Only that evening, as I reviewed my notes, did the disparate clues finally converge—the peculiar symbols scrawled upon the bodega walls, the enigmatic stare of its proprietor, the too-convenient acquisition of Kirby’s twisted wand. The realization came, ludicrous yet undeniable: the Prophet of the Nameless One—the elusive figure we’d been tirelessly seeking—was none other than the owner of the very establishment where Kirby had obtained their dubious souvenir

As I traced Salem’s shadowed streets on faded maps, unsettling certainty grew: finding the Prophet was merely prologue to darker truths awaiting our return to Blytmoast.

Inside a cramped, shadow-cloaked shop, Lyemirror directed Kirby toward a twisted wand of dubious origins. Her whispered tales of dark enchantments enthralled my child; Kirby’s touch sent ripples of potent magic.

I gazed into Salem’s rain-darkened streets, sensing the elusive Prophet awaiting us—a keeper of answers to questions I feared to ask. Each crisis endured was mere prelude to the storms ahead; the unraveling had barely begun.

Rain lashed the windows as Scourge Lyemirror traced eldritch symbols upon sodden earth, chanting, "Invocare eques umbrae." Mists yielded a spectral steed, pride extinguished, bound in shadow. As we departed toward Witch City, oppressive fog embraced us, foretelling darker rites—and inevitable peril ahead.

The consequences of this journey were far more profound than I understood when I first began to recount this tale.

You must take inventory. Choose what cannot be lost. Everything else—your comforts, your names—must be flammable.

Deck the halls with shattered mirrors, Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, Walk beneath the ladders, dearest, Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. Open...

This call to misadventure came not as a grand epiphany but as a slow, creeping realization, like a centipede crawling between the sheets.

I have made no secret of my financial and medical problems, but now I can confidently state one of these has been rectified.

It seems that Witch Treachery Willbreak's tenure within the hallowed halls of the Blytmoast has veered into the realms of trespass.

Why did I become a homeowner and have children? In these times of tumult and thinning coffers at the Blytmoast Estate, my explorations...

Acknowledging the myriad challenges that have unfurled, I find it necessary to recalibrate my creative forge.

This is my story for the writing exercise I prompted on March 4th, 2024: My dog dug something up and I wish they hadn't. I will offer a...

I have miscalculated. The annual return of the best coincides with the anniversary of my emergence from the crypt. I did not think this...

Nothing. As black as the void within Writing In the moments free of din Rites sung As horizon falls away Night's sunken walls broken by day

This is an evaluation of my short story Recollection 498201, published on February 19th. The prompt was an attempt to capture that vague...

To my unseen friends and distant observers, You may have noticed my absence from the digital echoes of social media, a realm from which...

This is my story for the writing exercise I prompted on January 22nd, 202 4 : I was young once, perhaps yesterday, maybe today before I...

This is the first of my evaluation of a writing exercise, A Curssed Pet, which I shared on January 8th, 2023. This is an example of...