#creatures

Mama was holding the goat by the horns while wearing garden gloves, still avoiding touching the horns with bare skin. “Untie those,” she said referring to the rope used to tie the goat to the column. I began to unfasten the rope from the goat’s neck. It started to jerk its head, uncomfortable with how she was being handled. “Don’t touch the horns,” her voice stern but low.

To whoever receives this letter, these are the final words of me, Cynthia J. Hill. They will sound like the ramblings of a mad woman, but I swear I am and have been of sound mind. It happened something like this:

Up and up the rough-hewn steps tramp the wormy feet of countless dark denizens. They move in silence through the earth's bowels with a singular purpose. Stirred from restless sleep and unholy dreams. Stirred from aimless wriggling and horrid scavenging. Stirred by the voice of their beloved mother, vast and terrible. She bids them rise, and rise they do. None shall disobey their doting matriarch. And so, they rise the ancient steps and forgotten causeways. Passing through slimy tunnels filled…

My wife and I always dreamed of living off-grid on our own land, but we were never able to afford anything—not even a small quarter-acre lot. We were sick of paying rent for shitty houses and apartments that charged way too much for the condition they were in, so we started wondering if there was anywhere we could actually afford to live.

My hands tremble as I type this. I apologize for any mistakes I might make, but I don’t have much time. To be honest, I’ll be lucky to finish, but before it’s too late, I need to warn you. All of you.

I know I shouldn't have this written down. But I have to warn the world. My only fear is that other's will be curious instead of fearful. Ever see something in the corner of your eye and look at it, only to find that no matter how quick you look it's not there? Well, I saw it. And trust me when I tell you this, you do not want to see it.

I woke up like I would every other time I tried to sleep; Drenched in sweat, shivering, afraid to go back to sleep. I have this recurring dream about something to do with static. I can't quite remember exactly what happens though. I glance over at my clock, it read 3:00 am. I sigh attempting to release all my bad thoughts out of my mind. I hop out of bed as quickly as possible —too afraid to go back to that dream— and scurry over to the bathroom mirror. ‘My bags have gotten worse,’ I thought…

You've seen her. You know you have. Try to deny it all you want, it happened. It happened a lot actually. Never fully, always out of the corner of your eye, just out of sight. That's where she stays. She does not like to be seen, but she loves it when people try. You try to tell yourself it was nothing, just your mind playing tricks. She likes that too. She likes making you feel like that. You tell yourself there is nothing there, yet you feel her. You feel her gaze. You feel her breath on the…

There is, in a small national park somewhere in the US, a bike path. This bike path is hardly unusual: it is roughly twelve miles long, and makes a circuit around a small lake. Most of the path is wooded, and it is regarded by the locals as a beautiful little place to take a breather and catch some peace and quiet. Many who jog or bike along the path observe nothing out of the ordinary. But there are those lone bicyclists who happen across the Runner.

Ever since I was little, I knew there was something wrong about the storm drains that lined my road. They were stealthy and silent. However, there was always the thought that if I listened long enough I may hear something begin to whisper. I never lingered long enough to hear though, because I was terrified. I could hardly stand to walk across them. Most of the time I would keep a long space between the eerie enigma and myself.

Hear me out. I don't plan to stay here long. One way or another, this place won't hold me. Yeah, sure - I know 'they all' say that. But trust me - I'm different. No, that's not right - I'm probably bog-standard, but the circumstances are different. And the circumstances are going to make things a little difficult. Unless I tell someone - even if I tell someone.

Testimonial & Description: “I hate to close my eyes. I hate sleeping, and I even hate to blink. The split second that each blink occupies is still long enough to see it. I can still see that shadowed face attached to that sickly body as it motioned for me to close my eyes”. – Written by Anonymous, 2005 Description:

People who have never had to do it seem to think it’s unfortunate to have to work in a diner. I didn’t think so when I worked there. At least it wasn't unfortunate at first. I had a lot of fun working there because the people I worked with were great and our customers were very nice. It’s a small town, so usually the people are pretty nice compared to the city folk who stop in from time to time.

Hello there.

“I never was a huge fan of myths, legends or any folksy wisdom for that matter. Spooky stories to tell around a campfire had no value to me, except good entertainment of course. You know, a man can spend his whole life living in ignorance, maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be … but sometimes, one is yanked into the unknown without a reason, facing consequences larger than life! Would you call that fate doctor?”

You lay in your bed, comfortably, staring at your ceiling. Your air conditioning is whirring, allowing you to completely relax and slowly drift into sleep. Just as you start to fall asleep your air conditioner cuts off. You can hear everything. You have a relatively large room. You're starting to become uncomfortable, but instead of moving to get into a better position you lay still. Almost frozen.

“Go to bed and wait for the Sandman.” Even as it came out of James’ mouth it seemed to him a strange thing to say, and he was not sure why he had, but for some reason it worked: Daniel went to bed. The next morning, though, he asked: “What does the Sandman look like?” James was making breakfast. Daniel sat at the table, short legs swinging under his chair. “Nothing, really,” James said. “It’s just an expression.” “What does it mean?”

I made a mistake. Maybe I should say it in a way that conveys how critical the mistake was— I fucked up really bad. Funny thing is that doesn't truly describe the severity of it either. I guess I'll start by letting you know that I am an alcoholic. I go to work every day and have never lost a job or relationship due to my drinking, but I feel like I must drink just to feel normal. My alcoholism is simply defined as me enjoying being drunk more than sober.

‘Tom went mad,’ Gilbert said. ‘Schizophrenia or something, I think. He stopped leaving the place completely. After a month of being pent up inside he died of starvation.’ ‘He was a hoarder. A serious one. It took weeks to get the home cleaned up, and even then there’s still some junk in the basement the cleaners left there. I’d be curious to have a look and see if there’s anything valuable.’ He snorted. ‘I doubt it though.’

"Pass the coffee." Carl pulled away from the scope of his rifle, and grabbed the insulated container of coffee from a makeshift shelf to his right. Behind him, his father whittled away at a piece of wood, a vague animal shape just beginning to gain definition. Carl passed over the coffee, and his father took a swig from the stainless steel vessel. "Any deer? They should be getting up now." Carl peered out from the wooden shack that was their blind. "Looks like a few are making their way from…