WaffleHouse.exe Has Stopped Working

Southern Gothic

[dappermouth]

you’ve seen the dog outside of town, lying where the witches were buried.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

The mirror in the large room of the sea food restaurant. The one down the highway across from the youth detention center and the sperm bank. That mirror is.. not a mirror. You can tell by the way your reflection doesnt look quite right. Too in-focus in some places, too blurry in others. The reality it projects is only just warped enough to make ones eyes slide off. As though it is much easier to not notice how you look in that mirror. As though your hush puppies and tartar sauce will taste better if you don’t succumb to the irrefutable draw of its wrongness in the space.

Wise eyes draw near, but not too close, for vanity sits alongside the deadly sins in this place.

[madeofklay]

“What’s that crossing the street?” “A cat, probably.” “Probably?” “Probably.”

[burtoo]

American Poetry - Brendon Burton

[the-space-between-the-columns]

A Prophecy

If you meet the eyes of a silent doe in Memory Hill Cemetery, in the dead of night, when only like parking lot bulbs of the dollar store cut stark shadows across the tombs, she will grant you one wish.

It will not be instantly, nor will words be spoken, but as surely as your heart halts to see her sihloette cross your path, your prophecy will come. Just as all things surely come.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

It happens on the flat roads across the Mississipi, into Louisiana

A woman walks into a rest stop— any rest stop. The state welcome centers, the half-Taco Bell dives that sell gasoline out of barrels in back, the truck stops with bedazzled baseball caps and gun-shaped keychains. It does not matter where, but she will walk in. Nondescript and quiet, she will not make conversation, except to purchase small token items in exchange for a few moments in the restroom.

A clerk will ask if she found everything alright. She will reply, “Yes, thank you.” In a voice that defies time; oddly loud and pronounced for its hushed tone.

That will be all of it, and most clerks do not find oddity in her presence, unless she comes as night. She wears large, thick lensed sunglasses. The kind that could fit over a substantial pair of prescription lenses. The kind grandmothers wear to the beach. A woman will enter any given rest stop and you will never see her eyes, if you are lucky.

There are legends of old about women who turn men to stone, with killing glances and snake-like eyes, and they have faded into the mythos of long dead men. But there are persisting tales— urban legends of black-eyed children who knock on car windows and Los Angeles doors late into the night, asking to be let in. No eyes who have witnessed theirs will meet another’s to tell their tale. These children are not a figment of bettrayed innocence, nor a deeper manifestation of evil, but a vestige of something much older than nervous cashiers and interstate highways.

The children have been taught with better manners than their mother, who has never been known to ask permission to enter a place. And yet they are the ones regarded with modern terror. It may be better to appreciate the new generation for its difference, and revere the mother for her presence.

On the flat highways of the western US, you may see a woman or one of her many children. They pose no threat to some, but beware of their gaze, lest they see you.

[jmfenner91]

Over there

[waliszewska]

[the-space-between-the-columns]

Count the trains of the Atlanta Metro.

First one by, purple, hurtles down the track and doesn’t stop. It is not going to any marked station, the digital read on the front says “Leopold”.

Second one by, all but three passengers board. Northbound. To waiting cars and distant homes.

One more will come, and that is your train. The doors will stand open, slient, for seven minutes before closing. When the train pulls out it sounds like a child’s scream escalating to a desperate, chugging howl.

The station will be left empty, to its drafts and wafting stench. Down the dark tunnel, Southbound, something roars down the tracks. It is not a train.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

Comment below with your most liminal dream

The one that feels like a call from somewhere else.

The one that makes your eyes burn with a memory you never experienced.

If you are lucky, the void from which these images crawl may answer.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

Have They Told You

About the wet woods, about who lives there. About the thick-trunked, heavy-vined moss trees, about who owns them.

There were stories once, about the unclaimed children pushed to the forrest edge, where the land is more water than grass. Wretched, mud-toed children, forced there by shouting and fire. Something must feed who lives in the trees. Someone must keep them in the forrest. Why not a child without name or purpose?

There were glowing white eyes like deadly moons upon the far banks of the river. There were crouched forms on hooved haunches, claws grasping at loose dirt. Waiting. An unclaimed child would not be enough for long, anyone with stories knows that. But still, those who own the trees will accept it. No mortal eyes were watching when they left the shivering mass upon the riverbank. No one was watching when hooked fingers on arms like trunks made the water part. They did not want to see the oxen-horned heads emerge from the tall grass, crouched low and sniffing at the water’s surface.

White eyes cannot glow in the day, but keen ears can hear the bells. Those trees owned by no men, they have a ringing to them if you listen. If you stand still and quiet on thick aired days. Bells— many toned and cacaphonous— in the distance. Keep them in the distance, across the river. Anyone who has seen the bells, who wandered close enough to see the webs of thick, tangled metal strung through the bog trees, did not retain enough humanity to return. Thats what they say, at least.

The legend of the Bell Mother is not one in a book any living thing can read. It is not spoken in the language of the tounged beasts of Earth. But it is known in the bones of those who wander too close. And wonder... too close. Too close to the ringing bog trees. To the quiet, waiting folds of earth at the edge of the river.

[helixpublicradio]

If you are in the forest, follow the trail of bones. If you lose sight of them or don’t find the path fast enough, you will join them.

However, do not follow the snail shells.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

devil's tramping grounds, north carolina. you know my daddy always told me of the local animals that got lost down there and the witch who chased after little boys with her machete that dripped glowin' green blood...

Wives tales.

Which wives, though?

Ones with false teeth and false stories. With too many taxidermied rabbits mounted on their walls. Some with hats.

Northern Carolina’s full of them wives. In the mountains that freeze over, too cold for the ski towns and too cold for the witches, they hunt for their next masterpiece. Sometimes they find it in antique stores, placed in a booth next to some desert rose china. Sometimes they find it huddling in the thorn bushes, panting from a long run, clothes torn and ruddy cheeks stained from those silly tears.

Wives tales hold no water where there is only snow, child.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

A poem, based on the neighbors opinions of my dog and I

That girl and her black dog

Wretched creature

“The girl or the dog?”

Both

Nails red as his collar, carries him everywhere

Gums as pink as her lips, you see them when he barks

That little thing hates everyone and everything

“The girl or the dog?”

Both

The little thing is downright unnatural

Too uncanny a bond to be normal

I’d say it’s a demon with it’s familiar

“The girl or the dog?”

Both

<sumbission @bitchdafuqyousay >

[the-space-between-the-columns]

The house is burning

Big one, white one, pillars to the sky and a row of melting metal mailboxes on the porch.

It is the only thing lighting the town tonight but its bright enough for us all.

To illuminate the faces of onlookers. Fascination masked as horror.

They say Old House. They say Old Wires.

They say A Real Shame. As the wooden, screaming air escapes from a splintered mouth in a language that will never be understood by us here.

They say Real Strange. As the flames are reflected in the rain puddles gathering in the gutter.

[the-space-between-the-columns]

hey can I just say your writing is haunting and I absolutely love it. Have you written any short stories or books?? Again I absolutely love your content and I read it to the voices in my head every night to keep them quiet. It usually works. Usually.

Thank you so so much! I haven’t written any long-form works of my “gothic” material but I definitely want to continue writing in the style!

[hgk477]

When driving at night

If you start to feel drowsy it’s best to find a motel and sleep. But keep your eyes down.

Before picking up a hitchhiker check to see if they’re wearing shoes.

Occasionally you’ll stumble across strange radio channels. Don’t listen to anything they say.

Disregard what might appear in your mirrors.

If your car is suddenly low on gas exit the vehicle immediately.

If you see someone trying to fix their car on the side of the road get out and help. But don’t ask any questions.

The contents of your trunk may vary.

If a strange fog suddenly rolls in turn on your air conditioner. It’s looking for warm objects.

You may hear strange things from your radio. Remember that you do not have a radio.

When ordering fast food always avoid the drive-through.

Sometimes people appear in your backseat. Make idle conversation and don’t antagonize them. They’re just wondering.

Focus on your lane.

Check through your phone camera if the traffic light has really turned green; spirits like to deceive you.

Never turn on the windshield wipers. Get out and clean the window manually if needed.

It is perfectly acceptable to sometimes take strange dirt roads claiming to be shortcuts. Enjoy those routes. They’re never there for long.

More guides

How to talk to the wind

Cool DIY Projects that aren’t Illegal Yet!