#sleepy gallows

[sleepygallows]

A drawing of Rashad Brown Kayla Hart from my project Sister Harts.

I made this with my reMarkable, the tablet I love endlessly.

[narutos-sloppy-pussy]

It is I, made boo boo the fool in a mere 15 minutes lmao

[ohbo-ohno]

hey hey heyyy saw this and thought of youuu

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT83xLH3c/

(completely sfw don't worry) but like, Imagine for one reason or another you desperately need to get married (maybe to qualify for your medieval grandpa's will) but no one wants you for whatever reason so you promptly go down to the gallows where this murderous ex Soldier was to be executed and you are just "he'll do" not aware that he comes as a package deal with his partner who didn't get caught 👀

are you. are you joking. oh my god

thinking about a woman who's got a terrible home life. i feel like either her parents want to marry her off to some guy who's like 80 or they treat her like a workhorse and are super abusive

and to her, quite literally Anything is better than the life she's stuck in. and for a woman in this time period the only real way to escape is to get married. and since no one will marry her (she's poor and everyone knows how her family is).... well there's really only one choice

she definitely proposes to soap, not ghost. the man getting dragged to the gallows is perfectly at ease - shoulders rolled back, easy smile on his lips, you would never think he's being led to his death. there's something in his over all demeanor that makes it almost easy to jump from the crowd and shout a proposal

he's excited, almost ferally so. he grabs your wrist and holds tight, doesn't let you get even a full armlength away from him. that's when you start to think maybe this was a mistake, but it's far too late now. he's also weirdly insistent about the two of you going to a very specific room in a very specific hotel (or whatever they used to be called)

you get a bit more scared every second that goes by, but you're well aware what a man expects on his wedding night - you grew up on a farm, you know how animals mate. it's scary, of course, but you know you'll have to bear it

except when you get to the room, he doesn't try and take you. you know he wants to - there's a tent in his pants that makes your face flame - and he keeps you flush against him. he sits at the table? you're in his lap. you try to go to the bathroom? he stays so close to you that you decide it's not worth the potential humiliation.

he talks your ear off the whole time - tells you how pretty you are, goes into frankly excessive detail about what he likes about every single part of you, tells you how he wants to "stuff you full", says things like "'m not so bad, kitty, know ye must be scared but i'll take care of ye, don't worry" and "just wait til he gets here, then we can get started" and no matter how much you ask who he is he refuses to tell you

he has his mouth pressed against you throat (switching between licking, biting, and talking about how he can't wait to see what's under your skirts) when the door opens, and you realize that you've truly made a mistake

the new man who walks in has to duck beneath the door frame, he's so massive. had he been the one walking to the gallows, you never, ever would have proposed. he's got to be twice the size of you, his face covered, the rest of him filthy and covered in dirt

(((if i had the energy i'd write dialogue here, but anon i am sleepy)))

soap would be soooooooo happy to present you to ghost, is literally drooling and beaming as he grabs you by the hips and hooks his chin over your shoulder, big hands stroking across your stomach and skirts as he says isn't she so pretty?

anyways. you're getting railed that night. hope you like being on the run with two criminals who have absolutely no intention of crossing over to the light side!!

(ghost fucks you first, bc soap needs to learn to be patient with his new toy, but he lets you suck his cock while he waits for his turn. when soap fucks you next, you're laying on ghost's stomach and he wipes away your pretty tears as johnny does his best to break your back. the next day johnny laughs when you're walking with a small limp, and ghost makes him apologize with his tongue <3)

[simnostalgia]

Okay so this is a weird post but anyone here who has Gen X/Boomer/Older Millennial family/coworkers/friends who react to politics in WEIRD ways? Like, on either side of the aisle it seems like there are some behaviors that are shared by older adults that seem like they just come from an entirely different time in history? Examples:

That thing where they come up with a really stupid nickname for a politician that's not funny or all that incendiary so it just comes across as lame. (Cheeto man, Sleepy Joe, Musk Rat, etc)

That weird 'gallows humor' where they'll make a claim about a horrible thing that'll might happen "It's horrible that Donald Trump got elected I guess they're going to round up all the x and put them in camps! haha!" like that's not a weird thing to say to a coworker. Like, I JUST got into the office. What happened to Hi? Hello? How are you???

Being VERY into direct action in theory but ONLY in theory.

Related to the last one but if they REALLY don't like something they're totally fine with political violence. However, other forms of opposition are bad if they are inconveniencing in anyway or illegal. I had this one guy who thought piracy is the WORST thing someone could do but political violence? TOTALLY fine.

It's like the gen X version of that 'firebomb a walmart' tweet.

Comparing things to dystopian novels they have not read and will never read. (Also, Fahrenheit 451 fucking sucks, it's not nearly as intelligent as people think)

General learned helplessness. Like I've learned that if the government says they 'banned' something but didn't actually take steps to enforce that a lot of older people would totally take that at face value. Older people will get FUCK mad about being told they can't do something even if it's super hard enforce and will even not do it. It's insane.

Literally, the term civil disobedience means nothing to them. Like at all.

I'm starting a list, I know there is some I forgot. Does anyone have more?

[instruth]

BLUE SHADOWS

Blue shadows

Hangman’s gallows

Where the river flows

Flocks of swallows

Over weeping willows

Mist over the snow

Blue moon cries yow

Mirrored callow

Midnight fellow

Silent billows

Dreams of hollow

Flowered seeds sow

Sleepy fluidly plow

Blue lovers vow

Whistler blues now

©Johnny J P Lee

09 March 2024

A Gogyoshiren Poem (15)

Photos: J. P. Album

(Photographers unknown)

[valeriianz]

My Sandman -- Hob Gadling/Morpheus MASTERLIST:

i have a page (linked in my bio) full of every single fic i've posted to tumblr and Ao3 right here. but of course it isn't rebloggable so, here!

Rock band AU (M) [aka Bolt in the Blue. slow burn, human, ongoing]

Domestic and Spicy (M) [drabble, Hob makes breakfast and Dream distracts him]

Sleepy Dream (T) [Hob comes home to find Dream sleeping in his bed]

Making out on the dance floor (M) [Morpheus finds Hob in a dream dancing in a club and allows himself to get caught up]

Their first fight (T) [human au, angst-ish, drabble]

Vampire hunter!Hob AU (T)

Neighbors AU (T) [aka Scratch a Little Itch, mixing in the fire alarm trope, mutual pining, professor Hob and pastry chef Dream]

The one about the butt plug (M) [aka Kiss Me Properly... smut based on @messmonte Hob strip game]

Photography AU; exes to lovers (M) [aka Let Me Down Easy. complete. photographer Hob and model Dream. complicated relationship, angst with a happy ending]

The magic of the mistletoe (G) [christmas fluff borderline crack. Dream uses and abuses mistletoe privileges]

Cowboy AU (snippet) WIP (T) [aka charro Dream for @watercubebee. old west, vibes only]

NYE strangers to lovers (T) [aka Call Me Back For More]

Vague mafia AU (T)

Hob being a very good friend after a breakup (M) [aka Never Enough. Dream goes through a breakup and Hob is not subtle about how he's in love with Dream]

Phone sex AU (M) [aka Turn the Lights Off. a fic directly inspired by @issylra's By The Minute]

The worst date Hob’s ever been on (G) [silliness and twist ending]

Car sex (M)

Devil Wears Prada AU (T)

Dream stepping on Hob (power imbalance) (M) [just straight up filth]

Devil Wears Prada AU pt.2 (T)

Vampire hunter!Hob prequel (T)

Pirate AU (G) [Hob saves Dream, his rival, from the gallows. pirate speak aplenty. vibes only]

Getting impatient in the car (M) [vulva wearing Dream, shamless rutting and fingering]

Hob grieves over Dream (vague comic spoilers) (G) [heavy on the angst]

Hob cheats on his wife with Dream (T) [ALSO heavy on the angst]

Fake dating (aka pining in the fitting room) (T)

AND here's my writing tag. in here you'll find all the above along with little fics that didn't make the cut. this includes fics i've only written in a reblog, fics i've sent to friends and they've published, or something else that i've deemed worthy of #my writing

<3

[the-rad-menace]

Edit: I fucked up the 4th option. But choose that one if you have recommendations!

1. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: And Other Lessons from the Crematory by Caitlin Doughty

"Armed with a degree in medieval history and a flair for the macabre, Caitlin Doughty took a job at a crematory and turned morbid curiosity into her life’s work. She cared for bodies of every color, shape, and affliction, and became an intrepid explorer in the world of the dead. In this best-selling memoir, brimming with gallows humor and vivid characters, she marvels at the gruesome history of undertaking and relates her unique coming-of-age story with bold curiosity and mordant wit. By turns hilarious, dark, and uplifting, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes reveals how the fear of dying warps our society and "will make you reconsider how our culture treats the dead" (San Francisco Chronicle)."

2. Those Across the River by Christopher Buehlman

"Failed academic Frank Nichols and his wife, Eudora, have arrived in the sleepy Georgia town of Whitbrow, where Frank hopes to write a history of his family's old estate-the Savoyard Plantation- and the horrors that occurred there. At first, the quaint, rural ways of their new neighbors seem to be everything they wanted. But there is an unspoken dread that the townsfolk have lived with for generations. A presence that demands sacrifice.

It comes from the shadowy woods across the river, where the ruins of Savoyard still stand. Where a longstanding debt of blood has never been forgotten.

A debt that has been waiting patiently for Frank Nichols's homecoming..."

3. Ammonite by Nicola Griffith

"Human explorers discover Grenchstom's Planet, nicknamed Jeep, where all the males and many of the females die from a virus. They discover that the planet had been previously colonized by humans, with various tribes of women now living on the planet apparently not remembering they how they got there."

[goodluckclove]

Happy Pride from Blind Trust!

To celebrate Pride I thought it would be fun to write out a scene that is technically canon to my book Blind Trust, but happens offpage in the book itself. That's right, it's the first, semi-drunken hookup between heavily-repressed Edgar Gallows and deeply-asexual Scott Skylark Kaufner!

How does it end up in the book? You'll have to find out by buying it on Amazon, or requesting it at your local bookstore or library! How does it go in the moment? Read on to find out!

Happy Pride, my aspec siblings. I hope you stay safe and feel validated within yourselves. Consider having a nice sandwich at some point.

I should clarify that Scott is intersex with Kleinfelters Syndrome. But I think as a perisex writer I made an effort not to be a dipshit about it.

Edgar stood in the open doorway to his bedroom and watched as Scott undressed. The man was standing at the foot of his bed, his back to Edgar, just casually undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. As if this was just the most normal thing in the world. Just paying no mind to the palpitations of Edgar’s hard that surged with every subtle movement of Scott’s hands.

What did he get himself into?

No, that was the wrong question to ask. Edgar wanted this to happen with a fervor that startled him. The problem was that he had no idea what this even was – what it looked like, and how he was supposed to make it happen. Would he even be the one making it happen? Scott had come onto him pretty strongly at Il Bambino, was he about to fling Edgar onto the bed and ravish him?

He clung a little tighter to the door frame. That sounded crazy. That sounded overwhelming.

“Edgar?”

Edgar swallowed hard and forced himself to look Scott in the face. He sat very politely on the edge of the bed, dressed only in an unassuming pair of boxer briefs. For some reason Edgar momentarily forgot about the circumstances of the situation in favor of fixating on how clearly malnourished Scott looked. His stomach dipped slightly and his skin clung to the exposed hills of his bottom two ribs. Edgar’s heart sank at the sight of it.

I should make him something to eat, he immediately thought. He didn’t have that much at dinner.

A slow smile stretched across Scott’s lips. “Are you okay?” He asked.

Scott’s arms and legs were long, both draped in a way that expressed sleepy relaxation. His chest was proportioned with larger breasts that were speckled with freckles like the early stages of a Jackson Pollock painting. Skinny as he was, there were parts of him that still looked very, very soft.

Seeing him like that made Edgar’s hands itch. They clenched awkwardly at his sides, already reaching. Scott’s hair cascaded down his narrow shoulders. He looked like an old statue brought to life. Edgar still had some smoked Gouda in his fridge and could easily make them grilled cheeses in about ten minutes.

“You should take off your clothes,” Scott murmured.

Edgar nodded dumbly and fumbled to slip his undershirt up over his head.

The sensation of closeness that came from just sitting, mostly-nude on his bed in front of Scott had Edgar’s head swimming. There were a lot of wants in his mind, though none of them made very much sense. He reminded himself of the basic mechanics of gay sex and still found the concept deeply intimidating.

Scott, watching him ponder desperately, looked both amused and sympathetic. “We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.

“No! No, no I – I want to, I…” Edgar scanned his bedroom with a frown. “We’ll need a condom, right?”

“At some point one of us will need a condom, yes,” Scott confirmed with a tired smirk.

“Yes,” Edgar whispered. “I’m not...I mean, I haven’t really had a reason to –”

Scott’s voice turned slightly stiff. “I have condoms, Edgar.”

“Good. Good! Responsible. That’s very…”

Edgar’s voice fizzled out in a spark of a gasp when he felt Scott graze his fingertips down the side of his face. Just two fingers, the second following the lead of the first, the kind of touch you would give when referencing some important text or scripture.

To say he moved towards the touch would be a criminal understatement. Edgar could already feel himself burn the sensation into his memory, so he could easily access it for years to come after this night was nothing else but a wonderful memory. He tried to control his breathing, fingers still working weakly against his palms, wondering when the right time to touch Scott back would be.

“I’m…” Edgar swallowed hard and let out a small laugh. “I’m not sure if I’m going to be very good at this.”

Scott’s fingers were now working very easily through the curls in the back of Edgar’s head. “At sex?” He smiled grimly. “Me neither. You might be the first person I’ve been with that wasn’t drunk off my...you know,” Scott sighed quickly, all business. “But look at it this way. Once we finish we’ll have the benefit of insight, and enough good hormones coursing through our veins to guarantee a good night’s sleep.”

Edgar furrowed his brow a twinge, confused even through the haze of pleasure that came from Scott’s simple, unassuming touch. Because that didn’t sound like how a person who wants to have sex would talk about the process.

“This is...okay with you?” Edgar murmured.

“I’m very curious. Can I kiss you now?”

“I…” Edgar couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t stand another moment of distance away from the freckled enigma drawing closer to him. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Scott kissed him. It wasn’t an impassioned wave crashing like it was before their dinner shift. The act felt more like lying in a soft tide pool and feeling the indentation slowly fill with warm, clear water. It was a delicate touch at first, almost questioning, and without thinking Edgar laughed a little bit into Scott’s mouth.

“What?” Scott said.

“Sorry,” Edgar said, already blushing. “I got nervous. I don’t really – I mean – you’re just so pretty…”

He wanted to say something else, something at least slightly less pathetic, but he lost his words when he saw the way Scott was looking at him. His large blue eyes glowed in deep concentration. He looked confused, uncertain, maybe even distrustful for a moment. Then, gradually, all of that faded. Scott was nothing else but tired for a while, and then – finally – he smiled.

Without a word he kissed Edgar again. This one was longer because Edgar willed it to be – acting out of something like instinct, he clutched a hand to the back of Scott’s shoulder. The sensation of touching his bare skin immediately lit up some neurons in Edgar’s brain that he didn’t know existed until just this very moment. It wasn’t sexual in any sense he was familiar with. The closest equivalent he could think of would be being the scientist who first confirmed the effectiveness of penicillin.

Scott’s lips parted slightly against his. Wow. His skin was soft and his back felt more muscular than it looked. Wow, wow, wow. Scott pulled away and began tracing light, careful kissing up and down the expanse between his neck and collarbone. Even though Edgar was sitting facing the head of his bed, instead of making any attempt to reposition themselves he just sank down to press his back into the mattress.

“You still with me, Edgar?”

No thoughts. No words. Why did Scott stop kissing him? Edgar blinked a few times and let in a shuddering breath. Scott was on top of him now – not to claim or dominate his body, but somehow just to keep it safely contained within the confines of his skin. Their legs were pressed against each other. He could feel Scott’s chest push against his own with every breath he took. Edgar had never experienced anything like this before.

What did Scott just ask him? And why was he still so far away?

Edgar gazed up, astonished, into Scott’s eyes. “It’s not real light,” he observed idly.

“What?”

“Your eyes. They glow, so I thought maybe they’d actually glow, but…” Edgar scoffed. “I don’t know. I’m being weird.”

Scott hadn’t blinked at all since Edgar really started focusing on his eyes. He clenched them shut and wiped at them with the back of his hands. Scott smiled, and then he laughed sheepishly.

“Are you okay?” Edgar asked, coming slightly out of his daze. “Do you want to stop?”

Scott laughed again, a short sound that had a hint of shock in it. Then he settled deeper against Edgar, fully lying prone on top of him. This new weight and heat launched any sensible thought or action straight out of Edgar’s head, and he happily slumped back on the wrong end of his bed. Nothing else mattered at that moment other than lightly tracing spirals and shapes along the entirety of Scott’s bare back.

“I can,” Scott’s voice was getting softer and softer as he spoke. “I can go...mm...Go and get you that condom, if you want.”

Edgar answered without really thinking. “No,” he answered dreamily. “I think this is probably good.”

With the amount of physical contact between them, Edgar actually felt Scott’s tension as it started forming in his back and shoulders. Not thinking hard enough to question the action, Edgar gently worked his fingers into Scott’s hair and began rubbing crescent moons against his scalp. And just like that, the muscles relaxed and Edgar felt Scott moan softly into the crook of his neck.

It was barely audible and entirely genuine. The most beautiful sound Edgar had ever heard in his entire life. Once he had his fill of getting his back rubbed and his hair played with, Edgar was going to make this man the single greatest grilled cheese sandwich in the world.

Scott barely touched the back of Edgar’s knee, and that was all the force he needed to bring his leg up to hook around him. Edgar shuddered at being touched this gently, with this much familiarity, and at the fog of damp heat that touched his skin when Scott let out another sigh. For the moment, every intrusive thought and self-defeating ideology that plagued him was lovingly put to sleep, leaving only a merciful silence like peace after a rainstorm.

“You’re a really good server,” Edgar whispered to him. “Super efficient. Very coordinated. It was really cool to watch.”

For a moment Scott stopped breathing. Then the weight on top of Edgar shifted slightly as Scott got up on his elbows to stare down at him with a bewildered frown. He stared at him until the frown broke until soft snickering, and soon he had to turn his face away to laugh wearily off to the side.

Edgar, even then, didn’t spiral into anxiety. “What?” He said. “It’s good to be respectful. Front and back of house have to stick together, don’t we?”

Scott grinned fondly down at him. He relaxed and touched his hand to cradle around Edgar’s face. All he did was look at him at first, before he lowered his face until their lips were just about to touch.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I guess we do.”

[kwebtv]

Character Actor

Morris Ankrum (born Morris Nussbaum; August 28, 1897 – September 2, 1964) Radio, television, and film character actor.

He had an extensive film career beginning in the 1930′s but by the end of 1958 Ankrum's film career had essentially ended, though he continued taking television roles. In the syndicated series Stories of the Century Ankrum played outlaw Chris Evans, who with his young associate John Sontag, played by John Smith, turned to crime to thwart the Southern Pacific Railroad, which Evans and Sontag held in contempt. Ankrum made 22 appearances on CBS's Perry Mason as one of several judges who regularly presided over the murder trials of Mason's clients from the show's first season in 1957 until his death in 1964. The show ended two years later.  Ankrum appeared in western series such as The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin, Bronco, Maverick, Tales of the Texas Rangers, Cimarron City, Rawhide and The Rifleman.

Ankrum appeared in a number of ABC/Warner Brothers westerns. On October 15, 1957, he had a major part in the episode "Strange Land" of the series Sugarfoot, starring Will Hutchins. Ankrum played an embittered rancher named Cash Billings, who allows hired gunman Burr Fulton ( Rhodes Reason) to take over his spread, but Sugarfoot arrives to bring law and justice to the situation. Ankrum appeared again, as John Savage, in 1959 in the Sugarfoot episode "The Wild Bunch". The same year, he portrayed a zealot who abused his daughter, played by Sherry Jackson, in the episode "The Naked Gallows" of the western Maverick with Jack Kelly and Mike Connors. In 1961, he again played embittered, and this time paralyzed, rancher Cyrus Dawson in the episode "Incident at Dawson Flats" of the western series Cheyenne.

In the 1958–59 season Ankrum appeared 12 times in Richard Carlson's syndicated western series Mackenzie's Raiders. In the series set on the Rio Grande border, Carlson plays Col. Ranald Mackenzie, who faces troubles from assorted border outlaws.

At the time of his death, he was still involved with Raymond Burr's Perry Mason TV series. His final appearance on Perry Mason, in the episode "The Case of the Sleepy Slayer".  (Wikipedia)

[aziraphales-library]

Hello,

I was wondering if you know any fics with A and/or C as detectives? Preferably in a historic setting but I’d be fine with any time period if that’s what’s available.

Thank you for all your hard work!

Hi. You might be interested in the kind of fics on our #spies and #murder mystery tags. Here are some detective fics...

You'll (have to) do. by Beautyandlove (T)

In light of the murder of six UK nationals at a resort in Calais, France, D.I Fell and D.I Crowley are sent there to catch the seemingly invisible killer.

The only pickle, really, is that they have to pretend to be married.

Which is fine. It’s not like Aziraphale sometimes wants to smother Crowley with a pillow or kiss him senseless, or anything.

Tadfield Heat by Shampain (M)

The scene is Tadfield, at the beginning of another perfect autumn. The cast? Two surly detectives, one MI-5 analyst, and a trigger happy CIA agent. The problem? Sergeant A. Michael won't shut up about the graffiti the village just can't seem to get rid of.

If you're looking for intelligent people doing intelligent things, maybe don't click here. For the Good Omens Big Bang!

yours in black lace by okapi (E)

Hardboiled, hell-fried private investigator Anthony J. Crowley is just trying to survive a hot, boring August, but a new case and a series of anonymous naughty letters signed only 'yours in black lace' are about to make things interesting.

Chapters 1-3 are case fic. Chapter 4 is smut.

For the 2020 DW Unconventional Courtship challenge based on a summary of the Mills & Boon novel Yours in Black Lace by Mia Zachary.

the many-venomed earth by curtaincall (T)

It’s the trial of the century: bestselling mystery author Anthony Crowley stands accused of poisoning his former lover. He’s got means (arsenic), motive (the breakup), and opportunity (a meeting the night of the murder); his guilt seems certain.

Certain, that is, to everyone except Lord Aziraphale Eastgate, rare book collector and amateur detective. Aziraphale’s not sure why he’s so convinced of Crowley’s innocence, but he’s determined to save him from the gallows--by finding the real murderer before it’s too late.

Tadfield's Finest by angelsnuffbox (E)

The sleepy town of Tadfield is thoroughly shaken by the arrival of DI Crowley. Where barely anything ever happened before, there is now a bustle of low grade criminal activity, and everyone knows where to point the blame. Gabriel thinks he's a bad omen for the town, many others are quick to agree. Meanwhile, Aziraphale from SOCO just thinks he's hot. Ridiculously so.

It's A Hard Life by Krisdaughter_of_Athena (M)

“Crawly” was the best delivery man in the whole city of London, and everyone knew it. Whether it be books and flowers, or narcotics and guns, Crawly was the one for the job. Easy enough for Crawly to slip in and out of tight spaces, and easy enough to keep his real name off the police radar.

Detective Constable Aziraphale Pritchard is used to being told he is not very good at his job. He is as surprised as everyone else when he is the officer to catch Crawly, the Devil’s infamous delivery driver, in the act. He is the only officer to figure out Crawly’s real name. But no one else knows that, otherwise they’d also know that the DC tends to get drunk with this particular member of the notorious Demons every other Thursday, and would also know of the fragile Arrangement between the two. Aziraphale knew it couldn’t last.

However, what are the two to do when Crowley is given an extra special delivery, one which places the two unlikely allies alongside each other for the long haul? How will they keep the delicate balance of their arrangement from their respective sides? And how will they keep one boy from bringing destruction to the entirety of London?

- Mod D

[sleepygallows]

One of the shots for my short!

[lisarpgheadcanons]

what if sindy gallows was really sleepy and his name was sindy pillows

[the-body-of-billie]

Has Anyone Heard of Elmsbury-Gallows?

*********************************************************

Elmsbury-Gallows Short Story

[this series can be read in any order]

*********************************************************

Posted to a paranormal experiences forum on 4th August, 2019

I live in England in the rural West Midlands, someplace between Tamworth and Burton but I won’t get into too many details since I’m not a fan of doxxing myself; I will say though, that Tamworth is closer to where I am but Burton is where I go for work and it’s about an hour and a half drive there from where I live. However, the lengths of the journeys back home really vary since I really enjoy the longer drives down rural backroads through the countryside, especially in the winter as nighttime drives are my favourite. It’s just something about the curling of the road only visible a few feet ahead of the car, as if the map is just rendering in as you move along it.

I’ve taken a different route home nearly every journey back out of Burton, but I’ve been working there for nearing on seven years now so I have pretty much all of them committed to memory, regardless of season, and I’ve only ever gotten lost out there twice: once being the first time I ever tried to take a detour home, and the second time in January of 2015 on my way back from an evening shift.  

I wasn’t the last to pack up that night, but the rush hour traffic out of Burton made it so I actually left the town around 7:30pm, still with an hour and a half before I even got remotely close to home. I remember driving away and watching in my peripheral as the lights reflected in my rear-view mirror gradually became more distant, dying down and fizzling out as I turned into a new-build estate that I often cut through to get onto a B-road that led through the countryside back towards my hometown. The housing estate was very pristine and new, built a year prior to this event, I think, and I once got lost in there trying to cut through since every junction, semi-detached red-brick nightmare, and cul-de-sac looked so similar.  The light in each window was a pale yellow, beaming down onto the pavement below though never reaching the road; it made me feel safe and hidden there in the dark, despite my headlights on low-beam; the only other lights in the neighbourhood were the small modernist patio lamps out front of the houses, but as soon as I turned onto the B-road home, the winter evening swallowed the light behind me, leaving me floating through that darkness only really found deep into the rural countryside.

I drive a 1989 Toyota Camry, so on nights like those I tended to listen to my old cassette tapes- I collect them, and have dabbled in making one or two janky mixtapes. I remember what I listened to that night: it was the album Squeeze by The Velvet Underground. A friend got me into it in university, what must’ve been ten years ago at the time that this happened to me. With the stereo on, I continued my drive as usual, flicking my full beam headlights on and off as the rare other driver came round the camber on the other side of the road. In between these sparse encounters, it was only me and the road unfolding in front of me listening to the hazy sound of 60’s rock.

This was my first drive back home from work after coming back after Christmas, so the route must not have been as fresh in my mind as I thought it would be, and I only realised that I missed my turning as I drove into a town that I didn’t recognise.  I would describe it best as ‘sleepy’, though sleeping as though it were having an uncomfortable nightmare. As my tyres crunched on the road, they made an almost hollow rumbling, as if the whole place were built on a concave housing something curled up underneath it. The town was entirely overrun by fog: thick, impermeable fog that flowed and meandered like water over the pavements and through the cracks under doors. It was a little run-down, but looked like it had once been quite quaint.

I pulled up on the side of the road, switching on my phone to check Google Maps for a route out of here, only to find that I had no signal. I decided it was no matter, though, as I’m pretty adept at navigation, and it wouldn’t be difficult to just turn around and retrace my steps until I came back across the turning I missed.

So, I did. I reversed, and drove back down what I thought was the road I had just driven along, back onto the B-road and finding the turning and making it. I tried very hard not to focus on how little I recognised this road and just continue driving. A few minutes later, I arrived back in the town I had just left from.

This, obviously, confused me- I hadn’t been too clued in on which road I was driving down, but I was damn sure that I hadn’t just driven in a circle. I crawled my way through the town looking for any road signs, until I came across a small Tudor pub called The King Henry. I decided to park up and go inside, set on getting directions out of here and back towards my hometown. By this time, I think it was nearing on 9pm.

I entered the tiny pub and made my way towards the bar. There was a kid manning it, they looked around 16, with a mess of bright ginger hair, painted black fingernails and a black t-shirt with some manga cover on it, I think? I don’t know, I’m not really into all that kind of stuff. I asked if I could talk to their boss, to which they craned their head over their shoulder and yelled: “Muuuuuum!” into the back room. They gave a thumbs up before a shorter woman, also with bright ginger hair, made her way over to me. She asked what she could help me with and I told her I needed directions back towards Tamworth- I figured she was more likely to know how to get there rather than directly back to my home. I figured I’d get to Tamworth and just take the main roads home. The woman told me I was in a town called Elmsbury-Gallows, and that my best bet at getting out towards Tamworth would be to go southward on Main Street onto Elmsbury Way, then head towards Deerfolk Way before veering off right onto Eastford Road. This, I was told, would lead me out of town- I’d then continue forwards until I hit a roundabout and take the third exit towards Tamworth. I asked her for a pen and sticky note so I could jot down the directions and stick them to my steering wheel so I wouldn’t forget.

When she vanished off into the back room, a tall man came up and sat next to me at the bar. He greeted me warmly, as if we knew each other, then gave me a wide grin, though his glasses had magnified his black eyes so largely that I couldn’t make out any smile creases next to them in order to tell if he was being genuine or not. He shook my hand when I introduced myself, telling me his name was: “Reverend James Fairfax, but you can call me ‘Jim’, everyone does.” When he asked why I was in Elmsbury- clearly sensing an outsider- I hesitated, a nagging feeling at the back of my head warning me not to tell him I’d gotten lost. I ended up telling him I was just passing through, though my lie was quickly revealed when the owner returned from the back room with my sticky note with directions on it. She said hi to Jim, who gave me a look of something close to triumph? Like he knew all along that I had lied to him. I quickly got up and headed out, back to my car.

When I reached it, there was a man leaning against it, chain smoking. He was short, dark haired, and flinched when I gently tapped his shoulder and asked him to get off my car. He was clearly very drunk as he had been leaning all of his weight onto one hand propping him up on my bonnet, which had left a handprint seared into the frost. I watched him stumble away to lean against a brown VW Beetle as I got back into my own vehicle, sticking my directions to the steering wheel and muttering them to myself before setting off.  I started my car and drove off towards Elmsbury Way.

***

         The fog was so unbearably thick that I had to lean forward in the driver’s seat and squint at the road to see better. It had been about fifteen minutes, and I think I got onto Deerfolk Way when my car stalled; stopping with a splutter in the middle of the road, headlights flickering off and my cassette tape ejecting from the stereo and into the passenger seat. I sat for a moment, listening to the deathly silence of the night, no longer assisted by the streetlamps of the town since I’d driven a little way out now. I cursed loudly, and am ashamed to say I threw a little tantrum in my car and cried quite pathetically. It felt it was unfair that this was happening, although there was precious little I could do to change things. I didn’t want to open my door and get out and risk letting the heat escape from my car into the cold January night, so I checked my phone to see if I had signal enough to call for help: very much not to my surprise, it was a dead zone. I cried again.

I had stopped on a small gravel road between a sprawling crop field and the outskirts of the forest that surrounded Elmsbury-Gallows- neither of which looked all too welcoming, and I seriously didn’t like the option of a probable 30-45 minute walk all the way back into town. There did look to be a small farm up on the hill past the crop field, however none of the windows had any light in them, and since it was now human contact I was looking for, it didn’t strike me as being very promising. Honestly, at this point I was more so looking for a bed to sleep in for the night. I think now is a good time to mention that I’m a man of about 6’5 and 300lbs, so sleeping horizontally in the backseat of my car wasn’t looking too appealing to me if I wanted to keep the blood flow in my arms and legs.

I was just about to brave the walk back into town when a small trickle of smoke caught my eye, rising above the treeline. A forest fire? Borderline impossible in the UK in January. Campers then, maybe. Also, borderline impossible in the UK in January. Someone must live out there. From where I was, the smoke didn’t look that far out, and I resolved that my best bet was to walk towards what I had decided was my saviour in the forest and ask if they had a spare room. This sounded like a flawless plan to a brain running on a 6am start, four coffees, and a pot noodle from lunchtime. As I picked up my things and zipped up my coat against the burningly cold outside, I reassured myself that I was physically imposing enough to scare off anything that wished me harm: we don’t really get nighttime predators like wolves or bears in the UK anyway- I think the biggest wild animal I’d ever seen up until that point had been a fox. Regardless, I picked up a big stick as I walked into the forest: nobody’s gonna mess with a 300lb giant wielding a tree branch. I checked the time: 10:43pm.

Basically, as soon as the road disappeared behind me, the little cabin came into view. It sat squat in a clearing, camouflaged against the forest save for the tiny orange rims of the windows which I guessed was the light of the fire inside being absorbed into the tightly-drawn blinds. Smoke trailed up from the chimney, and under the awning on the wooden deck I could see an axe sticking out of a chopping block, bits of splinters and kindling littered around it. The place smelled very strongly of pine- I guessed because it was a pine forest, but it was overpoweringly strong here. I breathed a small sigh of relief, happy that the cabin was closer to the road than I thought and a little impressed with myself for taking this risk and having it pay off.

I knocked on the door and tossed aside my big stick, now wanting to appear as non-threatening as I could in order to maximise my chances of being allowed to stay. I was expecting an old, lumberjack-type to answer the door, or maybe a little old lady, but the woman who made eye contact with me through the gap of the open door looked no older than 35. The chain latch was pulled taught, a line just under her singularly visible wide hazel eye, and she asked me what I wanted in a low voice. I explained to her my situation, trying my best not to come across like some kind of serial killer, and after a moments hesitation she undid the latch and let me in, saying that she had a spare room her family used sometimes when they came to visit her. Before closing the door behind me, she poked her head out onto the porch, looking from left to right very quickly, as if she were checking for something. The warmth of the cabin pressed in on me, and I awkwardly took off my coat and hung it on a deer ivory hat stand.

The cabin was homely and a lot more modernized than I initially thought it would be. There was a large, hand-crocheted rug on the floor of the living room, along with matching handmade blankets and pillow-covers. The fire glowed a sultry amber in its hearth, and I briefly noted the presence of a hunting rifle mounted on the wall above the mantlepiece, looming over the framed family photos and bric-a-brac. My host was a short- though most people are short to me- pale woman wearing a cable-knit blue sweater and baggy grey joggers tucked into Ugg boots. She had short-cropped curly blonde hair and a sour expression; when we made eye contact again, she slid her chipped, bitten fingernails back up into her sleeves. I thought she looked a little nervous of me, so I introduced myself and tried to think of a way of saying “I’m not a rapist, I promise!” without sounding like I was in fact a rapist. I’m not, and I wasn’t- just to clarify.

She told me her name was Imogen, and followed that up by offering me some hot chocolate. I sheepishly asked if she had any food I could eat as well, only now realizing just how starving I was. She told me to help myself to what she had in her fridge. I opened it, craving a bacon or sausage sandwich: something substantial, but was disappointed to find that there were no meat products whatsoever. At the time, I assumed she was vegetarian. I poured myself a bowl of cornflakes, thanking her through a mouthful of them for the hot chocolate she’d made me. Something about watching a grown man scoff down cereal and cocoa like it was his first meal in months as he profusely thanked her for letting him stay seemed to indicate to Imogen that I wasn’t so much of a threat after all.

We chatted for a bit, I can’t really remember what about, but at some point I must have asked her why she lived out here in the forest- politely, of course, I actually used to like the idea of a little secluded cabin in the woods. Used to. She told me that she loved nature, and that she had a friend who wanted to be a conservationist that she was meant to go to uni to study biology with back in the 90’s. They had both worked in the National Park which apparently the town had, though she told me that it had been closed down a number of years ago. I asked why it had closed and she hesitated, staring off a little past my shoulder for a moment before telling me that her friend went missing one evening in the park. They never found her.

There was a moment then, and a ghostly whistle of wintery wind hit the cabin. Wanting to change the subject, but not really knowing how, I pretended to shiver and asked if it ever got scary out here alone in the woods. She raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking back towards the hunting rifle on the wall, which caused me to quickly clarify that I only meant to ask if she had any ghost stories. Look, I was in a strange town in a little log cabin in the woods- why wouldn’t I want to hear a ghost story?

Imogen told me then, a little up-front, that so long as The Moonsilver Hunter didn’t find us, we’d be safe. Initially, I thought she was joking- given the context, I assumed she was just referencing a local legend that I wasn’t privy to as an outsider- so I chuckled and asked her who The Moonsilver Hunter was. She stared at me, deadpan, then repeated a tale in the cadence of an old children’s story.

“The Moonsilver Hunter,” she told me, “Is an old fairytale- a local one, anyway. My dad used to tell it to me to scare me to sleep. I think they even once told it to us in primary school after a kid went missing in the forest; it’s actually a pretty famous case, made National News, you’d recognise it if you saw it- the kid went missing on a Cub’s hike in the forest, no trace of him was ever found except three milk teeth showing up in a dog’s vomit weeks later?”

I actually had heard about this, and told Imogen that. She said she thought I would have, then continued, “well, The Moonsilver Hunter is pretty well-known around here, ask any 80’s or 90’s kid and they’ll be able to tell it all by memory,” she shook her head, realising she was getting a little side-tracked, “anyway, the story goes that The Moonsilver Hunter was originally a young man who lived out in these woods with his father in the early 1900’s, though some people say it was the late 1800’s- hell, I’ve even heard someone say once that it was in the English Civil War period but, whatever—” she redirected herself, “—he lived out here with his ailing father. A senile man who he cared for alone out here in a little cabin as they had both been shunned from the town. Together out in the forest, they began to develop a sort of folie-a-deux- this shared madness that would feed one another’s delusions which all started when the young man’s father began talking about a ‘moon-silver wolf whose hide is strong as armour, and whose blood is pure and holy as an Angel’s’.”

She smiled to herself, “I will always remember that part—anyway, the man’s father would talk on and on about this wolf, saying how in his younger years he really wanted to capture it as a trophy: to wear its hide and drink its blood in the hopes of achieving a sort of immortality. As the cabin fever began to eat away at the young man’s mind, he started to think about going out and capturing this wolf: rationalising that he could use its hide to protect himself from attacks from townsfolk, and its blood to heal his father’s ailments and slowly deteriorating mind. This madness grew into a righteous conviction, and one winter’s night, he packed his rifle and net and ventured out to track and trap the beast.”

“So, he wandered out deep into the forest until the early hours of the morning when a little off into a glade, he saw the shining hide of the moon-silver wolf. Taking his chance, he aimed and shot, hitting the wolf in its side and knocking it to the ground- he ran up to it, elated that he had actually managed to get the thing, and aimed to slit its throat to bottle its blood before carrying it back home to skin. So, he cut, and as the blood pooled in the bottom of the little glass bottle a scent wafted up from the wolf: a scent like red wine, honey, and ambrosia- like a warm-baked cake or sweet, honey-roasted ham. The blood was said to be angelic, after all, and the smell alone was enough to convince the young man that this was fact. Not only could this blood heal his father, but couldn’t it also give him immortality? There was certainly enough to go around.”

“Overcome, he put his mouth to the wound he had opened and began to drink. After drinking his fill, he tried to pull away, only to find that his tongue seemed to be stuck to the wound like it was an icy pole, and with each pull a new part of him stuck, until his head had entirely fused with the wolf’s, tearing it from its body and attaching itself to his neck. Now with the head of the moon-silver wolf, the man was overcome with an animalistic, primal bloodlust, and to this day he stalks the woods at night, hunting rifle on his back, empty bottles strapped to his waist, seeking to track down and drain the blood of anything awake after sundown.”

I sat for a moment, stunned, asking if she still believed the story. I felt a little pang of fear as she emphatically nodded her head ‘yes’.

“He was what took Sydney. He made her missing.”

She followed that pretty harrowing statement up by telling me that The Moonsilver Hunter was drawn to the smell of meat, and to the sight of light, and that the real reason she was out here was to finally catch him and kill him for taking her friend.

I was regretting not taking that 45 minute cold walk back into town, now fairly certain that The King Henry had a sign outside that said it rented some rooms upstairs. Imogen was clearly not too well, and I didn’t want to make any wrong moves that could make her lash out at me in fear. I was pretty confident that I could overpower her on my own, if worse came to worst, but I probably couldn’t overpower a bullet.

I made some obvious excuse to go and eat the rest of my cereal in my room, and though I could tell she saw through my bullshit she let me go anyway. I walked into my room, repeating to myself over and over in my head that this was just for one night. In the morning, I could get her to drive me out into town or call for help on her landline.

My little room for the night was cozy, and I remember being impressed that the bed frame and chest-of-drawers looked to be handmade from pine wood. The prospect that Imogen had maybe hand-crafted most, if not all, of the furniture in her house- and possibly even the house itself- overshadowed her concerning neurosis and I truly felt like a guest in that moment. I had my own little en-suite: I tried turning on the shower, but it didn’t work, so I resorted to just to washing my face in the sink and using the mouthwash I prayed wasn’t that expired from the little cupboard above it. When retrieving it, I tried not to make too long of eye contact with the empty prescription pill bottles filed inside the cabinet- at least Imogen seemed to be taking her meds, or have been taking them. I sank down into bed, checking the time on my phone: 12:03am. I prayed that the night would pass quickly so I could just get home.

***

         I think it was around 4am when I woke up needing water. I was annoyed: I had been hoping that I could get this all over with fast, so I decided to just grab the water before I could procrastinate doing it and get back to sleep as soon as possible. I stood up, and realized that I probably didn’t want to accidentally bump into Imogen wearing just my boxers; I really couldn’t be bothered to put my work uniform back on just to grab some water, so I threw on the bathrobe that I saw hanging in the bathroom and decided that would simply do.

I shuffled into the open kitchen, flicking on and off the lights until I found the switch for the ones that just illuminated the countertops. The sound of the water filling my glass was so loud against the silence of the night that I nearly missed the whistling coming from outside. It was a sharp, commanding whistle, like a hunter calling for his dogs. I froze, trying to convince myself that I was just sleep deprived and Imogen’s story had got to me subconsciously until I heard it again. And it was closer. And it was calling out to me.

I looked up, and against the blackout blinds, the silhouette of a wolf’s head peered in. I had to cover my mouth to stifle a yell- my first thought was that it was somehow Imogen trying to scare me: that she had told me that ghost story to rile me up and was now fucking around outside in a costume to really hammer the prank home.

It wasn’t funny. I damn near shit myself.

The shape on the blackout blinds was still, unmoving, though I could see the shadow of plumes of hot breath slowly drifting up from it as if the thing were panting. It was leering at me through the blinds, and we both stood in this strange acknowledgement of each other, silently. It lifted a thin hand, putting it to its lips as it shushed me. I know it shushed me because I heard it. A single, loud, rushing shushing noise, piercing through the cabin. I stood there, stunned into silence, as it turned and walked round the side of the cabin, my eyes following its silhouette against the blackout blinds, once catching its eye through a gap between the blind and the window as it circled round the front of the house. It’s eye was round and tiny and humanoid- like taxidermy. I had to wait for a few minutes before I felt like I could move. Before I was sure that it had gone.

I lay awake until I saw daylight peeking round through the edges of the blinds in my room- only then my mind felt it was safe enough to sleep.

***

         In the morning, Imogen told me she had called into town. Apparently, a local who lived up on Johnson’s Farm (the farm up on the hill near where I broke down) had called the local police about my car since it appeared to have been abandoned. I got home alright, albeit a little unsettled- someone actually whistled at me to get my attention as I zoned out at a green light, and it made me jump. I hope Imogen is okay- I still get a little worried about her alone out there in the woods as she’s clearly not well mentally. I’m trying to pretend that fear stems solely from a place of rationality like that.

It's been years but this occurrence still sticks with me- I think I may have even spoken to my therapist at the time about it, since I was scared it could have been a hallucination of some kind, but it was a one-off as far as I’m concerned. I haven’t had any visual hallucinations since then. It actually wasn't until recently that I looked to see if I could find a route to Elmsbury-Gallows, mainly to check up on Imogen again. Every road map, local library, local encyclopedia, anything I tried to look into to find the town came up with nothing. As far as everyone else is concerned, Elmsbury-Gallows does not exist.

[rosexknight]

A finished YCH for @dracini , bought for him by a friend @octovias-markus ~! Gallows is best boy and my beloved and he deserves ALL the sleep and rest, so I LOVED getting to draw him. Patrons and members of my Discord server get first dibs on YCH's before they go public. For an invite to my Discord server, DM me!

From this YCH: https://rosexknight.tumblr.com/post/725772998148308992/open-sleepy-time-junction-ych-flatsale-sleepy

Hope you enjoy~! Want art like this monthly? Why not join? My General Patreon, safe for all audiences: www.patreon.com/rosexknight My 18+ ADULT-ONLY Patreon: www.patreon.com/rosexxxknight

[thenightling]

TCM is currently showing the Hammer Horror movies Curse of Frankenstein, Frankenstein Must be Destroyed, Dracula has risen from the Grave, and Taste the Blood of Dracula. These films feature Peter Cushing as Baron Frankenstein and Dr. Van Helsing.   And Christopher Lee as Count Dracula and the Frankenstein Monster. Hammer Horror is known for its distinctive, bright red, edible, stage blood known as Hammer Horror blood or "Kensington Gore." The recipe for this edible stage blood can be found on the TV tropes website.  Kensington Gore is still used in cinema and was the stage blood used in the 1999 horror film Sleepy Hollow starring Johnny Depp and directed by Tim Burton. Hammer Horror is mentioned in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman Chapter 2 (audio drama) issue 2 (comics), "Imperfect Hosts."     When Morpheus was invoking Hecate, Morpheus gets the necessary gallows for the spell from the dreams of a girl obsessed with Hammer Horror films.  The term Hammer Horror is not used in the Netflix Sandman TV series.  In the Netflix series the company name is replaced with "British Horror" which is technically correct. Hammer is the company that made most of the British monster movies of the late 1950s until the late 1970s. Hammer Horror had a revival around 2011 but so far their only truly great Gothic Horror film since their revival was the 2012 remake of The Woman in Black starring Daniel Radcliffe. The American equivalent to Hammer Horror was "American International Pictures" who made the Roger Corman / Vincent Price "Edgar Allan Poe" movies in the 1950s and 1960s.  The modern American equivalent is Fullmoon Pictures (many of their films are available for free on Tubi).  Hammer is NOT (contrary to popular belief) comparable to Asylum movies.

[thepmmmwitchproject]

The Obscure Witch Challenge Masterpost!

Here is where I’ll posting everyone’s entries from the Obscure Witch Challenge!

FROM DIFFERENT STORY: Centipede-like witch: Minotaur witch: Messenger bird witch (ROSALINE): From @bearwithbandages: Rosaline, the mailwoman witch, its nature is avoiding romance. This witch is constantly trying to find the letter that she lost long ago, trying to prevent it from being delivered and destroying her life. It's recommended to not fight this witch if you are in love, For if she senses a human's romance. She will take their heart and send it to the romantic interest, ergo killing them. Moth-like witch (CIRCE): From @honestlyboringperson: Circe, the silk moth witch with a sleepy nature. Due to the bright lights that exist within her barrier, the witch is unable to sleep. It goes around searching for a dim area to sleep in, but her familiars always illuminate every single corner, making her pursuit of a peaceful sleep impossible. She dismisses humans and simply ignores them, unless they defeat one of her familiars. She will force them to extinguish every light until the barrier only shows the stars above. When the witch dies, the sun rises above the barrier. Bee-like witch:

FROM KAZUMI MAGICA: Kagami mochi witch: Headless dress: Teapot witch: Feathery witch: Floating pillars witch: FROM SUZUNE MAGICA: Ragdoll witch: Nurse witch: Skull witch: Jack-in-a-box witch:

FROM TART MAGICA: Woman-like witch: Gallows witch: Hand witch: Parasitic fish witch: Armored bird witch (GANBATAR): From @thevideogameraptorboggle-blog: Ganbatar, the squire witch with a nature of machismo. Once a humble socialite, this witch despises her own weakness and looks to overcome it, indulging in a life of protein shakes and CrossFit. The armor she wears is a nearly-indestructible heirloom of a hero from her past, and she hopes one day to be just as big and strong as they were. The only way to defeat this witch is in an honorable, one-on-one duel, presided over by the armor’s lower half and helmet. Any attempts to use sneak attacks or group tactics will have the offending parties stomped to death by the armor’s mighty foot. If you manage to defeat her in combat, her armor shall become yours, whether you want it to or not. Girl in barrel witch: Snail witch: Tentacles witch: Risqué bear witch: Vines witch: Sun head witch Flower witch: Crab witch: Fairy bell witch: Eyeball witch: Heraldry witch: Gramophone witch: Clock witch (HORLOGE): From @shitposterxdxdxd​: Horloge, the clock witch, her nature is awaiting. A witch who hopes she can stop being a magical girl since that caused her a lot of pain and brought a lot of despair to her days. Even though she's a witch, she still thinks she's a magical girl. Tick tock tick tock, her clock chimes like this and she awaits for a moment that will never come and she will continue to think that she is a magical girl, unless she is annihilated at this very moment. Apart from awaiting, if a magical girl is found, she will use the sharp needles that protrude from her body to kill said magical girl and give her a painless death, but only to later feel envy since is dead and she is not. House shoe thing witch: