For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of flying. I mean… who hasn’t dreamed of flying? It’s the most wonderful thing there is. I still remember, as a youngster, my afternoons spent scanning the sky, trying to make out shapes in the clouds. Who hasn’t? A rabbit, a dragon, a monster or even a car. Watching the clouds has never been so stimulating for our imagination. However, I wanted to be more than just a spectator. I wanted to swim in this ocean of lightness, to split the skies like a bird: free as a bird and with no one to disturb you. What a wonderful feeling! I even remember believing that clouds were actually made of cotton,…

Under gravel and twisting roots there lies an intricate system of life, hundreds of sizes smaller than our species. Like pale, empty veins they stretch out to dig downwards into damp soil. It is dark. Darker than sunless skies. The realm underground is the realm of corpses. They settle between debris like shells pushed under sand by careless ocean waves. Deeper, and deeper. While you walk overhead on solid ground, thinking of the casual facets of life, corpses are clawing overhead themselves, grasping those roots and pulling at them with a vengeful desperation to return to life. We never hear their wailing, but the earth’s surface shakes with their conviction. Ghosts are known to protest against going quietly. If they…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human. Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until…

For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of flying. I mean… who hasn’t dreamed of flying? It’s the most wonderful thing there is. I still remember, as a youngster, my afternoons spent scanning the sky, trying to make out shapes in the clouds. Who hasn’t? A rabbit, a dragon, a monster or even a car. Watching the clouds has never been so stimulating for our imagination. However, I wanted to be more than just a spectator. I wanted to swim in this ocean of lightness, to split the skies like a bird: free as a bird and with no one to disturb you. What a wonderful feeling! I even remember believing that clouds were actually made of cotton,…

Under gravel and twisting roots there lies an intricate system of life, hundreds of sizes smaller than our species. Like pale, empty veins they stretch out to dig downwards into damp soil. It is dark. Darker than sunless skies. The realm underground is the realm of corpses. They settle between debris like shells pushed under sand by careless ocean waves. Deeper, and deeper. While you walk overhead on solid ground, thinking of the casual facets of life, corpses are clawing overhead themselves, grasping those roots and pulling at them with a vengeful desperation to return to life. We never hear their wailing, but the earth’s surface shakes with their conviction. Ghosts are known to protest against going quietly. If they…