witch▼death

[absinthundrosen]

[lasheeda]

[intotherainbow-vein]

LEVIATHAN

-2016

[hex-len]

art by Berni Wrightson

[witchdeath]

[dancing-at-the-funeralparty-dea]

[narabean]

[ericabathory]

[witchdeath]

Barren Copse

I was an undergrad at The University of Toronto, pursuing an Honours Bachelor of Arts as an Anthropology Specialist. Late one evening in October, some classmates and I were working on a group project at Coffee & All That Jazz, a cunning bistro about twenty-minutes from the St. George Campus. Intending to keep our weekend free, we finalized our proposal, sent it off for approval, and embarked home. My friend Sasha and I biked. Melody, my roommate, left earlier that evening for Fall Break, so I had the townhouse to myself. Sasha was going to stay for an hour, have a glass of Chardonnay, and then head home. As I locked up my bicycle, Sasha’s phone rang. Her boyfriend had encountered some trouble at a local bar, and she needed to go and assuage the tension. I was okay with it. Melody was loud and boorish, so the thought of some alone time seduced me. In fact, I probably compelled Sasha to leave– unknowingly, of course. When I entered the front door, the alarm should have gone off, but it didn’t. I’d forgotten to set it in the past, but I distinctly remembered setting it before coffee. Only in retrospect, though, sifting through the accumulation of suspicion, did I think anything of it. Much like the alarm, the pile of leaves by the landing struck me as odd– hadn’t I swept the foyer that afternoon– but I concluded that they were nothing more than an innocuous mystery. I set my purse on the table and ascended the stairs, turning left into my bedroom. The upstairs was fairly compact, with thin– almost suffocating– hallways to the left and right of the staircase. Melody slept to the right, and a joint bathroom was nestled between the two of us. I drank wine, read a magazine or two, took a shower, and set the alarm. On the alarm’s home-screen, there was a notice that the system had been disarmed half-an-hour before I returned home. Melody, I thought, must have come home to retrieve something she’d forgotten. I sent her an (admittedly caustic) text about forgetting to reset the system and went back upstairs to bed. I had oriented my bed by the window when I moved in so I could stare out of it as I fell asleep. There was a copse of trees in the backyard, near my window, and the leaves were the most miraculous shade of yellow every year when Mother Nature inaugurated the arrival of Fall. That night, though, the tree was barren. I hadn’t noticed that the trees shed their leaves. Clinging wistfully to memories of vibrant, flaxen leaves, I fell asleep. I’m not sure what roused me out of my sleep, perhaps a sinking feeling in my gut, but something had. The door to Melody’s room, I could hear it being opened, the muffled sound of heedful footsteps working their way down the hall. Melody? I checked my phone. She responded. She had been back earlier that evening, and she must not have set the alarm. She apologized. These footsteps were heavy, though– dreadful. She’d have told me if she were here, right? Like tubes of morphine lanced into your veins, I could feel a surge of adrenaline fluttering through my body. Cautiously, I rose from the bed and approached the door. The footsteps were even nearer now. And breathing. I could hear someone’s muted breathing. I locked the door. It jiggled. Someone, five-feet away from me on the other side of that door, was trying to enter my room. I backed up towards the window, opened it, and using that barren copse as support, descended into the backyard. I vaulted over my neighbor’s fence, catching a glimpse of a shadow standing by my window as I landed. Later that night, when the police arrived next door to take my statement, they told me that Melody’s corpse had been found in her bedroom, beheaded. Her phone, still charged, was on the nightstand.

[ubernoir]

[thequeenofnightlyrics]

[witchdeath]

Hybristophilia

I’m sitting here– isolated and petrified– in my apartment. There was another news report, this time about a girl, my age, murdered in her on-campus dormitory. I think that brings the count up to three, if I’m not mistaken. “Three?” you might opine. “Three, why, that’s hardly any at all. Henry Lee Lucas confessed to 28 murders.” He may very well have, but as a sovereign, uninhibited college student, even the thought of just one is too many. What’s even more frightening, however, is the arbitrary nature of the crimes. There’s no pattern, nor is there any conclusive evidence to suggest who might be doing this, even after three murders. Three. My current GPA. Maybe my academic headway corresponds positively to the number of victims. I shouldn’t make light of this, though, given the truly grisly nature of these crimes. That last girl, number three, the College Park Ripper had been waiting inside one of the shower stalls. Investigators suggest that he may have been there for well over 48 hours. Well, number three– it speaks immensely of our society that we all know the coined name for the killer, but not the names of the victims themselves– she had been the one unlucky enough to shower at 4am on Friday morning. She had probably been out drinking, something I don’t do all that often, and she’d traipsed in, liquor hanging from her breath, and tried to take a shower. I think they said he wrapped a bag around her head, to stifle the screams, and then stabbed her 36 times in the chest with a pocketknife. He then ran the shower, and it wasn’t until earlier this morning that someone found her, saturated in bloody clothes. Blood doesn’t run off entirely in the shower, I remember them saying that.

             This is too morbid, though, too dour. Considering that I haven’t got a home to go back to, I’m trapped on this campus, waiting for our inept police force to solve this. I should call Margot; see if she wants to get some lunch.

 II

           Margot is meeting me at some new, posh pizza place. A posh pizza place. I never thought I’d live to see the day. It is the nineties, though. Oh, here she comes. And she’s wearing my denim jacket. Of course. I hope the College Park Rippers visits her tonight– I could get my clothes back. She asked me if I was scared by what’s been going on. Of course I am. I’m terror-stricken. I live alone. My building’s security is adequate at best, and I’m probably the most feeble college student on campus. Even the cripples possess more brawn, more brute strength than I do. She suggests I stay with her. She lives with her boyfriend– Patrick. He’s nice enough I guess, but when the two of them are together, they’re intolerable. God, she keeps rambling. I thought I wanted to see her, but now I just want to go home. I want to light a cigarette and follow the news, see if they’ve made any more developments. I wonder if they’ve been able to estimate his build. I wonder if he’s the big, hulking type, you know? I bet he’s white– that’s a given. Is it wrong to wonder if he’s cute? They’re typically not, but I just watched Seven, and Kevin Spacey was kind of adorable. He’s got to be somewhat average looking, I presume. I mean, he slinks about these complexes, and he doesn’t arouse any suspicion. I wonder if he’s been to my building. Seen my building. I wonder if he’s ever contemplated going in there, to find his next victim. As far as I know, he could be there right now. Lying in wait, like a lion in the Serengeti. I want to go home– this lunch is wearisome. I told Margot that I needed to go. “Why?” she asked me. “You haven’t got class.” I told her I had someone else to meet. She didn’t believe me. She knows that, ostensibly, she and Patrick are my only friends here, if you can even count them as that. She borrows my clothes, though. I think that’s why she goes to lunch with me. My parents have money, so I, in turn, have money. They won’t let me come home, but my account is inundated with funds every morning. Margot likes that I pay for lunch, I think. Margot is a bitch.

 III

           It’s the evening now, and after that third girl’s death, you can practically feel the fear percolating around in the air. It’s infectious. Even those miles off, like in Arlington, they’re more prudent than they had been before. An extra degree of caution, the news is suggesting. Arlington– he is the College Park Ripper. He doesn’t want to go to Arlington. I’m sick of these killings being a spectacle. See, I ruminate intimately, by myself. But this has nothing to do with Arlington, or the broad in Missouri who laments that, “she’d almost considered going here.” Odious individuals wailing about how, “it could have been me.” It wasn’t. You’re not that important. I’d like to silence them for good, but luckily, the news seems to have skimmed over them, turning first to the Chief of Police. This is what I want. This is what I want to hear. Any updates, any news, anything, really. And then, I get squat. He recited the same, tired platitudes about how they’re going to catch him, and how they’ve assigned a massive task force to this case. It’s a bunch of pat. I almost want him to get away, now– sort of a big middle finger to law enforcement. I need a cigarette.

 IV

It’s chilly, tonight. I actually need a coat to smoke. That’s how you know fall is coming. Chilly weather, and dead coeds. Maybe he can keep this up until Halloween. We’re only a few weeks off. I can already imagine, seemingly virile men, dressing up as the College Park Ripper. It’ll be a big costume faux pas, but they’ll do it. “It’s edgy,” they’ll think. I can picture it now, students traipsing around campus, the killer still at large. I read an article a few weeks back, I can’t remember where, but it dealt with the current state of forensics in crime. It’s disheartening, really, not at all up to par with what we’re exposed to on television. So, in all likelihood, the killer could still be at large come Halloween. He could be another Zodiac, or Jack The Ripper. Our fears manifested, exacting their violence, and then disappearing into obscurity. It’s better for his image, then, that he not be caught, I think. Your legacy is directly related to evasiveness. Society is hungrier for crimes they can’t understand, crimes that they cannot blame on anyone in particular. I already see HBO adapting it to film. I need to go in, though. Classes are canceled, but I’m still so tired. I haven’t had anything to do in days, and my lack of stimulus has rendered me enervated. I’m not locking my balcony door, though. He couldn’t get in that way.

 V

I’m lying here in bed thinking of victim #1. I really need something else to occupy my thoughts. I just remember hearing, in detail, the timeline of events from her death. She’d come home from a late night studying– it was a Monday night– and immediately collapsed onto her bed. She was the first, so she had no reason to behave cautiously. They contend that she left her door unlocked, and at some point during the night, our killer snuck in. He didn’t kill her immediately, though. He perused her belongings, fondling her tchotchkes, rummaging through her cabinets. He probably woke her, and she sat there, motionless in bed, unsure of what was going on. Had she been the second victim– that poor bloke who lives downtown– for example, she’d have known instantly what was happening. She was about to get killed, unfortunate as it may be, and it was inevitable. But she didn’t know. Her mind probably rationalized it with some benign notion of robbery– not that robbery is benign, but compared to having your head sliced off, it’s contextually genial. But it wasn’t robbery. And after some time, he managed his way into her room. She was awake, they maintain, when he straddled her, knocking her out cold with one punch to the jaw. They found her body– or what was left of it– stripped naked, so it’s imagined that he’d engaged in some unseemly behavior before he killed her. Her sliding glass door had been shattered­­– probably his means of escape– and he used a stray shard of glass to slowly, and methodically, sever her head. They found the glass, but not the head. Imagine being a parent and having to identify the body. It’s gruesome stuff, man.  And as these parcels of thoughts float effervescently through my mind, I keep returning to the same central question: who is this man and what does he want? It’s the universal question of nature vs. nurture that’s haunted man for centuries. Is the College Park Ripper inherently evil, or is there some other factor at play? Maybe it was a faulty upbringing, a bad relationship, or an issue with authority? I don’t know, and as much as I’d like to make an assertion, I’m going to withhold any judgment until we find out who this man is. You never know, he might not be a bad guy.

 VI

           You’re going to think it sounds terrible, but I found myself disconcertingly upset this morning when I turned on the news. You’re not going to believe what they said. Last night, there wasn’t another victim. That’s right, our infamous ripper took the night off. Other than Tuesday– which doesn’t count, since that falls in the window of the preliminary stages– our killer hasn’t been absent a single night. Be it lurking, or, you know, actually killing, he’d been pretty active, and now this? Did all of my nonsensical pontification signal his end? Was it my words, my thoughts that sent him back into obscurity? Oh, and you’d be right to think that the media is over it. He was nothing more than a sound bite this morning, the remaining block of time allocated to some worthless, local hero. What a bunch of crap. He saved a cat from a tree, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and yet, this man– our ripper– murders three students, and he gets nothing more than a thumbnail? It’s unfair, is what it is. In a couple of years, everyone will remember our ripper, and no one will remember any of our trifling local heroes. I’m hoping I’m wrong, though. I’m going to call Margot; maybe she’s heard something. The media is worthless. Gossip travels faster than our pitiful news station does. She’s not answering. It’s only 8. She should be home. It’s odd.

 VII

           You’re not going to believe what happened. Okay, you just might, but Patrick and Margot were attacked last night. Margot is okay, but Patrick didn’t make it. Apparently, and this is all hearsay from neighbors, our ripper brought with him a tool box, and used it to ply open the door to Patrick’s apartment. Now, with my income, I could easily afford something nicer–there’s just nothing available– but my place is a palace compared to Patrick’s. Hell, he didn’t even need the tools, I bet. He could easily have bribed the doorman with some Krispy Kreme, and then wiggled with the locks a bit. I think, last time we talked, he mentioned that they hadn’t been updated since the sixties. I could have broken in there if I wanted to. Feeble old me, yeah. Nonetheless, he broke in. He didn’t lollygag this time; our ripper got straight to work. He bludgeoned Patrick with the claw of a hammer, and tossed Margot from the bed. Her head hit the end table, so she was somewhat dazed. Patrick, in a last-ditch effort to protect his woman, started to swing. The man has a gaping hole in his noggin, blood obfuscating his vision, and he’s going to try to fight his attacker off. Okay. Invariably, he failed, and he was hit again in the face with the hammer’s claw. This time, though, it lodged on his jawbone, and upon removal, it tore the entire thing clean off of his face. So, he’s helplessly bleeding to death in the corner, and Margot is still there, on the ground, with no idea what’s happening. She gets up, and spots our ripper removing Patrick’s clothes. I don’t know where it came from, or what possessed her, but Margot slammed a lamp over our ripper’s head, careened around the bed, and bolted straight out of the door. And now, here we are. Of course, this was late last night, so it figures that the news wouldn’t have it come 8am. Again, they’re worthless. What worries me, though, is the notion that some DNA may have been left behind. They’ve insinuated that the glass from the lamp may have left some lacerations on his head, and that his blood may be present there, along with Patrick’s. It’s worrisome indeed, because everything he’s worked for, all of it, would be lost because of Margot. I’m not going to visit her at the hospital. I can’t. I’m just too upset right now.

VIII

           Wouldn’t you know, they’ve identified the fingerprints of a Mr. Joseph Michaels. I guess during all of the hoopla, our ripper– or Joseph as he’s now known– lapsed into fervor, and got a little sloppy. He had some previous convictions for sex abuse. It’s all Margot’s fault. Why she felt the need to interfere is beyond me. Doesn’t she see that she’s ruining someone’s life? Even worse, should they apprehend him, they’ve got her pegged to testify. After all of this, the entire saga, Margot ends up the hero. She’s the sole survivor, she’s the one who saved the day, she’s the one who testified and put our ripper behind bars. It isn’t fair. There has to be something I can do, but I can’t. All of my initial fear, my petrification, is gone now. I’m indignant at the injustice being carried out here. Joseph Michaels had a real chance at doing something great, and now it’s all for naught. I’m dreading his inevitable capture. After all of this, he has to be of frightened of the police as I was of him. He’ll behave slovenly, and sooner or later, the police will intercept him. I need a cigarette.

 IX

           It’s like I’m clairvoyant. Just hours after Margot’s testimony to police, they’ve found Joseph Michaels. He was squatting in a boiler room at some abandoned DC school. Four victims, that’s it. That’s his legacy. No one will want to emulate him. Hell, I doubt he’ll even be remembered come this time next year. Of course, Patrick’s family will remember him, but they’re so irrelevant now. I mean, just look at the type of girl he was dating. In all honesty, we really haven’t lost much. And now, for me, I’ve got nothing left to do. I can sit here and wait, watching the trial unfold. I’m sure it won’t be sensational, since it’s all pretty clear-cut. There is nothing left here to excite me, to stimulate me. Even worse, classes are set to begin again. Thanks for that, Margot. I’m not ready for this, reverting back to boring old me. I can’t stand the thought of it. The very notion makes me want to heave myself over an overpass into the freeway. I’ve been checking my bank account, though, every so often, and I’ve got $143,894. I hadn’t even noticed. Mom and dad have been depositing, paying no care to what I actually had available. I’ve got an idea, though. I don’t know how it will work, or if it’s even legal, but maybe– just maybe– I could use that money to help Joseph. I could fund his defense, and they could use me as his character witness. What he did wasn’t bad; he was just misunderstood. It takes someone with an unchecked intellect like myself, someone who possesses depth, to truly comprehend who this man is. In the course of a few short days, he’s become an inspiration. I’ve invested too much of myself in this to just let it end here. Have him go to trial, get lethal injection– because of course they’ll kill what they can’t understand. No. It can’t happen. I won’t stand for it. I won’t.

 X

           I’ve taken, over the course of a few days, most of my money out in cash. I’m waiting for the metro. I’m going to take this to the station, and find out how I can fund his defense. I also baked him some oatmeal-raisin cookies. I called an old neighbor of his, and she remarked that he always loved her cookies as a kid. I think it’ll go far in raising his spirits, in letting him know that all of this hasn’t been in vain. I’ve also written him a letter. I didn’t sign it, but I have it taped atop the Tupperware. It’ll be nice for him to have something to read, and it’ll let him know that he isn’t going through all of this alone. I had to rewrite it a number of times though, to get the tone right. It’s tough to balance. You don’t want it to be too sentimental, but you also don’t want to spend a bulk of the time fawning over him. I think, at the end, I struck just the right chord. I’m sure he’ll be happy with it. I also used it to outline my plan for his release. Should he get off, and I’ll see to it that he does, my parents have a summer home in Barcelona. We could move there, just the two of us in our own little placid reserve. The sun would be warm, the waves calm, and we’d just sit there, hand-in-hand. I think it’s fate that brought us together, I really do. My bus is here now, and I’m glad for it. The weather’s gotten progressively colder. I can’t wait to be out of here, just Joseph and me together under the Barcelona sky.

[witchdeath]

Craven

Plunge your knife into the bulbous orange mass. Make what you know a monster. Hum his tune, and the man, the man in your dream appears. Let down your guard and watch as your friend metamorphoses. He hides behind his mask, don’t we all? Obscure reality we’re all pipe-dreamers, stargazers.

The horrors of our world, eldritch devils from the deep. They do not wander in the hinterlands, beneath an insidiously grey sky, static in its route through the stars. Cloven hooves impressed below the phantom copse, they linger in our streets.

To exist in our mind is to exist in our world. To combat them is to know. If God exists, then so does He. To acknowledge is to fight.

[witchdeath]

Coming Out

October 30th, 2014

               I feel ugly, today. Not in the traditional sense– I’ve always been acceptably pretty– but ugly in the way that my mind works. Its inner-machinations make me feel like an odious individual, and as I sit here on this bench– the one comfortably nestled between my favorite record shops on 8th Street– I feel myself lapsing even further. The city is so garish, its inhabitants so unsightly, almost reptilian. I shouldn’t feel this way, though. I’ve always been so openminded, so willing to accept new things, and embrace those that I could never truly comprehend. It’s why I uprooted my life. No one at home could ever understand me, but here– here– in this big, liberal city, I might finally find my home. I could ditch my demons on the curb and start anew.

               I’ve been here for maybe two hours now, lamenting. And I hate that. I shouldn’t be doing that shit, yet, here I am. I’ve been letting out these loud, emphatic sighs every so often, hoping a stranger will traipse by, find themselves spellbound, and take the seat next to mine. Maybe it’s the smoking. I’ve been meaning to quit, but I’m incorrigible. It doesn’t help that they’re $16.00 a pack here. Back home, I don’t think I ever spent more than $5.00 on a pack. It may have been because of that boy from my calculus class, the one who worked at the gas station. I hated that kid– misogynistic douche. Speaking of, I’ve left out the most important part of my day, today– I have a date.

               It’s nice to record that in my journal. That way, years from now, if I’m a crusty, closeted virgin, I can at least have substantiated proof that I made an effort. I’m worried, though, that maybe these $16.00 girls are just surrogates for the $5.00 girls I love so much, but can never have. Patricia, with her soft, milky skin. She was always so pale, and her ears were enormous, but cute, like those cookie elves from the grocery stores. She may have liked me at one point, but I could never have liked her. Am I just buying my emancipation? I could never be myself at home. No one would have understood– I don't even think I’d have understood. But here, with my loud, emphatic sighs, I could be gay. No one would know. If a passerby were to sit here, right now, the news that I was a lesbian wouldn’t faze him. It would just….. be. It just is.

               But those demons, the ones that followed me here from home, I can’t shake them. It’s like the devil is on one shoulder, telling me it’s amoral, and corrupt. Whereas an angel sits on the other, telling me to liberate myself. The devil makes a good point, though. Outside of this garish city, it’ll never be matter-of-fact. It’ll always be a thing. My daughter would never truly belong to just my partner and I. We could never just have sex, it’d have to be gay sex. Gay everything. Gay marriage. Gay mothers. Gay writer. Gay aunt. Gay would be my moniker. And the angel, she– I’m apply gender to an angel, this liberal city will kill me– just tells me to love myself. She doesn’t tell me how, just that I should. It’s a half-assed proposal, sure, but I’m going to indulge her. I have my date, tonight. And she’s cute, rugged. She doesn’t look like any of the girls from back home, but I think these $16.00 girls are a different breed entirely– if I heed the angel’s advice, I’ll have to get used to them. Tolerate them, if necessary, but not succumb to the devil. The devil who wants me to touch boys, to sleep with them, to love them. I tried. That boy from the gas station, I let him touch me, and I was repulsed. He called me a slut, and it hurt, so I let him continue to touch me. And because of that, he gave me the $5.00 cigarettes. But he also made me doubt my feelings towards those $5.00 girls. Maybe I was just confused, and he was right. Here I go again, though, keening for the old me. I brought those demons, but left myself behind, and it will all be okay. Tonight, I have a date.

 October 31st, 2014

             I am absolutely radiant. I feel liberated, emancipated, and every other word that means the same thing. I am free. The demons that haunted me, I’ve expunged them from my soul. It’s as if Margot– that’s her name, none of my $5.00 girls had names that exquisite– slipped her hands inside of my body, softly, so sensuously, and slowly scrubbed them away.

I was marred on the inside, and she reinvigorated me.

          I was so nervous, though. After I left my bench, I picked up another pack of $16.00 cigarettes, just in case my $16.00 girl wanted to smoke. I’d let her do so in my apartment. I never did, but in this garish city, I thought it’d be unorthodox to ban it outright. But, I went home. And I was overwhelmed. I’d dreamed of this, sure, but never did I ever think it’d actually come to fruition. In just a few hours, there’d be a girl here. And we’d eat dinner, talk, watch a movie, maybe take a stroll, and if I got lucky, we’d sleep together. It sounds so informal, “sleep together” like we’re friends at a slumber party, and not two sexually-attained adults. See, in this garish city, it’s just sex. She’ll tell her friends it was sex, and if I had any, I’d tell my friends the same. Not gay sex, not lesbian sex, just… sex. My $16.00 girl made me feel like a-million-bucks. Something to be jettisoned. I’d left the old me at home, and these scrounger demons, they’re gone too, now. I left them exactly half-an-hour-ago. Margot needed to leave, she works early this morning, and I’m glad for it. I’m too giddy, she’d think she just slept with a girl scout. This city that scared me so badly, left me petrified on the train, has been modified into a placid little reserve, one just for me. I could fall asleep, right now, in this big, frightening city– the one that doesn’t seem so scary anymore– and never wake up. And that’d be okay. For the first time in my entire life, I felt like I lived. I will die happy.

 II

        Thoughts of Margot danced through her mind, like sugarplums, as she rested peacefully on her sheets. It was a chilly night, but she lied atop the covers, her bare skin exposed to the elements of her apartment. Slivers of moonlight peaked through her curtains, encroaching upon her soft skin, and the white satin sheets.

          She woke suddenly to a sharp pain in her cervix, one that caused her to yelp ever so briefly. This pain had absconded with her tranquility, and she bestrode her down comforter, bunching it up between her legs, to try to assuage the aching. She’d never felt a pain like this before, especially one that felt so isolated– so personal. It were as if someone lit hot-coals, sparks discharging from their surface, and placed them inside of her. She moaned in agony, but the pain was so fierce, that she could hardly stand. All of her energy concentrated on addressing her torture, she tumbled over the edge of the bed, and landed face down on the floor. It was oscillating. It would dissipate for a moment, giving her ample time to vocally convey her torment, only to have the conflagration commence again. She attempted to crawl towards the bathroom when she felt something wet cascade down her thigh. She was bleeding, and a puddle was accumulating around her waist. Using the nightstand as leverage, she attempted to hoist herself up, and make a swift dash for the bathroom, but in the tarn of blood, she slipped, knocking her head against the sofa. Dazed, she rolled over onto her back, acutely enervated, she couldn’t make a sound.

          Unexpectedly, something freakish happened. The blood continued surge from her uterus, but as it did so, it also began to froth. It spattered all over the apartment, a veneer of gore on top of the ceiling, walls, and furniture. And with this, this otherworldly occurrence, she found– deep within her– the energy to scream. And she did, as loud as humanly possible. Hopefully, she thought, someone will hear it, like a neighbor, or a vagrant on the street, and call the police, someone to help her.

             “Helllllllp!” she wailed once more. And as she went to use the last ounce of energy she had remaining, she felt her chest surge into the air, her heels and wrists propping her up. Something was pushing its way out of her, and it was colossal. Her legs began to spread further and further apart, her vaginal region ripped to pieces, geysers of blood soaking the entire apartment. She should be dead, and yet, her mind remained lucid. A hand jetted out of her, and she could feel its origins within her uterus. It used its eldritch hands to spread her legs even further apart, as copious amounts of blood continued to flow. The puddle she sat in so deep, she was only inches away from floating atop its surface. Like a puppet, her legs were useless, sinisterly twisted, and parallel with her arms. Further pain as a frightfully gory head followed behind the hands, and it is itself followed by a torso, and then legs, and finally feet. It has exited her body, this wretched creature, conceived just there on the floor. It’s female, and it slithers atop of her. Her body lies still, but her eyes flicker, and the creature stares into them. She wants it to kill her, she wants to die, but the creature leans in, and kisses her softly on the lips. It then reveals its hand, and from the cuticles erupt massive, razor-edged nails. The creature slowly runs them down her body, caressing her torso, and gently stroking her thigh. It was almost intimate, and had it not been for the circumstances, a part of her may have found– deep within– a queer, salacious pleasure. However, as it gets lower, it begins to violently finger her, the claws drenched in blood. She can feel her humanity being ripped to shreds, and strewn helplessly about the apartment.  She screams into the vast, quiet night, but like before, in this big, garish city, she is alone.

[witchdeath]

Good afternoon, followers. I will be trying something a little different here. In conjunction with my current crop of macabre images, I’ll be including some of my personal horror writings– you’ve probably seen some before. I’m posting this as a warning, a presage of what’s to come, so if you feel compelled to abandon ship (unfollow me) now is the time. There are a lot of you, so my hope is that some of you will take the time to read them, respond to them, report them, trash them, or whatever; so long as you’re interacting with them, I’ll be happy. There’s a new link on the blog that will redirect you to the page appropriately titled “Writings.” Be prepared to be inundated with a backlog of old writing until I have ample time to churn out something new. There’s a comment box, too, so if you hate this idea, tell me to go to Hell and I’ll oblige. Best. 

[ubernoir]

[bitchuser]