#gothic

“DRINK MOTHER FUCKERS, DRINK MOTHER FUCKERS, DRINK!” The noxiously artificial taste of blue raspberry slid down my throat with sickening sweetness. This was only my third drink of the evening, but I was already feeling pretty lit. “Alright you, stupid pledges now it’s time for the main event.”

Through these old records, I will inform you of the incident that occurred years ago in a small village named Crete. I am a scholar and investigator who will notify you of the research I have gathered about the local college in Crete. I will give the reader a brief overview of the school's origins. Built in the 1760s, the University of Crete became the village's first to offer academic programs. In 1765, it was built as a fully functional institution that the Board of Education authorized. The…

Chapter 1: The Arrival My name is Emily Parker, and I've always been drawn to the mysteries of the supernatural. So, when rumors of a haunted mansion hidden deep in the woods reached my ears, I couldn't resist the pull of curiosity. Little did I know that my quest for answers would lead me into the heart of darkness itself.

No word, uttered or inscribed, can claim that all they tell is true to the letter; in every slip and stutter of the human voice, every unspoken detail in fine print, a lie takes root and defiles the same soil that nourishes it, until it burgeons into a carnivorous parasite. Last summer, Rosenthal Manor snatched me away from my life with a bouquet of hopes and walled me into her cold, high corridors, where every step that falls on the marble floor, every voice whispered in its chambers, does so…

This story is dedicated to those who have experienced irremediable anguish regarding a family member. Written by a forlorn individual. ~ This was written from the fleshy net interior in which held every fibre of my then decomposing being. The sunken, hard shelled exterior managed to tear chunks out, sprawl them across a diary, in display for all to devour. Humanity's greed of consuming fleeting tragedy for selfish curiosity. ꜱᴇᴘᴛᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 𝟹ʀᴅ, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼.

Heavy rain, shaking thunder. Laser sharp lightning. Muggy gloom. A beautifully Victorian castle lit hazily from within burns bright on the center of nothing, and nowhere. Painted sepia shades descending darker than the darkness of night itself. Our distressed protagonist, drenched, hurriedly scurries up the stone steps to the bronze Baphomet-shaped door knocker. Thud. Thud. The door slowly scrapes open to reveal a rather unfortunate looking young man, around twenty years of age at most.

In shadows of October dawn Was when the sickness came Foul breath of death wanton Denizens plagued in blain . I saw from high window As death drew nigh in tow Courier sent afar Then close my door ajar . As the leaves grew redder And the days grew dire My flock grew fettered Flayed upon the pyre . Cast in glow of dying wick I, too, could feel the sick Solitude in this shadowy hour Locked away inside this tower . Rolling past autumn plains Haze of grey sinks low