The setting of the novel I’m currently working on: Abaron Hall. Set during the last few days of September in 1899, Ophelia Allred and eleven others are invited by the enigmatic recluse, Lord Alvin Fane to his home for a special competition. But with strange visions, ruthless co-contenders, and rumors of spirits walking the halls at night, it’s clear that there is something far more sinister at hand

Currently enjoying: This house is haunted by John Boyne. This one is set in 1867 in a mansion and that atmosphere lends itself to romantic creepiness. And there are secrets and a ghost that is trying to kill Eliza. It’s a nicely eerie book.

Currently enjoying: The Ghost of Marlow House by Bobbi Holmes. More haunted houses, but this one is more of a mystery with ghosts than a horror novel. It’s a light, cozy read and it has all the things a good haunted house novel needs: an old mansion, family secrets and murder.

‘Yumeji’ (1991). Directed by Seijun Suzuki.

‘Pray’ (2005). Directed by Yûichi Satô.

Anonymous Submitted:

My friend and I were in a city park well after dark just hanging around. We were a little drunk… not too drunk, and we definitely did not hallucinate what we both saw. When we were turned away from it, we heard the little squeal of someone on the swing. I turned around and one of the swing seats was just moving by itself, not swinging wildly, but still, moving. I know it wasn’t the wind because it wasn’t very windy and the swing next to it was still. After a while it stopped and we forgot about it and went up to climb the play structure (we’re 22 but anything goes at midnight). Just as we were about to go down the slide, we saw someone on the swing that had just been swinging by itself. I could barely make him out because the swing was partially shaded by a tree, but everything about him looked very shadow-y, like if he stepped into the light I feel like he still would have been a shadowy man. And he was very tall and I think in a suit too. We were terrified he was going to turn to us and see us, so we jumped off the play structure and ran away.

James: 8/10 Running away was a good call, but maybe the shadow man just wanted to relieve his shadow childhood days. Thanks for sharing the scares!

Gothic horror but make it regency? Anybody?

Book Review: The Sentence, by Louise Erdrich

The Sentence is more than just a ghost story. #bookreview #TheSentence @Chatt_LErdrich

The Sentence is more than just a ghost story. It’s a beautiful picture of indigenous life in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Taking place over a span of decades, The Sentence follows an Ojibwe woman named Tookie as she lives through incarceration, a haunting, the COVID-19 pandemic, and the protests following George Floyd’s murder. This book is a powerful snapshot of modern day life as an indigenous woman…

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You know that feeling of stupid heaviness weighing down your heart with emotions yet unexplained by the greatest of all writers, that lump in your throat making it almost impossible to swallow, so you wither with each passing moment -becoming a different version of you. Are you still alive? You’re not even sure. You’re a ghost -a memory within a memory. And that is your fate -so you haunt the cascade of happiness, turning sunshine into a dark dawn. An echoing silence, getting louder and louder. You shut your eyes. The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s deafening. And then you finally hear a scream -a cry before it all ends. But it doesn’t end. You wake up again. 

If anyone is curious as to why I’m not posting as much lately its because I’m proofing the first four books of the Eidolon Complex, working (I work in construction), and am still transcribing. The good news? This January I should have part one, volume one available for beta readers! Bonus content, better lead-ups and hopefully a BUNCH of illustrations. Whoot Whoot.

That being said? You can inspire a few demons/ghost stories from your towns in cameos for part three! Simply follow _nez_art and omoibloom on instagram and tag me in with a photo or a link of your ghostly oc and local horror story. They may even get official art in the books! Looking forward to all of your creative entries!

This is from my Halloween story I Had A Dream, Molly and for some reason it’s been on my mind so i wanted to share it with you!

           When Lord Archibald “Archie” Hunt had married Mary Abbington on the 8^th of August in 1888, all of London had been buzzing with the news of the new couple. Department stores and knickknack stores alike sold little miniatures of them, savvy business men created commemorative plates and plaques to mark the blessed day, 8/8/888. It was a blessed number, to be sure, and nothing but good things could ever happen to the couple that was married on such a day.    

           Archie was loved by one and all. His business rivals respected his honesty and integrity, his friends adored him for his simple ability to love and put everyone at ease no matter the circumstances. He was considered a man’s man, a great sportsman, an accomplished pollo player, and he could have married anyone he wished. He had his father’s fortune, the estates that he’d inherited, and built an empire using his good fortune, he was a great catch, the most wanted bachelor in London society. Grand dames were throwing their daughters at his feet, practically begging him to marry their pretty daughters with their large fortunes and dowries.

           But Archie only had eyes for Mary. Mary, from a poor family, on the verge of being completely rejected by the ton. She wore plain, simple dresses and everyone knew she wore costume jewelry. Where Mary’s smile came from, where her ability to light up a room came from, no one knew. She was from a disgraced family but never acted like it, never seemed to feel the pity everyone expected her to feel for herself. Mary was an odd creature too, she liked reading, preferred intellectual conversations, and her knowledge of various rose species was becoming well known in London society.

           When Archie saw her at Westcliff’s annual ball, he never looked at another woman ever again. Everyone told him to leave her be, to forget her and marry someone with more social connections, who brought with her a family whose resources he could use to advance his business, his estates. But he didn’t listen, buying a huge tract of land in Knightsbridge with orders for the architect to create a rose garden on the estate, the biggest in the world, Archie had demanded with his crooked smile. When he’d told his fiancée that they would have to live in his little Mayfair house until construction was over, Mary had told him she didn’t care if they lived in a pup tent, as long as they were together.

           He bought her all the jewelry he could think of, brought the best French designers and seamstresses to design her wedding dress, to fill her closets with exquisite clothing. Better than the queens, he’d demanded, wanting to spoil his love, to wrap her in the finest silks and furs in the world, to ensure that only the best touched his beloved’s skin. She’d accepted his gifts, but one day, having asked the seamstresses for a few moments of privacy, her youngest sister acting as chaperone in the room, she had told her beloved that she didn’t need anything in this world beyond his love.

           And he’d finally understood that day, that Mary loved him because he was Archie, because he was sunshine to her the way she was for him.

           Their wedding day was practically declared a holiday in London, and Archie and his Mary had spent the day smiling so wide that their cheeks hurt by the time they got to their Mayfair home.

           They lived in bliss for months, starting each day with each other and ending each day with each other. They argued, as do all couples, but Mary, the more levelheaded of the two, always ensured they found their peace before they went to bed. They attended parties and balls and garden parties, and were terribly cheeky because she never danced anyone but her husband, and he grew visibly irritated when other gentlemen thought they could distract her away from him. He was scandalous because he kissed her cheek in public, held her hand, nuzzled her palm. A man in love, and unafraid to show it.

           Mary was alone one night with the servants downstairs, waiting for her Archie to come home when there had been a crashing sound downstairs, startling her as she’d sat reading in the downstairs drawing room. She’d called out for the butler, for one of the maids, but no one heard her, except the robber.

           When Archie found her the next morning, her body hacked to pieces, butchered in their home…he went mad, as any man would. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t looked at her except a glance that saw her beautiful black hair matted with blood, her milky white hand, the hand more familiar to him than his own skin, reaching for the door, her fingers stretching as if she’d been calling for him, waiting for her Archie to come and rescue her.

           He’d screamed so loud he’d torn his throat, his hands flying to his throat and he’d tried to physically tear his throat out but he’d only succeeded at shredding his cravat, marking his neck with scratch marks. He’d screamed and sworn vengeance, raged and promised to find his beloved’s killer and bring them to justice, to make them answer for what they’d done to his Mary.

           He’d killed six people by the time the police caught him, two more bodies were found when he told the police where’d hidden them.

           Archibald “Archie” Hunt was hung by the neck until dead on the sixth of June at six in the afternoon.

           What an unlucky number.

           Molly looked at Sherlock, her eyes wide as she listened to him tell her the story of the houses’ original owners, “who did…who did he kill?”

           Sherlock, sitting in his favorite armchair with his hands steepled, watched her calmly, “the servants. They’d helped the robber get inside the house and it would seem Hunt somehow discovered the betrayal and exacted his revenge. His last words were of his regret that he and Mary would go to sleep without having resolved their squabble earlier that day.”

           “Oh God,” she moaned, clutching her throat, unable to keep tears from brimming, “they died fighting.”

           Sherlock nodded, “it would seem so.”