The sky bled a little more crimson tonight. I find that comforting.
The wind sings through the bones of the trees outside my study, and somewhere in the attic, something I never invited is pacing again. Sunday is a sacred day, but not for rest—for reflection, and remembrance. For acknowledging the stories that whisper to us through the veil.
Before I speak of my own restless creations, let me draw your eye to the shadowed works of others—fellow conjurors of the strange and the sinister:
As for me…
I’ve spent the past week in the company of an brave warrior, a girl made who rides upon the sands, and a door that only opens when it hears a lie. New tales are growing teeth. These new tales will come scratching at your windows very soon.
Until then, feed your shadows with good ink and darker stories.
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