“Ladies. Gentlemen. Revenants to whom these distinctions have long since succumbed to the natural processes of putrefaction. I stand before you today with indisputable proof that Earth is ruled not by Man but by Nameless Things that dwell far beneath our serene and sunlit surface world. Yes, you all heard me correctly; Hollow Earth is as real as the Bavarian Illuminati. A vast, sprawling labyrinth of tunnels and chasms forged not from geological forces but rather by the antediluvian behemoths of the Deep Biome themselves! Do not fool yourselves, my friends! We live in blissful ignorance of Chthonic terrors galivanting with impunity beneath our very feet! An entire ultraterrestrial ecosystem which predates the last common ancestor of all surface life,…

“You wanted to see us, Director Mason?” researcher Luna Valdez asked, her voice as composed as she could make it and her hands clasped politely behind her back, her seemingly ever-present security attaché Joseph Gromwell standing protectively at her side. Director Mason knew that if he ever put Luna in harm’s way, Joseph would be the one he’d be answering to. Oliver Mason had been running the Dreadfort Facility for as long as either Luna or Joseph could remember. He was supposedly over a hundred years old and served in World War Two, where he had allegedly killed a Nazi Warlock. Paranormal means of life extension were a well-known perk of the higher echelons of their organization, and Director Mason…

They were outcasts once, in the old days; The Silent Kings. That’s what all the old-timers heard from their old-timers, anyway. They were Sin Eaters. Mute Sin Eaters.  Mute from trauma, according to most. The three of them were brothers, orphaned together when they accidentally set their mother on fire. The legends don’t record the details of exactly how that went down, but the boys were so traumatized not just from witnessing their mother’s fiery demise, but also being the cause of it, that they never spoke again. No one spoke to them, either. They were pariahs after that. Accident or not, being responsible for the death of your own mother, especially in such a ghastly manner, will make people…

There was a new payphone in town, at least if you believe what some anonymous conspiracy theorist had posted on the internet. Someone on the local paranormal forum had posted photos of a payphone which, to be fair, was in fairly decent condition, and they had insisted it had been installed recently. More likely than not, it had been there for decades, and neither the poster nor anyone else had noticed it until recently. I’m pretty sure the only people who pay those things any mind anymore are kids who genuinely don’t know what they are or what they’re for. But the poster remained quite adamant that this particular payphone was a new addition, his only evidence being some low-resolution…

When you own and run a gas station out in the middle of nowhere, you’ll often meet more than your fair share of oddballs. Nobody ever travels to little towns like mine, just through them, our paths only crossing out of sheer necessity and circumstance. For most folk, my gas station is what the internet likes to call a ‘liminal space’; a transitional zone that becomes creepy when you dwell in it for too long. But for me, it’s the exact opposite. My gas station’s an anchor against the backdrop of transients constantly coming in and out of my life, and they’re the ones who start to get creepy when they overstay their welcome. While I do get a decent…

Aside from the slow and steady hoof-falls of the large draft horses against the ancient stone road, or the continuous creaking of the nearly-as-ancient caravan wagon’s wheels, Horace was sure he couldn’t hear anything at all. In the fading autumn light, all he could see for miles around were the silhouettes of enormous petrified trees, having stood dead now for centuries but still refusing to fall. Their bark had turned an unnatural and oddly lustrous black, one that seemed almost liquid as it glistened in whatever light happened to gleam off its surface. They seemed more like geysers of oil that had burst forth from the Earth only to freeze in place before a single drop could fall back to…

“Samantha?” I heard Rosalyn ask hopefully as she picked up the phone. I was calling her because she had recently come across an anomalous VHS tape of a man burying a premonition he had written down in my cemetery, convinced that it would one day be of great value to me. She had showed it to me, and I had of course agreed to see if I could find it. “Hi, Rose. Yeah, it’s me,” I replied, unable to hide my disappointment. “I dug around in the area where the guy buried his time capsule, and I couldn’t find anything. Whoever picked up and turned off the camera at the end of the video must have taken the time capsule…

“Well girls, which car should we take on our little road trip? Dad’s Chevy Nomad would be practical, but the Chevy Nova’s got a bit more flair to her. Of course, if it’s flair we’re going for, I don’t think anything we have can compete with a classic Cadillac,” James Darling said as he surveyed his automotive fleet with a sense of satisfied pride. The Darlings had acquired many vehicles over their long and nefarious career, more often than not stolen from their victims and repurposed into future instruments of entrapment and torment. James had kept their favourites running flawlessly over the years, modifying them as necessary with his own mechatronic inventions when conventional parts simply wouldn’t do. “That’s a…

I had never had Christmas Carollers in my neighbourhood before. I think it’s one of those bygone traditions that have survived more in pop culture than actual practice. I never doubted that people still do it somewhere, sometimes, but I’ve never seen it happen in person and never really thought much of it. But on the last winter solstice, I finally heard a roving choir outside my window. I don’t think that it was mere happenstance that it was on the winter solstice and not Christmas. You probably know that Yuletide celebrations long predate Christianity, and for that matter, they predate the pagan traditions that Christmas is based on. Regardless of their history or accumulated traditions and associations, all wintertime…

“What’s got you in such a sour mood, Brandon? It’s payday!” my veteran colleague Vinson asked as the rusty freight elevator noisily rattled its way up towards the penthouse suite. For the past year or two – I’m honestly not sure how long it’s been, actually – I’ve been under contract for an otherworldly masked Lord who calls himself Ignazio di Incognauta. He’s not a demon, exactly. He’s closer to Fae, I think, but I don’t fully understand what he is. I never sought him out. He came to me. I asked him how he even knew who I was, and he slapped me across the face for my insolence. I still signed up though. That’s how desperate I was.…