHIVE

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

Maéna Paillet

[389]

Blair Landis - Corpse Decomposition Meditation

[pickmansmodels]

I’m sad

I’m not angry, not depressed

I’m just sad

I’ve gotten so used to equating sadness and depression

But this is different

Depression is active

It has a goal to achieve

It chokes, it oppresses, and it binds

It wears a mask that looks like my face

It tells me to surrender

It tells me to seek comfort

In self-inflicted pain

Sadness simply is

Sometimes it looks like me

Sometimes it looks like my mother

Other times it has no face

Just presence

It isn’t a heavy presence

It doesn’t draw attention

It stands in the corner, unmoving

The scenery changes, the characters move

But sadness is still standing in the corner

It doesn’t ask anything of me

But to notice it and give it space

Until the time comes for it to leave

But when it leaves

I keep the space empty

I tend to it like a shrine

Because I know sadness will come back

[charnel-grounds]

Simone Pinna, “Euthanasia”

graphite, 2025

[charnel-grounds]

“No nightmare conception was missing from the uncanny host that swarmed against the walls. . . .”

Virgil Finlay (1914–1971), illustration to “Three Against the Stars” by Eric North

Fantastic Novels Magazine Vol. 4 #1, May 1950 — source

[omnia-mors-aequat-nstrwa]

“Peace Bells” — Andreas Gering (1916)

[no7er]

The Deep Ones, Digital artwork, 2026

[shapeoftheday]

restless spirits

[charnel-grounds]

Hugo Steiner-Prag (1880–1945)

illustrations from “Totentanz” series

lithographs on woven paper, 1919 — source

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

Vedran Klemens

[fhtagn-and-tentacles]

I HEARD THE CALL

by Francesco de Stena

[mewling-cultist]

And all shall answer

[thewindowofthesummerhouse]

Brian Bolland

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Creature, digital illustration by Ivan Palma

[pickmansmodels]

🩸Blood Moon #2

Julian Thorne's Diary

January 23rd, 1916

Returned to my dormitory late from the lounge this evening. I must try harder to resist Franklin’s incessant badgering of “just another drink.” But there’s something about the unrelenting oppression of the nor-easterns that makes one crave the warmth of human companionship. Or, at the very least, the warmth of a crisp rye by the fireside.

Returning to Arkham after the winter festivities at home imposed an uncharacteristic melancholy on my disposition this year. Never have I felt so strong an impulse to remain in Fosgate. I cannot stop wondering about the source of this sensation. Going about my daily duties has become taxing and I often find my mind has wandered back to the little town with its muddy roads and familiar faces. One face in particular visits my dreams each night.

But I mustn’t dwell on childhood fancies. There are papers due at the end of the week and I’ve made little progress on my thesis. I’ve resolved I am to be shut up in my room until the draft is complete.

🩸STORY ARCHIVE