Saturday, November 8, 2008
She never comes when others are around.
Years later you pass a mirror in the dark, see yourself in eclipse, and you remember. Maybe you smile. It’s then that you don’t say the name. You only think it, and that is so much worse.
She doesn't appear right behind you in the glass, a woman in a bridal dress, eyes torn out of their sockets, nails rimmed red. That’s not how she works. That’s not how she kills you.
Instead you might stiffen. You might hear breathing in your ear. Someone’s strange thoughts in your head. But they’re easy to dismiss. Once again you forget about Mary.
And for weeks after you walk across busy streets. You drive your car. You handle knives, razors, electrical wires. You cook oil in a pan until you can smell the meat sizzle. Every time you’re careful, of course. Isn’t everyone careful?
It isn’t a ghost, or a voice, or a seizure. It’s so much simpler. A nudge. A slip. A forgetful moment. When the truck is close. When the pan is hot. A single terrible movement of the wrist, and the screams bring them right to your door.
You scream alone, but there are thousands like you. And no one ever knows.
Just go into the bathroom and say the words... and see what happens.
Japanese Urban Legend - Slit Mouth Woman
Friday, November 7, 2008
Inside the crypt, there's a TV, also a water pitcher and a fruit pantry. Fresh outdoor air flows in through four vents from the chapel roof. Within reach of the coffin are two makeshift megaphones -- plastic cones attached to tubes running out through the wall.
As the article points out, the horror of premature burial is an old one. It peaked in the 18th and 19th centuries because plagues and primitive medical techniques made it a real possibility:
Such was his anxiety about waking up 6 feet under that George Washington left instructions that his body was not to be buried for three days after his passing, just to be safe. On foreign travels, the Danish writer Hans Christian Andersen would leave a sign near his hotel bed reading "I am not dead" to make sure strangers didn't get the wrong idea.
Of course horror writers have mined this stuff for years. Poe's classic tale, "The Premature Burial" is over at Poestories.com. But my favorite story is about a party, a case of fine spirits, and sweet, sweet revenge. Rest in peace, Fortunato my friend. Rest in peace.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
One of the most historically significant lighthouses in the nation stands at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, not far from my home. Commissioned by Alexander Hamilton in 1791 and completed the following year, the Old Cape Henry lighthouse was partly made of sandstone collected from the same quarries that provided material for the US Capitol and the White House. George Washington approved the first keeper, and the structure is the third oldest lighthouse in the country.
Your bodily fluids are intended to symbolize yourself, they are part of your essence and are traditionally used in magick. Instead of having the negative energies hitting you, they hit your "representative" in the Witch-bottle, the part of your essence.
Many of my posts -- and many of our most primal fears -- are about avoiding evil in our homes. The essence of much good horror is that you are never safe, not even where you feel most comfortable. The walls, the thresholds, and the basement crawlspace all hold secrets. Don't ask what's in them. You don't want to know.