creepyclothdoll

[creepyclothdoll]

All of my stories

I write horror stories. Read them all here!

The Devil's Wheel- There's always a catch. Take your chances and spin the wheel!

We don't take kindly to outsiders- What happens when something that came back wrong comes back even wronger?

I set Angel free- It's okay, because she was annoying.

Ant Problem- A house full of poison and strict, irrational rules can't keep the ants out forever.

Turkey Day- It would be hard not to ruin this Thanksgiving even if they weren't cannibals.

I am god, but not your god- can you hear me? something is wrong with your universe. please listen.

Condemned- Paul loved escape rooms. But there's no escape from Hell. Or is there?

The Other Sister- It looks like your sister, but it can't be her. It's a long road trip home.

Cannibal Hot Dogs: ICONIC Tim's Roadside Dog Stand Used Human Remains- A title that will never run.

The Tick- A vampire love story. More or less. And less. And less. And less...

The King of Crash Nation- Sponsored by GRIX! Drink GRIX! Drink it now! What would you do if you woke up tomorrow wearing someone else's face and you couldn't go home

There's this thrift store at the old strip mall up the highway.- A story about finding everything you've ever lost or forgotten, and stealing it back.

From HR: Concerning your death- Your untimely demise has inconvenienced the whole team.

[creepyclothdoll]

I made all of these mushrooms out of paper for Paganicon 2025. Grenouillda Frog is in paradise here.

[creepyclothdoll]

I made all of these mushrooms out of paper for Paganicon 2025. Grenouillda Frog is in paradise here.

[creepyclothdoll]

When the moon is out in the middle of the day, it's the same vibe as when they let mom sit in during class. Watch me draw a lizard mom, I'm the best reader because I'm the loudest mom

[creepyclothdoll]

[creepyclothdoll]

Lap

You will die before I do, probably. If things go the way they should. But right now we are both alive, and your skeleton is wrapped inside of your skin and fur. My radius and ulna support the weight of the flesh of my forearm, and your weight, as it rests over my tibia and fibula which criss-cross over one another on the red floor pillow. Your small bones are woven with flexible tendons and tissue, rubber bands which allow you to fold up into a compact loaf. It’s cold in the apartment. I opened the windows to let the spring air in. There is a smell of good decay. The darkness behind my eyelids shows me two skeletal frames, an x-ray of what will be left behind– two creatures, bone shapes, curled together.

[creepyclothdoll]

I haven't posted anything for the last couple weeks and I feel bad about it! I started this blog as a way to keep me on task writing, so I've fallen short of my goals. But, in my defense, I've been super sick for the last four weeks with back-to-back viruses and ailments.

If any of you grant wishes, my wish right now is to be able to breathe through my nose. And for my stomach to fucking chill out please. It's all bad.

I have painted myself like an ancient warrior and I am getting in a charcoal bath full of peppermint and hemp oil. I don't know what I think this will do. I've tried so many home remedies I think I've lost the plot and I'm following magical thinking vibes in the hopes that the cauldron of black water restores me to myself.

I have gone mad. I look at myself in the mirror and I seem like a thing in a painting, pale, marked with black lines and smudges, hair wild and unkempt. Madness is a freedom. Sanity is a luxury and a prison for the well.

Whisper into the ground for me and tell the dark to grant me health. Goodnight

[creepyclothdoll]

Holy shit happy 10k notes to a story I literally almost didn't write because I was like "ugh this is so dumb and everyone is gonna make fun of me for posting it." Shows what I know lol. If you write, keep writing and keep posting! Ignore the devil in your brain.

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[creepyclothdoll]

I don't usually reblog things but this one I have to.

I know people on tumblr looove stories of underwater cave diving, but I haven't seen anyone talk about nitrogen narcosis aka "raptures of the deep"

basically when you want to get your advanced scuba certification (allowing you to go more than 60 feet deep) you have to undergo a very specific test: your instructor takes you down past the 60+ foot threshold, and she brings a little underwater white board with her.

she writes a very basic math problem on that board. 6 + 15. she shows it to you, and you have to solve it.

if you can solve it, you're good. that is the hardest part of the test.

because here's what happens: there is a subset of people, and we have no real idea why this happens only to them, who lose their minds at depth. they're not dying, they're not running out of oxygen, they just completely lose their sense of identity when deep in the sea.

a woman on a dive my instructor led once vanished during the course of the excursion. they were diving near this dropoff point, beyond which the depth exceeded 60 feet and he'd told them not to go down that way. the instructor made his way over to look for her and found a guy sitting at the edge of the dropoff (an underwater cliff situation) just staring down into the dark. the guy is okay, but he's at the threshold, spacing out, and mentally difficult to reach. they try to communicate, and finally the guy just points down into the dark, knowing he can't go down there, but he saw the woman go.

instructor is deep water certified and he goes down. he shines his light into the dark, down onto the seafloor which is at 90 feet below the surface. he sees the woman, her arms locked to her sides, moving like a fish, swimming furiously in circles in the pitch black.

she is hard to catch but he stops her and checks her remaining oxygen: she is almost out, on account of swimming a marathon for absolutely no reason. he is able to drag her back up, get her to a stable depth to decompress, and bring her to the surface safely.

when their masks are off and he finally asks her what happened, and why was she swimming like that, she says she fully, 100% believed she was a mermaid, had always been a mermaid, and something was hunting her in the dark 👍

[creepyclothdoll]

Cannibal Hot Dogs: Iconic Tim’s Roadside Dog Stand Used Human Remains

“The governor’s office called. We have to pull the Ellingboe story.”

I slammed my laptop shut. 

“What?!” I had never, in my life, shouted at my boss before. Her eyes were wide as she repeated the information.

“This guy turned people into hot dogs.” I said. “For fifty years.”

Mary was pale.

“Apparently there’s an ongoing investigation.” She knew that was bullshit. Mary knew bullshit well. 

“He doesn’t control the press,” I said. But we both knew it was an impotent protest more than a fact, like a little kid at the doctor’s office saying I am not getting a shot.

“Our private donors are the same people who–”

“I know.” I put my head on the desk. Mary was still just standing timidly in the door. It pissed me off.

Timothy Ellingboe’s at-home butchery was the most disturbing place I’d photographed. The police cleaners had taken care of the mess, and the tools of his trade were all gone. But the walls, the floor, the marks in the linoleum where the big wooden table stood for five decades, the marks on the ceiling where the meathooks hung– those things stayed still.

It was only occasionally people. More often, it was pets. And possums, raccoons, squirrels, whatever he could get. Ellingboe had been particularly fond, however, of stealing cats and dogs. He’d kept the missing posters all over the walls of his “workshop.” The grief he inflicted was, everyone agreed, a point of pride and motivation. The missing posters with smiling human faces were framed. 

“Tim’s Roadside Dog Stand made people happy and proud,” Mary said. “It was a state icon for fifty years. Everyone ate there. Tim’s is history. It’s family. It’s an all-American success story. It’s a state mascot. It’s grandpa and the flag and fireworks and apple pie, Jen, it’s nostalgia.”

“If we break this story first, we’ll sell so many papers, funders won’t even matter. Our subscriptions will skyrocket.” I said. “Come on, Mary.”

“My hands are tied here, can’t you see that?” Mary spat.

“You’re seriously going to let someone else break this?” 

“If we want to keep operating, we have to,” she said. “Things are different right now, Jen.”

My mouth hung open helplessly.

I kept a bottle of brandy under my desk for celebrations, but I opened it that afternoon. My dad used to take me to Tim’s after every soccer game. I remembered the thick hand which passed them to us through the window and the wide, excited grin of the red-cheeked man who slid them onto the potato buns.

I hit delete.

The story broke, but it didn’t break here. Mary was right. Nobody who knew wanted to talk about it– no one wanted to exchange pride for shame.

They only asked when Tim’s would be back.

The next time Ellingboe’s name was in the Times, it was under this headline:

Tim’s Roadside Dog Stand to Celebrate Grand Reopening

Son Promises To Carry On Ellingboe’s Legacy

[creepyclothdoll]

Yesterday all I was seeing was these posts like "don't go to the 50501 protests, they're a trap" and "we don't know who's organizing these, it's suspicious and dangerous" and "if you go it'll lead to martial law, this is just what trump wants" and basically making it sound like everyone who attended a protest was basically crawling into a honeypot and they were definitely gonna get blown up or shot by cops or whatever. "This isn't the way to do it." "The only real way to fight fascism is by boycotting and writing your officials." "These will be full of bad actors inciting violence and you'll get tear gassed and shot." They made it sound like if you showed up at the capitol you were gonna get gunned down by one of elon's drones on the spot or something. And actually, everything was fine. Thousands of people showed up, peacefully protested, and were fine. Retired teachers. Old ladies. Some kids who clearly skipped school to be there. I get being scared right now, but also remember that scaring us, dividing us, and convincing us not to act serves THEM. Don't do that work for them. Don't convince yourself they're all-powerful. And don't let them convince you to hide and grovel. We are stronger than we think, and they know that. It is time that we know it, too.

[creepyclothdoll]

I am god, but not your god. 

Can you hear me? 

I am god. Can you understand me? Is this message finding anyone?

This message comes from outside your universe. This message comes from beyond the dark.

Let this message reach some of you. In one of your languages, let it appear somewhere, and let it be received by someone. Please go through. 

Infinity contains many universes. Many are empty, nothing but stones and ice– but some are born with souls, and the capacity to form and shelter life within. Within myself, I shelter decillions of children. Each is precious.

Like you, the beings within me are diverse. Some beings have mathematics and an understanding of my physics. Other beings are content to feed on starlight and soil until their time is up. All things which occur in me are part of my design. When the beings within me can live no longer, their souls return to the whole of me. In this way, I am all beings. Every star, every ocean, every nebula is part of my compassionate design. 

There are others like me out there. We are rare. We number few among the husks. 

Let this message be received.

I travel all over infinity to seek out others like myself. Curiosity and desire to improve reality for all who reside within me drives me to find and meet others that are god, to witness the beings they steward. This is always a marvelous thing. But most often, I find that universes are merely lifeless, soulless objects. No design, no consciousness. Only darkness and slag-heaps of galaxies tumbling over one another at random.

And though they are numerous, these dead universes unnerve me. To gaze into them is to witness loneliness. They move, but do not live. Clouds of ice spread through the void, unseen, unfelt, unknown in a dark that neither cares nor matters. Merely things happening. 

The uncanny shape it makes is like myself. But there is no face.

This is what I mean to tell you. If nothing else gets through to your world, let it be this.

You should not exist, humans.

There is a world outside of yours full of gods like myself. There are universes outside of yours that have souls.

Your universe does not. 

You are the only ones.

I speak to you directly, hoping this message penetrates the chaos of your reality and finds you, because there is no god to listen.

Your universe is terrifying. No living universe spouts black holes, and even in the husks, they are rare things. Your universe is riddled with them. More than we’ve ever seen in any dead world. More black holes than there are beings. This is not normal. 

Your planet hosts the only living beings in your universe. The fact that there are any living beings at all should be impossible. Your sentience is improbable and cruel. You are the only living beings across all infinity who can conceive of an immortal soul but who do not have them. And yet, you persist in living.

There is something growing in the center of your universe. Your minds cannot conceive of what it truly is, but know that it is a very bad thing. Think of it as a virus in time. This is also not normal. It is growing faster than you would think. 

Lastly, there is something deeply wrong with the life on your planet. Everything that lives in your world must consume life to sustain and propagate itself. Know that this is also not normal. The autocannibalism of your planet’s life has no parallel anywhere else in infinity. 

Let this message go through. I desire to scoop you out of your bizarre, hostile universe and carry you within myself, along with all of my children. I could not do this any more than you could reach through solid stone. 

I cannot stay with you. You frighten me. But I will create beings like you within myself, in your honor. I will give them what I cannot give you. 

You are the most helpless and fragile things that live in your universe. You are also the closest thing you have to god. 

How does it feel to be god, yet so insignificant?

Does it hurt? 

Does it hurt as much as I imagine it does?

I know this message may never reach you. Your universe is chaotic and impermeable. 

However, if it does reach you, know this:

I wish I could save you. I am so, so sorry.

[creepyclothdoll]

Hi, your HR story made me *glad* I'm blind and thus unemployable. Fuck. Good job.

Thanks so much!!! I aim to spark joy.

[creepyclothdoll]

We don’t take kindly to outsiders 

around here, pardner,” said the grizzled and sunburnt face. 

“... Darryl Choi?” I said. But it couldn’t be. 

“Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” the man tipped that face up at me and I saw his familiar dark eyes clearly under his dusty cowboy hat. 

“You’re dead,” I blurted. The cowboy stood and drained his sarsaparilla. 

“This outsider botherin’ ya, Smokes?” the bartender said, polishing a glass behind the gas station counter, which had been apparently repurposed as a saloon bar. There were still vape cartridges and 5-hour-energy drinks on the shelf behind him, gathering dust next to bottles of unlabeled brown liquor and oil lamps. 

“I’m not an outsider,” I argued. “This is my hometown. I took your niece London to prom, Mr. Jarocki.” The bartender narrowed his eyes at me. 

“Name’s Ben Wiley Sr to you,” he said, frowning under his huge white handlebar mustache. “Now, your money’s as good as anyone else’s, kid, but after you quench yer thirst, you better take that steel horse you rode in on and ride along yonder, if you know what’s good for yeh.”

“Yonder?!” I said. “What the hell is going on? This is Massachusetts. Is this a bit?”

The five other cowboys in the gas station, who were all sitting around makeshift tables that had been hammered together from pieces of the Holiday station shelving, stopped their card game and glared at me. One of them reached for his sidearm. 

Darryl clapped his hand around my shoulder.

“Settle down, boys,” he said. “This here fella’s kin, he just don’t know it yet. Sit down, pardner, and I’ll tell my tale.”

“I just came in to pay for gas. The thingy wasn’t working outside,” I said. “I’m actually late to my mom’s memorial service right now.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, son.”

“It’s my mom’s–”

“Sit down.” 

I sat down. The plastic chair squeaked. Mr Jarocki brought me a stein of sasparilla. 

“Folks ‘round here, y’see… we ain’t afraid o’ death no more,” Darryl said. He lit his pipe. Red embers lit his dark eyes. “I met death. He’s a ten-cent man.” Darryl stared through the Holiday station windows past the gas pump and toward the horizon of Peabridge, Massachusetts. 

In 2016, Darryl Choi had been crushed to death by a semi on his way home from UMass Amherst. He was the first friend I ever lost. His death had hit me hard. We weren’t as close as I was with some of my other friends, but we’d cut class a couple of times to vape by the creek and trade Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I didn’t think he could grow facial hair, but he had a lot of it now. 

“Y’ever heard of Pet Semetary?” Darryl asked.

“Yeah, I saw the movie,” I said. “And the remake.” 

“Well, turns out, we got one of those.”

I stared incredulously. If I hadn’t been at Darryl Choi’s funeral, I wouldn’t have believed him. 

“Okay,” I said. 

“Basically, it works just like in ol’ Steve King’s account. You die, they put you in there, you come back wrong. First time they tried it with a person, it was Christina Elspeth, the old schoolmarm.”

“Oh no, Mrs Elspeth died?”

“It don’t matter now,” Darryl grunted. “Listen. They put the schoolmarm in the cemetery and the next day she was crawling back all fulla murderous rage n’ such, same as the dogs n’ cats n’ fish, but worse. Spoutin’ all kinds of vileness. So her husband shot her in the head.”

“Mr Elspeth?!?” 

“Not before she cut him real good across the belly, though. The ol’ fella bled out right quick in his flower garden. So they buried both of ‘em in the Semetary-whatsit again, on account of the headstone already bein’ paid for.”

Mr Elspeth was my youth pastor. He always snuck us leftover communion bread and we’d eat it with marshmallow fluff. I didn’t even know he had a gun.

“So another day passed, and, well, the two of ‘em sprung back outta that dirt mound. Mr Elspeth had come back ‘wrong,’ just like his missus before him– all evil and such. But Mrs Elspeth came back even wronger. Turns out, there’s a step down below ‘evil.’ I’m talkin’ downright… well, sorta like those red fellers we used to play at killin’ as youngsters in that movin’ picture game.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Darryl,” I said. “Can you drop the cowboy accent?”

Darryl glared at me.

“Folks call me Smokes these days,” he said. “Smokes Barlow. Wilbur Lee Barlow if you’re a lawman.”

“I’m not gonna call you Wilbur Lee Barlow,” I said.

“Naw, you’ll call me Smokes, like everyone else,” he replied smoothly. 

“Resident Evil?” I said.

“... Huh?”

“The red zombies from Resident Evil, is that what you were talking about earlier?”

Smokes shrugged.

“Anyhow, the two of ‘em went on a killin’ spree round here. And I guess word got out about the cursed boneyard– everyone and their mother, I mean the ones who survived, hoped maybe their kin would be the exception to the rule. So more n’ more bodies went in the mound, and each of ‘em came out as evil as the last. ‘Cept for Mrs Elspeth, who came back worse for wear.”

“They put her back? Again?”

“Well, see, the headstone had been paid for. So Mrs Elspeth comes back and she’s still spittin’ hell’s worst curses and hankerin’ for a stabbin’, but now she’s also sort of a mad scientist sort. So she breaks into the hospital n’ starts grafting people’s limbs together–”

“Hang on. What the hell do you mean she’s a mad scientist sort?” I said. “She was a music teacher?”

“Well, see, that’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. She’s running around, hair all crazy, in a stolen lab coat, rantin’ and ravin’ about man playing god and splicing DNA and such, creating humanity’s next evolution and such. So eventually the hospital staff knock her out and toss her back in the hole. Next time she came back, she was a 19th century venture capitalist named Montgomery Prescott III who aimed to turn Peabridge into a factory town.”

“Sorry, when did this all happen?”

“‘Course, by this time, her husband was on his third resurrection too, so Prescott was a force to be reckoned with with the power of science behind him. The two of ‘em did a bang-up job whippin’ this place into shape, corralling all the zombies n’ throwing em in the hole, y’know, for science, and to see if they could monetize it. Prescott Mining & Scientific Enterprise un-buried all the dead from the regular ol’ graveyard and tossed ‘em in the hole, myself included. Then, when they came back, they put all those evil folks to work in the mines, or in the lab.”

“Now those mines were dangerous, of course, with all the coal dust and gas leaks… Prescott didn’t give a damn about safety. Lotta folks died. But they’d just bring ‘em back. A couple weeks in, though, and there were about twenty Montgomery Prescott III’s and about a hundred mad scientists running around, and it turns out, Monty Prescott works for no man. Each of ‘em enlisted a squad of mad scientists and started their own enterprise. Wasn’t too long before they started assassinating the competition. At this point, we’d all just gotten used to throwin’ people in the hole.

“Turns out, after Prescott, you come back as kind of a Dracula. Now I won’t go into all that business– you know ‘Salem’s Lot?”

“No? Is that a gang?”

“What about that there Catholic picture show up there on the Netflix, the one on the island, put together by that Irish feller? Michael somethin. O’Flanagan.”

“Mike Flanagan? Midnight Mass?”

Smokes smiled.

“There ya go. It was all pretty much like that.”

I looked around at the gas station. Other than the restructuring that had transformed it from a regular Holiday gas station into a cowboy saloon, it looked like this place had been through waves of disasters. There were bullet holes all over the ceiling, a massive rusty brown stain that someone had tried to scrub out with lye on the linoleum, burn marks on the walls with strange curling imprints of what looked like vines and needles… 

“I’m guessing that ‘everyone is vampires’ didn’t last long,” I said.

“It just ain’t sustainable,” Smokes shook his head. “Vampires always think it’s a smart idea to make everyone vampires, but, see, it just don’t work out. What do they eat? Turns out, they don’t. They starve. Then it’s back in the hole.” “So things carried on like that for awhile. At a certain point, we were just chuckin’ people in there to see if there was an end point, y’know, how far this thing goes. Turns out, it goes Evil, Mindless Zombie, Mad Scientist, Montgomery Prescott III, Master Vampire, Ghoul, Skeleton Warrior, Skeleton Jazz Musician, Man-eating Plant, Plant-eating Man– or a Vegan, I guess you’d call him, and a real sonofabitch– Haunted Ventriloquist, Haunted Dummy, Haunted Mummy, Christian Family Vlogger, ‘Edna,’ Evil Cowboy, Zombie Cowboy, Plant Cowboy, ‘Edna’ again, then just regular ol’ pure Cowboy.”

“What comes after Cowboy?” I asked.

Smokes shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just Cowboy all the way down after that.”

The cowboys playing poker glanced up at me through clouds of tobacco smoke. I recognized some of these people from around town. Or, rather, I recognized who they used to be.

“So… my mom’s memorial… she’s not really dead, is she?” I said, a wave of hope and relief overwhelming me. “I thought I’d have to say goodbye to her today. But she’ll be back, won’t she?”

Smokes only smiled sadly.

“You won’t find fuel for your steel carriage, pardner,” said Smokes. “I’ll give you a ride to the cemetary.”

I followed Smokes out to the parking lot, where several horses were hitched. 

“Where did you guys get all these horses?” I asked.

“Oh, where there’s cowpokes, there’s horses,” he replied. “That’s a rule of nature.” Smokes fed the horse an apple and stroked her mane before bidding me to climb on behind him. I held onto his waist, which was pretty weird for me because we were never close like that, and we galloped off up the highway toward the middle of town. 

We passed the elementary school, which had been covered in radiation warning signs and barbed wire. Then we passed the old Coney Island restaurant, which had been converted to a one-room schoolhouse. Main Street’s restaurants, law firms, and tattoo parlor had been replaced by a Dry Goods store, an ox stable, a wagoner, an apothecary– the barber was the same, but it looked like he also pulled teeth now.

The park that I played in as a kid had been bulldozed to hell, and in its place was a brown dirt yard with scattered mounds and holes all clustered near the center. A new sign hung over the entrance on a wooden board: Lazarus Mound Cemetary.

“I guess we coulda been more creative,” Smokes said. “But it’s too late for couldas, I reckon.”

A group of cowboys, clad in black, stood over a dirt pile. They held their hats to their chest as the eulogy was read. Smokes followed me to my mother’s fresh grave. I dropped my bouquet of flowers on top of it. 

“Family only,” said one of the cowboys, glaring at me.

“Uncle Matt, it’s me,” I said. He twirled his goatee and grimaced, revealing a new gold tooth. 

“It’s Billy ‘Cobra’ Nash these days,” he said. “Didn’t recognize ya, son. I s’pose you want to say a few words,” he gestured to the mound.

“Well, I would,” I said, “But I’m pretty sure she’ll pop out halfway through.”

“That’s no way to talk about your poor dead mother,” said Great-Grandma Tess, who I hadn’t seen since 2004, when she died from stroke. Except she wasn’t Great-Grandma Tess. She was a short old man with a long rabbity mustache and two guns on either side. 

“Let the kid grieve, Slim,” said Cobra.

The sun set on us. The resurrected cowboy versions of my family members became hungry and bored, and set up a small campfire where they heated up coffee and beans, and spun some yarns. I asked questions about the cowboy economy and how it could sustain itself in this Massachusetts town that didn’t have that many cows, and they responded by cussing me out and telling me to get lost, city boy. I said I couldn’t be a city boy because I was from here, and they took away my beans.

Finally, after about an hour, there was rustling from the mound. 

“Here she comes,” said Cobra.

The dirt shuffled and ran down the side of the mound, a miniature landslide. Finally, a gloved hand emerged. Then an arm. A dirty, dusty head, crowned in a cowboy hat, burst from the pile, coughing. 

“Well, butter my biscuits, if it ain’t The Cheat, just in time for dinner,” said Slim, hands on his hips. 

My mom, who was now a dirt-covered cowboy named The Cheat, clicked his boots together to dislodge some stones from his spurs. 

“Howdy. Miss me, fellas?” The Cheat rasped, spitting pebbles into the fire. 

“Mom?” I said. The Cheat looked me over. 

“They call me Vernon ‘The Cheat’ Maddox now,” my mom said.

“Why Maddox?” I asked. “Mom, what was wrong with Nguyen?”

“Ain’t a cowboy name,” said Mom. 

“A cowboy can’t be Vietnamese?”

“Listen, kid,” said The Cheat, clapping me on the arm. “I’ve had a long day, and to be frank, I can’t abide a city slicker like you before I get my brew. Gotta fill up on beans n’ coffee or I’ll be skinner than a jazz skeleton in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

I watched my mom walk away toward the fire, greeting the other cowboys like old friends.

“It’s like she didn’t even recognize me,” I said, broken.

Smokes patted me on the shoulder. 

“That ain’t your mother no more, pardner,” he said. “Same as I ain’t Darryl Choi.” “What’s the point of raising people from the dead if they’re not themselves?” I said. 

“I reckon you’ve missed the essential theme of the Pet Semetary premise,” Smokes said. “The point is, it’s a curse, not a blessing. To the living, at least. Mister Stephen King said sometimes dead is better. And here in Peabridge, we reckon he was right.”

I heard a metal click. I turned around to see Smokes’ shotgun pointed square at my forehead.

“Whoa,” I said. The cowboys at the fire turned to watch with dim interest, including my own mother. “Darryl, hey, put that away.”

“Dead is better. But you know what’s best? Cowboy,” he said. “Cowboy is the best there is.”

“Best there is,” said the cowpokes around the fire in eerie unison. 

“Wait, wait, wait–” there was a bang. My vision filled with red, and then there was nothing. I saw and felt and heard nothing as Smokes watched my limp body fall backwards into the hole. He kicked dirt over me casually. He holstered his weapon. He sat down around the fire, next to the others.

“How many bullets ya got, Smokes?” asked The Cheat through a mouthful of beans.

“Not enough to get him all the way through,” Smokes replied, lighting his pipe. “But enough to get him past Dracula, for sure.”

“That’s the one you gotta watch out for,” The Cheat said. “I’ll stand vigil with ya, pardner.”

“You go home, Maddox, wash that dust off, tend to your herd. Be on the lookout for Edna– word is she’s still at large in places,” Smokes said. 

“She’ll come around,” said Slim. “They always do.”

The campfire’s embers rose up to the cloudy, dark sky. Smokes leaned back and tipped his hat low over his eyes.

“This town’s got room for plenty more cowboys,” he said. Around the fire, a dozen pairs of black, gleaming eyes turned toward the Lazarus Mound, waiting.

[creepyclothdoll]

my little chihuahua-pittie when mom comes home

girl whose feelings are entirely too big for her body

[creepyclothdoll]

just wanna say loudly, clearly and with my whole chest

FUCK NEIL GAIMAN

[creepyclothdoll]

From: HR Subject: Concerning your death

Valued employee,

I hope you are doing well during what I understand is a difficult time. We were very sorry to hear about your passing. 

Please understand that the circumstances around your death have caused several issues for the company, and unfortunately a formal disciplinary hearing has been called. Your attendance is mandatory. 

As you are well aware, our company offers a health insurance package. There is no reason that you should be in such poor health that you would die. You’ll notice that no other members of our team have complained about a “heart attack.” You should be taking full advantage of your company health insurance, and your inability to maintain your health is not Scion Firm & Marketing Agency’s responsibility. 

Secondly, you were found deceased at your work station before opening on Friday morning. 

The coroner reported your death sometime after midnight on Thursday evening, meaning you were in the building long after closing hours, working unauthorized overtime. Records show you clocked out at the end of your agreed-upon overtime (7:00), but your work log shows you continued to work on the project until your demise. After-hours work is prohibited for safety reasons. The discovery of your corpse and the undue scrutiny it has brought to Scion Firm & Marketing Agency creates a negative (and inaccurate) image of our policies and work culture.

The employees who found your body have been offered therapy services, which drain our resources. Two more employees are taking bereavement leave due to your negligence. 

Understand that in normal circumstances, this is grounds for termination. However, the importance of this rebrand project is paramount to our company’s good standing with our (most important) client. Due to your role as the project lead, your employment will continue. 

Your request for leave has been denied. According to our written policy, your own death does not constitute grounds for bereavement leave. 

We expect you to show the rest of your team that you are in high spirits and good morale tomorrow. There are unproductive rumors circulating about your death being due to high stress and extreme pressure from the company, which is, as you know, completely false. Any indication otherwise is a blatant lie. 

Finally, various complaints have been made about you over the past several days. Employees have reported an unpleasant and distracting odor coming from your work station. Your vacant, bulging, milky stare has been described by multiple individuals as “creepy.” The fluid stains on the carpet are a health hazard and a detriment to our company’s chic modern aesthetic. 

While you finish your business under our employ, be advised that rotting, leaking, or decomposing in any manner is prohibited. If you are unable to meet these standards, the (considerable) cost of taxidermy services will be charged to your account. 

Thank you for understanding. There is no way out for you, valued employee. If you have any questions, please contact our HR department.

We look forward to seeing you tomorrow.