#gothic-horror — Public Fediverse posts

Finished reading Bram Stoker's #Dracula last night. Worth a read if just for the first few chapters in Dracula's castle. I found it sort of petered out after that, and the exciting conclusion I was hoping to find never really measured up to the first act.

I'd give it 3/5, but if you just want to read the first act as a short story I'd give that part 5/5.

I read the #ProjectGutenberg version with #KOReader on my #Kindle.

#Book #Horror #Vampire #GothicHorror #Classic #Literature

Finished reading Bram Stoker's #Dracula last night. Worth a read if just for the first few chapters in Dracula's castle. I found it sort of petered out after that, and the exciting conclusion I was hoping to find never really measured up to the first act.

I'd give it 3/5, but if you just want to read the first act as a short story I'd give that part 5/5.

I read the #ProjectGutenberg version with #KOReader on my #Kindle.

#Book #Horror #Vampire #GothicHorror #Classic #Literature

Finished reading Bram Stoker's #Dracula last night. Worth a read if just for the first few chapters in Dracula's castle. I found it sort of petered out after that, and the exciting conclusion I was hoping to find never really measured up to the first act.

I'd give it 3/5, but if you just want to read the first act as a short story I'd give that part 5/5.

I read the #ProjectGutenberg version with #KOReader on my #Kindle.

#Book #Horror #Vampire #GothicHorror #Classic #Literature

Finished reading Bram Stoker's #Dracula last night. Worth a read if just for the first few chapters in Dracula's castle. I found it sort of petered out after that, and the exciting conclusion I was hoping to find never really measured up to the first act.

I'd give it 3/5, but if you just want to read the first act as a short story I'd give that part 5/5.

I read the #ProjectGutenberg version with #KOReader on my #Kindle.

#Book #Horror #Vampire #GothicHorror #Classic #Literature

Finished reading Bram Stoker's #Dracula last night. Worth a read if just for the first few chapters in Dracula's castle. I found it sort of petered out after that, and the exciting conclusion I was hoping to find never really measured up to the first act.

I'd give it 3/5, but if you just want to read the first act as a short story I'd give that part 5/5.

I read the #ProjectGutenberg version with #KOReader on my #Kindle.

#Book #Horror #Vampire #GothicHorror #Classic #Literature

Black Star #1 Review: Titan Comics Delivers a Brutal Northern Gothic Debut https://comicbookaddicts.com/2026/07/black-star-1-review-titan-comics/?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #BlackStar1 #TitanComics #ComicReview #NorthernGothic #GothicHorror

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

More about my next book, GODFESTATION, out August 11! Preorders mean so much. Thank you!
#horror #books #gothichorror #folkhorror

More about my next book, GODFESTATION, out August 11! Preorders mean so much. Thank you!
#horror #books #gothichorror #folkhorror

More about my next book, GODFESTATION, out August 11! Preorders mean so much. Thank you!
#horror #books #gothichorror #folkhorror

More about my next book, GODFESTATION, out August 11! Preorders mean so much. Thank you!
#horror #books #gothichorror #folkhorror

More about my next book, GODFESTATION, out August 11! Preorders mean so much. Thank you!
#horror #books #gothichorror #folkhorror

WERWULF Trailer: Willem Dafoe Teases Gothic Horror On June's Strawberry Full Moon [WATCH]

https://fed.brid.gy/r/https://in.mashable.com/entertainment/111460/werwulf-trailer-willem-dafoe-teases-gothic-horror-on-junes-strawberry-full-moon-watch

On June 23, 1979, Dracula’s Daughter was screened on Son of Svengoolie. Here’s some original Gloria Holden art to mark the occasion!
.
#DraculasDaughter #Art #Svengoolie #GothicHorror #QueerFilm #Vampires #VampireArt #QueerCinema #FanArt

On June 23, 1979, Dracula’s Daughter was screened on Son of Svengoolie. Here’s some original Gloria Holden art to mark the occasion!
.
#DraculasDaughter #Art #Svengoolie #GothicHorror #QueerFilm #Vampires #VampireArt #QueerCinema #FanArt

On June 23, 1993, Bram Stoker’s Dracula was released on VHS by Columbia TriStar Home Video. Here’s a drawing of Winona Ryder!
.
#BramStokersDracula #Dracula #WinonaRyder #ScreamQueen #GothicHorror #HorrorArt #Art

On June 20, 1987, Madhouse was screened on The World Beyond. Here's some original Vincent Price art inspired by the horror classic!
.
#TheWorldBeyond #Madhouse #VincentPrice #GothicHorror #Grindhouse #HorrorArt #HorrorSky #FilmSky #Art

On June 20, 1987, Madhouse was screened on The World Beyond. Here's some original Vincent Price art inspired by the horror classic!
.
#TheWorldBeyond #Madhouse #VincentPrice #GothicHorror #Grindhouse #HorrorArt #HorrorSky #FilmSky #Art

Haunted Yorkshire (British Library Tales of the Weird #74) by Elizabeth Dearnley
Release Date June 18, 2026
#Horror #Anthology #Collection #PsychologicalHorror #GothicHorror

https://www.risingshadow.net/book/90712-haunted-yorkshire

Haunted Yorkshire (British Library Tales of the Weird #74) by Elizabeth Dearnley
Release Date June 18, 2026
#Horror #Anthology #Collection #PsychologicalHorror #GothicHorror

https://www.risingshadow.net/book/90712-haunted-yorkshire

A couple of months ago, I found, in a second-hand bookshop, a novel by someone I used to know. I didn't know he'd written it -- we haven't been in contact for many years. It's clearly self-published.

I started reading it yesterday. I wasn't expecting much, to be honest. He could definitely have done with a good copy-editor. But it turns out to be thoroughly gripping. A proper old-fashioned gothic horror story.

#Books #GothicHorror

A couple of months ago, I found, in a second-hand bookshop, a novel by someone I used to know. I didn't know he'd written it -- we haven't been in contact for many years. It's clearly self-published.

I started reading it yesterday. I wasn't expecting much, to be honest. He could definitely have done with a good copy-editor. But it turns out to be thoroughly gripping. A proper old-fashioned gothic horror story.

#Books #GothicHorror

A couple of months ago, I found, in a second-hand bookshop, a novel by someone I used to know. I didn't know he'd written it -- we haven't been in contact for many years. It's clearly self-published.

I started reading it yesterday. I wasn't expecting much, to be honest. He could definitely have done with a good copy-editor. But it turns out to be thoroughly gripping. A proper old-fashioned gothic horror story.

#Books #GothicHorror

A couple of months ago, I found, in a second-hand bookshop, a novel by someone I used to know. I didn't know he'd written it -- we haven't been in contact for many years. It's clearly self-published.

I started reading it yesterday. I wasn't expecting much, to be honest. He could definitely have done with a good copy-editor. But it turns out to be thoroughly gripping. A proper old-fashioned gothic horror story.

#Books #GothicHorror

A couple of months ago, I found, in a second-hand bookshop, a novel by someone I used to know. I didn't know he'd written it -- we haven't been in contact for many years. It's clearly self-published.

I started reading it yesterday. I wasn't expecting much, to be honest. He could definitely have done with a good copy-editor. But it turns out to be thoroughly gripping. A proper old-fashioned gothic horror story.

#Books #GothicHorror

New Quest: bloodhall! From More Prepared! The Expanded Collection Of One-shot Adventures (Tales of the Valiant). Masks hide twisted fangs at the subterranean ball. Sip the forbidden draught, uncover the abductions, and survive Dhavira’s deadly dance before dawn breaks. Embark on this journey! #TalesoftheValiant #GothicHorror #Questable #ttrpg https://questable.app/#/quests/Cs0PF0bvy2PDKC0YAgRp

New Quest: bloodhall! From More Prepared! The Expanded Collection Of One-shot Adventures (Tales of the Valiant). Masks hide twisted fangs at the subterranean ball. Sip the forbidden draught, uncover the abductions, and survive Dhavira’s deadly dance before dawn breaks. Embark on this journey! #TalesoftheValiant #GothicHorror #Questable #ttrpg https://questable.app/#/quests/Cs0PF0bvy2PDKC0YAgRp

New Quest: bloodhall! From More Prepared! The Expanded Collection Of One-shot Adventures (Tales of the Valiant). Masks hide twisted fangs at the subterranean ball. Sip the forbidden draught, uncover the abductions, and survive Dhavira’s deadly dance before dawn breaks. Embark on this journey! #TalesoftheValiant #GothicHorror #Questable #ttrpg https://questable.app/#/quests/Cs0PF0bvy2PDKC0YAgRp

Author Spotlight: Queer Gothic author Alice G. Brooks

Alice G. Brooks (they/she), formerly published under Alice Brooks, is a sapphic indie author writing LGBTQIA+ fiction, heavily focused on deep-seated trauma and pain. When they’re not writing, they enjoy hiking, videogames, rewatching the same shows over and over again, and reading queer books.

AUTHOR LINKS:

Links to All Books: relinks.me/AliceBrooks
“The Ink Eater” Preorder: mybook.to/theinkeater
Website: alicegbrooks.com

IG, Threads, and Tiktok: @alicebrookswrites

Book Pitch for Readers/Book Clubs:

“The Ink Eater” is a gothic romantic tragedy in which the world of an immortal young man who eats stories to survive is turned upside down when one of his stories escapes and unearths the most painful parts of his past, ultimately leading to question whether everything he has ever lived for is worth the pain; or whether choosing himself had ever been an option.

Your book The Ink Eater is a queer Gothic romantic tragedy, featuring an immortal who creates and eats his stories, and a shapeshifting ink creation who escapes containment, perfect for fans of Sunyi Dean’s The Book Eaters and readers of Gothic fiction craving asexual representation. Tell us about your influences for this book, and where the ideas came from?

This book was partially inspired by “Don’t let the forest in” by C.G. Drews, partially by a beta read of an unpublished book by Wren Blackburne, and most importantly by my own need to share my own spin of the “sentient house” trope, while displaying a nice, slightly hidden critique of generative AI and adding a form of asexual representation that I don’t see nearly enough. Writing this story has squeezed my heart and unveiled parts of my soul that even I didn’t know existed.

What rep will readers find in The Ink Eater, and can you tell us more about why is that rep important to you?

Firstly, there’s a gay pairing between the two main characters. More importantly, the protagonist of this novel, Baird Cardall, is asexual. With asexual representation, it’s common to see it displayed as being unable to fall in love, hating touch, or being portrayed as childish or cold.

Baird is none of those things. He’s asexual and homoromantic, he falls in love, he adores physical touch (once he trusts), and he’s anything but cold. I think that media needs more of that sort of representation. It’s partially based on my own experience and displays a part of the ace-spec that many people don’t even know exists. I also rarely see the split attraction model being represented anywhere, so I wanted to include this as well, seeing as I’ve made my own experience with that.

Was it a conscious choice to write a romantic tragedy, or did the plot bend that way during the writing process?

A conscious choice. I’d gone in with the intention to write based on the story structure of Freytag’s Pyramid, which builds from exposition to the climax and the falling action; but it doesn’t end there. It ends with a catastrophe. I try to be very upfront about the fact that, yes, this book is tragic. It is not a romance, even though it contains one. It is not a happy story. I always knew exactly how Baird’s story was going to have to unravel, and I would argue that there’s a lot of potential for discussion and interpretation about the ending.

Tell us about your main characters, Baird and Hemming. How did you go about developing them, and where did the seeds of inspiration for these characters come from?

Baird existed first. I knew I wanted someone who eats stories and who survives off them, as long as they carry meaning and heart.

Hemming, originally, was intended to be a sort of paranormal investigator or something like that. I scrapped the idea when I came up with a story that escaped from the ink.

I’m a pantser, which means my stories are largely not outlined before writing them, so I discover a lot about my characters as I go. They developed on their own; I like to say that I merely write protocol for what they get up to.

Baird just naturally grew to be someone who loves nature, who talks to the animals and the plants, and who has a giant heart for everything around him but himself. He’s terrified of leaving the sentient manor he’s bound to, and hasn’t done so in the past 241 years. Why? You’ll have to read it to find out.

Hemming, on the other hand, is a bit of a snarky diva, but he cares deeply. He came to life through the story; he isn’t the story itself, but a being made of magic and ink who has been with Baird for a long time but didn’t develop a conscience until he took the name Baird created for a shapeshifter in his story and left the paper to be Baird’s friend. That’s his sole mission: make Baird happy. But that doesn’t mean he’s one-dimensional or lackluster, in fact, I think he’s one of my most complex characters. He’s the one who opens Baird’s eyes to the trauma he went through without truly realizing it, and without him, the whole story would’ve never happened.

What drew you to make the manor the main antagonist, and how did its role and character develop as you went through the drafting process?

I just really like sentient houses. At first, I didn’t have the manor in mind as an antagonist. It was just sort of a plot device, a secondary background character that made Baird’s existence more interesting and explained his curse. But then, as I was writing, its voice became clearer to me. And it does, in fact, have a voice. It talks to Baird; he refers to the voice as “his insides” throughout the stories, a voice that is “physical but also not”. It can control him to an extent, he’s the only one who can hear it, and he has a sort of codependent bond to the manor.

As I went through my latest editing rounds, the manor’s voice became darker and more manipulative, demanding in its wants and needs, and adding lore to Baird’s background. I’m very excited to see what people will think of Cardall Manor.

Was the sentient manor based on/inspired by any real/fictional buildings, and if so, what were they? If not, how did you go about designing it in your head as the setting for the book?

It wasn’t. The only room I had in mind was the story room, where Baird consumes his tales. I’d been picturing a gothic manor, but it can really be whatever you want it to be. The manor was built “so long ago” that nobody remembers when exactly it was created. But it changes and evolves with time, providing warmth in winter and coolness in summer. It has no plumbing but can draw a warm bath if one asks nicely enough.

The rooms of the manor were added as I was writing. The piano room and Lilith’s old bedroom were added later on, the foyer has been there since almost the start, and I had no precise image in head for the manor. Then, I had a friend draw it, and now that’s what it looks like in my head. There’s some art for it on my Instagram page, if anybody would like to see that.

What is your favourite piece of reader feedback or reviews for this series so far?

I’ve not yet had any reviews at this point, but my wonderful editor Sebbie [they/she/he] of Silver Press Edits has brought up so many interesting pieces of feedback and given me comparisons to different mythologies and tales that my story draws similarities to. It made me see the story in a whole new light.

Like This? Try These:

Author Spotlight: Queer Gothic author Alice G. Brooks

Alice G. Brooks (they/she), formerly published under Alice Brooks, is a sapphic indie author writing LGBTQIA+ fiction, heavily focused on deep-seated trauma and pain. When they’re not writing, they enjoy hiking, videogames, rewatching the same shows over and over again, and reading queer books.

AUTHOR LINKS:

Links to All Books: relinks.me/AliceBrooks
“The Ink Eater” Preorder: mybook.to/theinkeater
Website: alicegbrooks.com

IG, Threads, and Tiktok: @alicebrookswrites

Book Pitch for Readers/Book Clubs:

“The Ink Eater” is a gothic romantic tragedy in which the world of an immortal young man who eats stories to survive is turned upside down when one of his stories escapes and unearths the most painful parts of his past, ultimately leading to question whether everything he has ever lived for is worth the pain; or whether choosing himself had ever been an option.

Your book The Ink Eater is a queer Gothic romantic tragedy, featuring an immortal who creates and eats his stories, and a shapeshifting ink creation who escapes containment, perfect for fans of Sunyi Dean’s The Book Eaters and readers of Gothic fiction craving asexual representation. Tell us about your influences for this book, and where the ideas came from?

This book was partially inspired by “Don’t let the forest in” by C.G. Drews, partially by a beta read of an unpublished book by Wren Blackburne, and most importantly by my own need to share my own spin of the “sentient house” trope, while displaying a nice, slightly hidden critique of generative AI and adding a form of asexual representation that I don’t see nearly enough. Writing this story has squeezed my heart and unveiled parts of my soul that even I didn’t know existed.

What rep will readers find in The Ink Eater, and can you tell us more about why is that rep important to you?

Firstly, there’s a gay pairing between the two main characters. More importantly, the protagonist of this novel, Baird Cardall, is asexual. With asexual representation, it’s common to see it displayed as being unable to fall in love, hating touch, or being portrayed as childish or cold.

Baird is none of those things. He’s asexual and homoromantic, he falls in love, he adores physical touch (once he trusts), and he’s anything but cold. I think that media needs more of that sort of representation. It’s partially based on my own experience and displays a part of the ace-spec that many people don’t even know exists. I also rarely see the split attraction model being represented anywhere, so I wanted to include this as well, seeing as I’ve made my own experience with that.

Was it a conscious choice to write a romantic tragedy, or did the plot bend that way during the writing process?

A conscious choice. I’d gone in with the intention to write based on the story structure of Freytag’s Pyramid, which builds from exposition to the climax and the falling action; but it doesn’t end there. It ends with a catastrophe. I try to be very upfront about the fact that, yes, this book is tragic. It is not a romance, even though it contains one. It is not a happy story. I always knew exactly how Baird’s story was going to have to unravel, and I would argue that there’s a lot of potential for discussion and interpretation about the ending.

Tell us about your main characters, Baird and Hemming. How did you go about developing them, and where did the seeds of inspiration for these characters come from?

Baird existed first. I knew I wanted someone who eats stories and who survives off them, as long as they carry meaning and heart.

Hemming, originally, was intended to be a sort of paranormal investigator or something like that. I scrapped the idea when I came up with a story that escaped from the ink.

I’m a pantser, which means my stories are largely not outlined before writing them, so I discover a lot about my characters as I go. They developed on their own; I like to say that I merely write protocol for what they get up to.

Baird just naturally grew to be someone who loves nature, who talks to the animals and the plants, and who has a giant heart for everything around him but himself. He’s terrified of leaving the sentient manor he’s bound to, and hasn’t done so in the past 241 years. Why? You’ll have to read it to find out.

Hemming, on the other hand, is a bit of a snarky diva, but he cares deeply. He came to life through the story; he isn’t the story itself, but a being made of magic and ink who has been with Baird for a long time but didn’t develop a conscience until he took the name Baird created for a shapeshifter in his story and left the paper to be Baird’s friend. That’s his sole mission: make Baird happy. But that doesn’t mean he’s one-dimensional or lackluster, in fact, I think he’s one of my most complex characters. He’s the one who opens Baird’s eyes to the trauma he went through without truly realizing it, and without him, the whole story would’ve never happened.

What drew you to make the manor the main antagonist, and how did its role and character develop as you went through the drafting process?

I just really like sentient houses. At first, I didn’t have the manor in mind as an antagonist. It was just sort of a plot device, a secondary background character that made Baird’s existence more interesting and explained his curse. But then, as I was writing, its voice became clearer to me. And it does, in fact, have a voice. It talks to Baird; he refers to the voice as “his insides” throughout the stories, a voice that is “physical but also not”. It can control him to an extent, he’s the only one who can hear it, and he has a sort of codependent bond to the manor.

As I went through my latest editing rounds, the manor’s voice became darker and more manipulative, demanding in its wants and needs, and adding lore to Baird’s background. I’m very excited to see what people will think of Cardall Manor.

Was the sentient manor based on/inspired by any real/fictional buildings, and if so, what were they? If not, how did you go about designing it in your head as the setting for the book?

It wasn’t. The only room I had in mind was the story room, where Baird consumes his tales. I’d been picturing a gothic manor, but it can really be whatever you want it to be. The manor was built “so long ago” that nobody remembers when exactly it was created. But it changes and evolves with time, providing warmth in winter and coolness in summer. It has no plumbing but can draw a warm bath if one asks nicely enough.

The rooms of the manor were added as I was writing. The piano room and Lilith’s old bedroom were added later on, the foyer has been there since almost the start, and I had no precise image in head for the manor. Then, I had a friend draw it, and now that’s what it looks like in my head. There’s some art for it on my Instagram page, if anybody would like to see that.

What is your favourite piece of reader feedback or reviews for this series so far?

I’ve not yet had any reviews at this point, but my wonderful editor Sebbie [they/she/he] of Silver Press Edits has brought up so many interesting pieces of feedback and given me comparisons to different mythologies and tales that my story draws similarities to. It made me see the story in a whole new light.

Like This? Try These:

Check out my latest post on Substack, where you can subscribe to get updates sent directly to your email. This drop talks a bit about how my works are interconnected, and lays out a bit of the plans for my volumes of Shadowed Memories: Dark Shadow, which I'm currently working on outlining.

https://open.substack.com/pub/evanderlfragoso/p/the-story-timeline?r=5d3dar&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

Check out my latest post on Substack, where you can subscribe to get updates sent directly to your email. This drop talks a bit about how my works are interconnected, and lays out a bit of the plans for my volumes of Shadowed Memories: Dark Shadow, which I'm currently working on outlining.

https://open.substack.com/pub/evanderlfragoso/p/the-story-timeline?r=5d3dar&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

Check out my latest post on Substack, where you can subscribe to get updates sent directly to your email. This drop talks a bit about how my works are interconnected, and lays out a bit of the plans for my volumes of Shadowed Memories: Dark Shadow, which I'm currently working on outlining.

https://open.substack.com/pub/evanderlfragoso/p/the-story-timeline?r=5d3dar&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

Check out my latest post on Substack, where you can subscribe to get updates sent directly to your email. This drop talks a bit about how my works are interconnected, and lays out a bit of the plans for my volumes of Shadowed Memories: Dark Shadow, which I'm currently working on outlining.

https://open.substack.com/pub/evanderlfragoso/p/the-story-timeline?r=5d3dar&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

Check out my latest post on Substack, where you can subscribe to get updates sent directly to your email. This drop talks a bit about how my works are interconnected, and lays out a bit of the plans for my volumes of Shadowed Memories: Dark Shadow, which I'm currently working on outlining.

https://open.substack.com/pub/evanderlfragoso/p/the-story-timeline?r=5d3dar&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

A friend recommended his favorite story to listen to (he does audiobooks), so I've been reading it, and the story itself is interesting so far, but the writing is killing me. It's a serialized story on Webnovel where the author released about two chapters a day for four years, with the story having a big fanbase. Since then, the author has gone on to work on other things, but my gosh is it depressing to read. The story isn't bad, or the subject matter depressing, but I'm 49 chapters in and the writing is still so very amateurish. I can acknowledge that it's great to be able to write this continuous story, releasing so much on a daily basis, but there's ridiculously repetitious paragraphs, and there are crazy little things like introducing someone holding a "rapier sword." A rapier is a type of sword!
Anyway, the point is, I understand that we live in an on-demand world where everything has to be quick and punchy, and that's how people are able to write things like this and get away with it (not to mention the horrendous declining literacy rates...) but that doesn't mean I have to settle.
I'm sticking with my plan, plotting out the volumes for my continuation to Shadowed Memories. I may be weighing my options on putting out rough drafts of chapters out there, with plans to publish them on my Substack for paid subscribers on top of other behind-the-scenes content while I think about going back to Inkitt, but I don't plan on compromising my worlds.
I’ll try and use some of this anguish and disdain for more chapter plotting.
Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

A friend recommended his favorite story to listen to (he does audiobooks), so I've been reading it, and the story itself is interesting so far, but the writing is killing me. It's a serialized story on Webnovel where the author released about two chapters a day for four years, with the story having a big fanbase. Since then, the author has gone on to work on other things, but my gosh is it depressing to read. The story isn't bad, or the subject matter depressing, but I'm 49 chapters in and the writing is still so very amateurish. I can acknowledge that it's great to be able to write this continuous story, releasing so much on a daily basis, but there's ridiculously repetitious paragraphs, and there are crazy little things like introducing someone holding a "rapier sword." A rapier is a type of sword!
Anyway, the point is, I understand that we live in an on-demand world where everything has to be quick and punchy, and that's how people are able to write things like this and get away with it (not to mention the horrendous declining literacy rates...) but that doesn't mean I have to settle.
I'm sticking with my plan, plotting out the volumes for my continuation to Shadowed Memories. I may be weighing my options on putting out rough drafts of chapters out there, with plans to publish them on my Substack for paid subscribers on top of other behind-the-scenes content while I think about going back to Inkitt, but I don't plan on compromising my worlds.
I’ll try and use some of this anguish and disdain for more chapter plotting.
Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

A friend recommended his favorite story to listen to (he does audiobooks), so I've been reading it, and the story itself is interesting so far, but the writing is killing me. It's a serialized story on Webnovel where the author released about two chapters a day for four years, with the story having a big fanbase. Since then, the author has gone on to work on other things, but my gosh is it depressing to read. The story isn't bad, or the subject matter depressing, but I'm 49 chapters in and the writing is still so very amateurish. I can acknowledge that it's great to be able to write this continuous story, releasing so much on a daily basis, but there's ridiculously repetitious paragraphs, and there are crazy little things like introducing someone holding a "rapier sword." A rapier is a type of sword!
Anyway, the point is, I understand that we live in an on-demand world where everything has to be quick and punchy, and that's how people are able to write things like this and get away with it (not to mention the horrendous declining literacy rates...) but that doesn't mean I have to settle.
I'm sticking with my plan, plotting out the volumes for my continuation to Shadowed Memories. I may be weighing my options on putting out rough drafts of chapters out there, with plans to publish them on my Substack for paid subscribers on top of other behind-the-scenes content while I think about going back to Inkitt, but I don't plan on compromising my worlds.
I’ll try and use some of this anguish and disdain for more chapter plotting.
Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

Explore books & socials: ELFlinks.Weebly.com
Subscribe: EvanderLFragoso.Substack.com

#WritersBlog #Writer #Author #Substack #SubstackBlog #SelfPublished #UrbanFantasy #GothicHorror #VampireHunterD

A friend recommended his favorite story to listen to (he does audiobooks), so I've been reading it, and the story itself is interesting so far, but the writing is killing me. It's a serialized story on Webnovel where the author released about two chapters a day for four years, with the story having a big fanbase. Since then, the author has gone on to work on other things, but my gosh is it depressing to read. The story isn't bad, or the subject matter depressing, but I'm 49 chapters in and the writing is still so very amateurish. I can acknowledge that it's great to be able to write this continuous story, releasing so much on a daily basis, but there's ridiculously repetitious paragraphs, and there are crazy little things like introducing someone holding a "rapier sword." A rapier is a type of sword!
Anyway, the point is, I understand that we live in an on-demand world where everything has to be quick and punchy, and that's how people are able to write things like this and get away with it (not to mention the horrendous declining literacy rates...) but that doesn't mean I have to settle.
I'm sticking with my plan, plotting out the volumes for my continuation to Shadowed Memories. I may be weighing my options on putting out rough drafts of chapters out there, with plans to publish them on my Substack for paid subscribers on top of other behind-the-scenes content while I think about going back to Inkitt, but I don't plan on compromising my worlds.
I’ll try and use some of this anguish and disdain for more chapter plotting.
Don’t forget to breath, enjoy what you can, and bask Meraki’s cosmic waves of wonder and creativity,
~E.L.F.

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Creative Writing: … and Stormy Night

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/25/creative-writing-and-stormy-night/

Creative Writing: … and Stormy Night

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/25/creative-writing-and-stormy-night/

Creative Writing: … and Stormy Night

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/25/creative-writing-and-stormy-night/

Creative Writing: … and Stormy Night

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/25/creative-writing-and-stormy-night/

Creative Writing: … and Stormy Night

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/25/creative-writing-and-stormy-night/

Creative Writing: The Darkened…

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/24/creative-writing-the-darkened/

Creative Writing: The Darkened…

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/24/creative-writing-the-darkened/

Creative Writing: The Darkened…

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/24/creative-writing-the-darkened/

Creative Writing: The Darkened…

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/24/creative-writing-the-darkened/

Creative Writing: The Darkened…

https://ceriashwardauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/24/creative-writing-the-darkened/

Beasts with Five Fingers (British Library Tales of the Weird #73) by Brian J. Showers
Release Date May 21, 2026
#Horror #ShortStories #Anthology #PsychologicalHorror #GothicHorror

https://www.risingshadow.net/book/90711-beasts-with-five-fingers

Beasts with Five Fingers (British Library Tales of the Weird #73) by Brian J. Showers
Release Date May 21, 2026
#Horror #ShortStories #Anthology #PsychologicalHorror #GothicHorror

https://www.risingshadow.net/book/90711-beasts-with-five-fingers

Spirit of the Shadows #5 Review: Nick Cagnetti’s Gothic Horror Finale https://comicbookaddicts.com/2026/05/spirit-of-the-shadows-5-oni-press-review/?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=mastodon #SpiritOfTheShadows #GothicHorror #ComicBookReview #NickCagnetti #OniPress