How's it going, I'm a published writer looking to collab with any artist willing. I have several stories available on my reddit account if you want a look at my style. I specialize in horror, but am willing to try other genres.
Art by u/AffectionateLeave677 Aka Bare 🐻
Since I was a boy, I had been plagued by the calling of the void. I had always sought to not only know but to touch the strange, otherworldly and mysterious. I had made a career as a journalist, meeting witchdoctors, voodoo practitioners, those absorbed by the dark and occult. Such a career has hardened my sense of wonder and shown me that these such worlds are drenched in fraudulence.
So, when I found a flier for Sir Beauregard's so-called greatest freakshow on the planet, I was skeptical. But since the show was only a short train ride away, I decided that I would see for myself.
The dark room was musky with the stench of sweat, an insulated heat pervading the enclosed tent. Spotlights suddenly began roving around the expanse of darkness, as if searching for a suspect in the sea of identical farmers looking for a brief respite from their banal existence
“Ladies and Gentlemen, would you please give a round of applause for your host. The one and only, emperor of insanity, the king of all that is crazy, the ambassador of absurdity. Beauregard the Magnificent!”
All the spotlights suddenly casted onto the stage, illuminating a man with a build something like a bulldog standing on two legs. He had a stout barrel chest, stubby little legs and arms, and a mustache that curled in on itself like a worm on hot pavement.
“Good people, I welcome you.” He said in a sultry deep voice, wearing the faintest hint of a French accent.
“What you see here may astonish you, it may terrify you, it may even make you question the infinite power and wisdom of God above to allow such atrocities of the human kind. If this experience proves to be too much for you. If your modest sensibilities are unable to reconcile the abominations put in front of you, you may leave. But as you dash back towards the light of and normality of day, do not stop at the concessions. Because there are no refunds.” This broke the silence in the room into controlled laughter.
“So, without any further a due. I present our first oddity. A slimy half remembrance of evolution passed. From a time before man was king of the land, instead battling for rank in the early ocean. I present the aquatic abomination; Fish Boy!”
I heard the sound of heavy wheels turning before the curtains parted to reveal a figure floating in a cylinder of water. His skin was pale white and macerated, almost corpselike under the spotlight. His mouth was wide and jagged like a catfish, his body was slimy and glossy, and his fingers and toes were webbed with jagged and incongruent skin. His head hung above the water; he took in deep breaths of air through his bloody mouth as his gills flexed under the water in sync. But his eyes, his eyes were all too human. They glared around the room of shocked faces as if seeking an inkling of pity, but all they received was the shock and disgust of the audience.
Nearly half of the audience left before Fishboy was put away, and my skepticism was replaced with an intrigue I hadn’t felt since I was a boy digging through folklore compendiums.
“Fishboy is what separates the boys from the men it seems, but if you think you’ve seen our worst then you’d better hold on as we’ve only just got started. Our next featured freak is barely recognizable as sentient life. I present The Primordial Goo.”
I heard something wet and sticky moving before the curtains once again opened to reveal it. A viscous gray pile of flesh, leaving a trail of blood as it slowly slithered out onto the stage. Barely recognizable as a human, just a pile of slop with two blood shot eyes. Once it stopped moving a hole opened at the center of its mass, and it let out the blood curling scream of a woman. Gasps shot out through the entirety of the audience, and I saw men visibly shaking as they left out of the room.
I was transfixed, in all my time of curating the strange and mysterious I had never seen something so indisputably preternatural and vile. Once the creature began returning back into the curtains, I looked around to see that I was the only person left in the room.
“Well, it seems we have one brave soul here at least. Is it bravery? Or do you crave something more than what is offered in the natural world? Do you long for the macabre and unnatural? Well, I hope this last exhibit will sate that craving. And remember, there are no refunds, you can’t go back.”
The curtains opened and a naked, gray, emaciated man came out onto the stage. His head was massive, but his eyes and mouth were tiny and slacked open like a dullard. He stood at the front of the stage for a moment, and I watched as a red line perforation began to go from the top of his head, down to his neck. The line started to bleed, before a wet noise cried out and I watched as his head parted in half. Though warped, his anatomy seemed to be human, all except for a spiral of black that sat below his brain. I felt drawn to the black void, my eyes focusing on it as the world around me turned black.
My body feels so sensitive, everything hurts. Everything is black, until.
“Now presenting, the seeker.” I hear before I roll out onto stage.
​
Sandwiched between old cracked brick buildings, a thick mist of exhaust steams in the freezing air, precluding the alley view from the streets. If one were to wade through the clouds of gassy white steam, they would find me caring for my father in our makeshift home.
The crash of metal against metal and the scent of waste carried on the freezing January wind told me that dinner was ready. I sluggishly emerged from my damp box and made my way to the dumpster. Standing over it, the smell of spoiled food was pungent, causing my eyes to water, which I wiped away before it could freeze over my face. Slimy grey water mixed with chunks of sour milk caked onto my arm, congealing on my skin as I rummaged for anything edible. I scooped a handful of soft wet lettuce and a few loose foul smelling shrimp and sat in front of the box, placing the food into it.
A hand reached from deep within it and pulled the scraps into the box’s cavernous mouth.
“Thank you, my dear.” A tired and raspy voice called from its depth.
“Of course dad, eat up.” Wet slopping noises rang out from the back of the box.
“Why weren’t you here yesterday, Rebecca?" I felt blood reach to my face at this question, dully thawing my frozen nerves.
“Well, I was handling some business.”
“What business? All of our business is right here.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here.”
“What are you saying? You want to leave our home? Abandon me? I’ll starve without you.”
“I wouldn’t let you starve, I was at a job interview, Dad. If I can get this, I’ll be able to get us real food.”
“Real food? The food that’s gotten you where you are in life, that fed you everyday since your mother left, that’s not real enough for you?”
“It’s not like that dad, please I just want more out of life. For both of us.” I said as I felt tears welling in my eyes.
“So I’m not enough for you?”
“Dad.”
“Then fucking leave! Leave me here to die, go chase your stupid fucking dreams, and when they fail, come back here and throw my corpse into that dumpster.”
The tears were in full stream now, I tried to stop them, I could feel them crystalising as they rolled down my cheeks.
“This isn’t fair! I can’t live my whole life like this.”
“I’m sorry, I understand dear. Just do your father the favor of lying with him one last time.”
A dirty brown arm extended out of the black, gaping mouth of the old box, trembling and weak with a strong, musty smell. The decrepit old hand wrapped around my wrist, moist and oozing foul smelling water, squeezing from its meager grip as he pulled me to my knees in front of it. I didn’t want to pull against him and hurt him, so I allowed the weak old man to guide me forward. The familiar stench of blood, my eyes watered as pungent sweat and rot wafted to me thick and hot. His hand caressed my cheek, my frozen nerves tingling as his warm, damp fingers ran down them, offering brief respite from the biting cold but inevitably worsening my chills when his affections are pulled away. The box’s floor was soft, wet, and warm, the thick liquid seeming to pulse under my palm with a wet slushing noise.
I could vaguely see his face at the end of the tunnel, black mold freckled his nose, his eyes looked lonely and desperate, and there was a tear on his left cheek exposing ribbed musculature dripping black blood. I laid down, feeling the sprawling web of thick fat veins pumping under me, sending waves of vibration through the muddy bed. The floor seemed to hug around the contours of my body, giving me more warmth than I was used to.
“It feels warm, Dad."
“Anything for my princess.”
I tried to move, to adjust my body and get comfortable, but when I did, I felt a thin layer of paper bind around my arms.
“Dad, what’s going on?” I asked as I pulled my arms and ripped the damp paper, but before I could move, it had already formed over again, thicker now.
“Shhh dear, don’t make this harder on Daddy than it needs to be.”
“What are you doing to me?”
The box’s opening closed before its roof began to come down on me rapidly, as if someone had thrown a weight onto the top of the box.
My breathing began to spike and my heart was racing as the walls of the box began tightening around my body, turning me into a paper mache mummy. It began fitting around my face, suffocatingly blocking my nostrils, and I tried to scream, but as I did, I felt a thick, long shaft of cardboard press into my mouth, painfully unhinging my jaw with a sickening crunch. Musty paper overwhelmed my senses, tears and snot were pressed against my face and forced back into my nostrils and mouth. I started to vomit, feeling it narrowly seep through my obstructed throat, giving me the taste of rotten vegetables. I felt it sliding deeper inside me, pressing the burning vomit in my mouth deeper inch by inch, as it squeezed against my esophagus. I felt it break through into my stomach, painfully poking around, stretching the tissue as it tries to find the exit. It stretched my intestines taut as it continued rooting inside of me, painfully warping them as it made jagged bends to turn down their path. It took its serpentine path around my intestines, until the dark around my vision gave way to light as the box fully submerged itself inside of my body.
I ended up getting that job, dad enjoys all the new and fresh foods I’m able to give him.
​
Hell isn’t made of overwhelming heat or of demons who lash and beat. Hell is quiet impending dread, and it doesn’t wait for when you’re dead. Replaying what you did and said, certain doom lies ahead. Hidden in the clouds of fog, lying restful as a log, the ceaseless bark of the black dog.
He’s taken many that I knew, left me here alone and blue, no idea what I should do, wishing it was me, not you. I sit awake all through the night, craving its climatic bite, hopeful the end will make it right. But the climax seems to grow no nearer, though the tension of its growl grows clearer. I see its shadow in my mirror.
I play back memories of the things he said, but the sound of barking comes out your mouth instead. I look at old photos, and he’s running in the back, the ever creeping, never sleeping, Nil the dog of black.
I think about it everywhere I go, I fear it, but I need it so. His echoes carry on the wind blow, their reverberation in my ear sow a sapling of fear that continues to grow. How can you fear something you crave? Stockholm syndrome, I am the dog's slave. The black dog that follows me to my grave.
It prowls around just out of sight, knowing any day it might leap from behind me and give me its bite.
Til then I just wait, as the tension grows, cause there is no escape, I know how it goes.
Hell isn’t made of overwhelming heat or of demons who lash and beat. Hell is quiet impending dread, and it doesn’t wait for when you’re dead. Replaying what you did and said, certain doom lies ahead. Hidden in the clouds of fog, lying restful as a log, the ceaseless bark of the black dog.
He’s taken many that I knew, left me here alone and blue, no idea what I should do, wishing it was me, not you. I sit awake all through the night, craving its climatic bite, hopeful the end will make it right. But the climax seems to grow no nearer, though the tension of its growl grows clearer. I see its shadow in my mirror.
I play back memories of the things he said, but the sound of barking comes out your mouth instead. I look at old photos, and he’s running in the back, the ever creeping, never sleeping, Nil the dog of black.
I think about it everywhere I go, I fear it, but I need it so. His echoes carry on the wind blow, their reverberation in my ear sow a sapling of fear that continues to grow. How can you fear something you crave? Stockholm syndrome, I am the dog's slave. The black dog that follows me to my grave.
It prowls around just out of sight, knowing any day it might leap from behind me and give me its bite.
Til then I just wait, as the tension grows, cause there is no escape, I know how it goes.
Hell isn’t made of overwhelming heat or of demons who lash and beat. Hell is quiet impending dread, and it doesn’t wait for when you’re dead. Replaying what you did and said, certain doom lies ahead. Hidden in the clouds of fog, lying restful as a log, the ceaseless bark of the black dog.
He’s taken many that I knew, left me here alone and blue, no idea what I should do, wishing it was me, not you. I sit awake all through the night, craving its climatic bite, hopeful the end will make it right. But the climax seems to grow no nearer, though the tension of its growl grows clearer. I see its shadow in my mirror.
I play back memories of the things he said, but the sound of barking comes out your mouth instead. I look at old photos, and he’s running in the back, the ever creeping, never sleeping, Nil the dog of black.
I think about it everywhere I go, I fear it, but I need it so. His echoes carry on the wind blow, their reverberation in my ear sow a sapling of fear that continues to grow. How can you fear something you crave? Stockholm syndrome, I am the dog's slave. The black dog that follows me to my grave.
It prowls around just out of sight, knowing any day it might leap from behind me and give me its bite.
Til then I just wait, as the tension grows, cause there is no escape, I know how it goes.
There’s a hole where my head used to be. I can’t taste, I can’t hear, I can’t think, I can’t see. But I don’t mean to whine, things aren’t so bad. There’s just now a hole where a head was once had. It’s not like it’s gone, it didn’t just go. It's just now a hole and not a head, though.
When I have to eat, I just force the treat into the hole with walls of meat where my head once took a seat. I get weird looks from strangers I meet, thankfully I can’t see the look of conceit or their vile disdain for my lack of a brain.
It’s hard to think no matter how much I train, when I go through my day, I’m required to feign like I even have the slightest grain of if what I’m doing is remotely sane. Even if I did know, I can’t see, so I just go where I think I should be. Running on nothing but muscle memory.
I don’t want to whine and moan, but the hardest part is being alone. I get these phantom thoughts, where I’m shown the space where you were but now you're gone. But then I just remember that I can’t remember you, and that helps me feel a little less blue.
The good news is that I work on an assembly line, so I get on without a brain just fine. Besides the chiding laugh I get from the staff, "No head, Harry." they say with a gaff. And sometimes they stick their fingers in it to see how far they can get without causing me to vomit and spit all of the shit that festers down in my pit. It’s all in good fun, I won't make a fuss even when my neck gets infected with pus.
Nighttime is really what I dread, cause I can feel your absence in my bed. Just like my hole of a head, there’s only air in your stead.
There’s a hole where my head used to be. I can’t taste, I can’t hear, I can’t think, I can’t see. But I don’t mean to whine, things aren’t so bad. There’s just now a hole where a head was once had. It’s not like it’s gone, it didn’t just go. It's just now a hole and not a head, though.
When I have to eat, I just force the treat into the hole with walls of meat where my head once took a seat. I get weird looks from strangers I meet, thankfully I can’t see the look of conceit or their vile disdain for my lack of a brain.
It’s hard to think no matter how much I train, when I go through my day, I’m required to feign like I even have the slightest grain of if what I’m doing is remotely sane. Even if I did know, I can’t see, so I just go where I think I should be. Running on nothing but muscle memory.
I don’t want to whine and moan, but the hardest part is being alone. I get these phantom thoughts, where I’m shown the space where you were but now you're gone. But then I just remember that I can’t remember you, and that helps me feel a little less blue.
The good news is that I work on an assembly line, so I get on without a brain just fine. Besides the chiding laugh I get from the staff, "No head, Harry." they say with a gaff. And sometimes they stick their fingers in it to see how far they can get without causing me to vomit and spit all of the shit that festers down in my pit. It’s all in good fun, I won't make a fuss even when my neck gets infected with pus.
Nighttime is really what I dread, cause I can feel your absence in my bed. Just like my hole of a head, there’s only air in your stead.