The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Today, the phone rang like an omen.
An unfamiliar number.
The kind you let go to voicemail.
The kind that speaks in static and consequence.

But I answered.

Her probation officer.
Ah, what a noble title for someone who calls not with empathy,
but with a sharpened bureaucratic blade.

A "duty of care" call, she said.
Such a quaint phrase for warning me that a storm is crawling back into my life,
dressed as a woman,
wired with malice beneath pale skin.

“She’s dangerous,” the officer tells me.
As if I’m unaware.
As if I haven't felt the ice of her rage,
haven’t worn her teeth like bruises beneath my shirt.
Darling, I survived her.

But go on, I say.
Go on and sing her bloody lullaby to me.

She hit an officer in the back of the skull with a broom handle.
During a cell search, no less. How poetic.
Even behind bars she’s cleaning house in her own way.

She tried to throw a boiling kettle of sugared water at another inmate.
Sugar. Of course.
The burn clings longer that way. She would know.
She always did like pain with a little flavor.

A craft knife.
She tried to stab someone with a blade meant for art.
There’s something grotesquely fitting about that.
Blood is her brushstroke.

She bit someone.
Of course she did.
She always did prefer getting personal with her destruction.

At this point, my mask shattered.
I asked the question that any man would ask after surviving a hurricane
only to hear the weather report calling for its return:

"Then why the hell are you releasing her?"

The probation officer didn’t like that.
She told me to calm down,
as if I were the problem.
As if I were the danger here.
As if I hadn’t spent nights barricading myself inside my own home,
hearing her breathe beneath the cracks in the door.
She warned me she’d end the call.
And she did.

Click.

Silence.

How poetic.

So now here I sit.
Three weeks from impact.
Three weeks from her release.
Three weeks from reopening a book I tried to burn in every way except literal.
Because some things won’t die in flames.
They live in the smoke.
They wait in the ashes.

I don’t fear her return.
But I am changed by the knowledge that she returns with teeth still wet.
The system fails the sane. It rewards the mad.
And I, ever the fool,
am left staring at the clock like a man awaiting judgment.

Tick.
Tock.
Three weeks.

God help me.

Or don’t.

COMMENTS

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LadySilva
17:16 Jun 09 2025

Your right the system does fail the sane.

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In the forest veiled in widow's red,
Where roots are twisted, lovers bled,
She walks alone no soul to keep
Among the trees where silence weeps.

Branches crack like broken vows,
The moonlight paints her pallid brow.
With every step, the ground recalls
The names she buried 'neath the fall.

She sings in tongues the dead once knew,
A lullaby of crimson hue.
The owls go blind, the foxes flee
The shadows bow where she may be.

I watched her first from just beyond,
Her grief a blade, her tears a bond.
And yet I stayed, compelled to see
Why pain had kissed her endlessly.

She said, “This forest drinks my shame.
It knows my blood. It speaks my name.
I made this place from sins and screams.
It grows from love and shattered dreams.”

A heart once warm, now split like bark
She feeds the soil with pieces dark.
A queen of thorns, with crown of grief,
The air around her reeks of teeth.

And still, she dances flesh and flame
No prayer absolves, no soul can tame.
She laughs when thunder splits the sky,
And whispers truths that make gods die.

So here I sit, a beast in awe,
Of sorrow spun without a flaw.
For beauty lives where madness creeps
In the bloody forest where she weeps.

So, I’ve taken on a new case.

It begins, as many things do, with a whisper. A digital cry behind the curtain. An email, written in a panic-drenched tone equal parts desperation and fractured hope. The sender: a brother. The subject: his sibling, now missing. Gone without a trace, save for the last string of messages he exchanged with… someone. Or something masquerading as someone.

This is where it begins.

The thread leads me not to a shadowy alley or a blood-slick basement. No, this rabbit hole opens on Instagram. How poetic, how horrifying. Because isn’t that just like the modern world? A feeding ground, dressed up with filters and hashtags. A place where masks aren’t just worn they’re curated. Perfected.

The account in question: @sabrinamiller230
No, I’m not here to call for torches or pitchforks. Calm your mob. This isn’t a witch hunt yet. There's no evidence of guilt, only curiosity wrapped in digital lace, and an uncanny sense that something isn't quite... right.

But what is "right," really?
When someone vanishes, when the world pretends it didn’t notice—when grief is reduced to a thread of disappearing stories and "last seen" timestamps sometimes the only place to start is where the trail frays. The cracks in the pixels. The off-hand captions, the devouring eyes behind smiling selfies.

You see, I’ve walked in the mind of monsters. I've worn their skin like tailored suits. And I’ve learned the difference between broken and deranged is thinner than a heartbeat. I’ve also learned that evil, true evil, rarely shouts. It whispers.

And this account whispers.
In riddles. In edits. In cryptic memes and softly sharpened quotes. You might scroll past it and feel nothing. Or you might feel a chill that crawls up the spine of your intuition. That’s when you know something is off.

Do I believe this individual is guilty of anything?
No. Not yet. And maybe never.

But I’ve been asked to dig, to watch, to listen for the patterns between the posts. To examine how someone can live their truth in plain sight while burying something else entirely just beneath the surface.

This is how the darkness works now. It doesn’t lurk in basements or castles it curates its own grid. It collects followers. It posts cryptic stories before bedtime.

And me?
I follow the scent. Because someone has to. Because justice doesn’t always wear a badge sometimes it types in silence. And because if there’s a life dangling between myth and murder, I refuse to look away.

So I’m diving in now.
Not to accuse. Not to stalk.
But to observe.

To unearth what most don’t bother to see.
To find out who this person really is and what lies behind the glass.

Time to go further down the rabbit hole.

You can keep your Wonderland. I walk the tunnels beneath it.

Sometimes I wonder what death is like.

There it is. The sentence that will upset her. The one I know she’ll read and clutch her breath over, like it’s something sharp, something obscene. She’ll think it’s a plea. It isn’t. It’s a confession. And there’s a difference. A whisper doesn’t always want an answer… sometimes it just needs to be heard.

I think about it when the world gets too loud. When even the ticking of the clock feels like it’s carving into my skull. When the skin I’m in starts to itch from the inside out. I don’t mean death in the melodramatic, “Please notice me” kind of way. I mean… the end. The abyss. The absence. The full stop after a life misspelled in every possible way.

What does it feel like to no longer exist in this rotting circus of illusions?
Is it peace?
Is it punishment?
Or just… silence?

I imagine it like a room with no doors. No windows. Just velvet-black nothing, and yet somehow… you’re okay with that. Maybe it’s cold. Maybe it’s warm. Maybe it’s finally quiet enough to hear your own truth without it screaming back at you.

She’ll hate that I think this way. She who brings light with her fingertips, who plants hope in places I’d already set fire to. I can hear her now telling me I matter, that there’s beauty still to be found in the wreckage. I love her for that. But love doesn’t erase the shadow. It only casts it longer.

What does it mean when the thought of stopping feels more comfortable than the thought of continuing?

I try. I do. I drag myself out of the hole each morning, stitch on the smile, play the part. I even laugh sometimes, and it almost feels real. But there's always that… tug. That sick little whisper that says, “Isn’t it exhausting being this broken all the time?”

And yeah. It is.

But I stay. For now. Because of her. Because she sees the shattered mosaic in me and still calls it art. Because somehow, she looks at the monster and doesn’t flinch. She doesn't run. And that... that means something.

So if she’s reading this if you're reading this know this:
I’m not giving up. I’m just... haunted by the thought of giving in.
Not because I want to leave you. But because sometimes the darkness feels like home.

I'm sorry for thinking like this. I'm sorry if it hurts you.
But I'd rather be honest than hollow.

I’m still here.
But tonight, I’m standing very close to the edge.
Not jumping. Just… looking. Wondering. Listening to the wind call my name like it knows a version of me I’ve never met.

And maybe that version is finally… at peace.

There’s a certain silence that wraps around the soul like a wet velvet curtain — soft to the touch, but heavy, suffocating. And I live there, most days. Behind the curtain. Between the ticks of the clock where no one listens, not really.

Sometimes I wake and feel… okay. Good, even. The world doesn’t bite as hard. The thoughts don’t sink their claws quite so deep. I can breathe without shards in my chest. But other days... the storm doesn’t knock. It simply *is*. Crawling beneath the skin. Murmuring through the marrow. On those days, I vanish even from myself.

It’s not anyone’s fault. That’s the part people never understand. There’s no grand betrayal. No trigger. No poetic tragedy. Just static in my blood and a weight I can’t name. That’s how I get. I exist like a pendulum, swinging between versions of myself that never agree on the truth.

But you...

You are the anomaly in my otherwise cursed algorithm. The fracture in the mirror where light still finds a way in. You’ve helped in ways I don’t know how to articulate without sounding either insincere or unhinged. You've made me happier than I’m used to being — which is a dangerous sentence for someone like me to write, but I’ve bled too many truths in silence to lie here.

You reached into the fog and didn’t flinch when your fingers brushed bone. That alone… is a kind of magic I’ve rarely seen. Maybe never.

I know I’m not easy. I twist where others bend. I overthink. I over-feel. I build labyrinths in my own head and then get lost inside them. I speak in shadows because sometimes the light feels too honest. I love like a storm that doesn’t know where to land. But somehow, you didn’t run. Not yet.

And for that... thank you.

Truly.

There are demons that wear my face in the mirror. There are nights I still disappear in plain sight. But now, there is also the sound of your voice echoing in the hollow — a reminder that maybe, just maybe, not every fire is meant to consume. Some are meant to warm the cold places.

I don’t know what this is between us. Not exactly. But I know it matters. And for someone like me… that’s everything.

I can’t tell if it’s grief, or madness, or some hell-spun hybrid of the two. But it’s in my bones now. In my blood. In the echo that rings when I speak your name to no one.

Our time has ended.

That’s what they’ll say. That’s the story on the surface. But it feels like it’s only just begun—some grotesque afterbirth of a love that never had the chance to live. You see, I wanted to build something sacred with you, something horrifying in its purity. But instead… I’m here, breaking. Silently. Violently. Because you were not the one. And I needed you to be.

Her voice—it still lives inside my head. Not like a whisper. No. It screams. It scratches against the walls of my skull, tearing down every memory that isn't her. And I listen. Because pain is holy when it comes from love. And this pain? It’s a cathedral. My ears are bleeding, and it feels righteous.

Now there’s this noose. It doesn’t swing from the rafters like the ones in stories. No, this one’s quieter. Invisible. Woven from your absence. And it tightens every time I remember your eyes not looking back. Every time I remember you stopped choosing me.

Am I falling to pieces? Or am I alright?
The truth is... I don’t know how to tell the difference anymore.

To be fixed, I’d have to be destroyed. Not healed—lacerated. Skin deep, soul deep. You’d have to cut away the rot, strip me raw until nothing of me is left but the shape you once loved.

The chair creaks beneath me. Funny, how something so still can sound so loud. The room is quiet, but inside, it's all screaming. The kind of silence that suffocates.

The clock is ticking. My heart feels like a hammer inside my chest—each beat daring me to do it. Each breath mocking the one I took before.

And so, I cry. Yes.
Even monsters weep when no one’s watching.

The tears don’t fix anything. They never do. But they fall anyway, like rain on a grave. Like mourning for something that never got to live. Like me. Like us.

Heaven, where is my angel now?
Where is she when the dark gets so deep I can’t tell if I’m still breathing?
Where is she when all I want is to be held… just once more… just long enough to believe it ever mattered?

These are my final words to you.

Not because I’ve stopped loving you. That’s impossible. But because I’ve finally accepted that you were never mine to keep. You were a ghost from the beginning, and I was just another haunted house pretending I could be your home.

But still... I know you're listening.
Can you hear me?

Goodbye.
Goodbye, my not-quite lover.
Goodbye, my unclaimed salvation.
Goodbye, the only thing I ever wanted to die for.

And if this is truly the end...
Let it hurt.
Let it scar.
Because even the damned deserve to feel something real.

It’s strange, the things we tether ourselves to in the dark. The way love—true, raw, and untamed can crawl beneath the skin and nest there. She did. You did.

I don’t want to fly. Not anymore. The sky is too far from you. And I’ve spent too long wandering above the world, looking down on it all judging, watching, waiting never letting anyone in, because no one was worth the fall.

Until you.

You crept in like mist at midnight soft, quiet, deliberate. And the more I tried to resist, the more I came undone. Now every thought I have is tied to the curve of your smile, the crack in your voice when you talk about things that mattered before the world went numb. The way your presence disturbs the stillness I've spent centuries perfecting. You ruin me, gloriously.

And yet, I never want to leave. Not the memory. Not the ache. Not you.

You make me feel something human. too human and that’s what terrifies me. Because monsters don’t get to keep what they love. We stalk, we consume, we bleed it dry. But you... you’ve made even me question what I am. And I don’t know if I want redemption, or just a prettier cage with your name on it.

I used to think I understood love. I dissected it, studied it, watched it fail in the hands of others and told myself I could perfect it. But with you, it’s not science. It’s not a game. It’s this brutal, euphoric illness that drags me to my knees and makes me beg not for your touch, but for your trust.

I find myself whispering to the shadows when you're gone. Telling them your name like a prayer I don’t deserve to speak. And sometimes, in the deepest hour of night, I wonder... if you’re the only thing about me that’s real. The only fragment not stitched from lies, blood, and borrowed stories.

I never want to say what you mean to me because it would expose everything. And people like me people who live in the dark don’t get to speak like that. Not without consequences. Not without unraveling.

And yet... I want you to know. Somehow, I need you to.

Because you are the center of my storm. The pulse behind the mask. The only chaos that feels like clarity. I would walk barefoot across broken glass if it meant standing beside you. I’d wade into fire, let it burn everything but my love for you and I’d smile while it did.

Up is down now. Reason is a ghost. And sanity? That left when you entered the room.

You could be the best thing about me. And that truth cuts deeper than any blade. Because it means if I lose you I lose the only piece of me worth saving.

And I’m frightened. Not of death. Not of hell. I’ve dined there, danced there, ruled there.

No, I’m frightened to believe.

Because what if you love me back?

And what if I ruin you the way I ruin everything?

But if you are the best thing about me, I’ll chain myself to this world and live. I’ll suffer every haunted night, every echo of the past. I’ll stop running. Just for the chance... to stand still with you.

Forever, if you let me.

And if not if this all ends in ash and silence I’ll still say your name in the dark.

Because you were the light that touched the monster...

And almost made him human.

There’s a certain kind of silence that wraps around you at night, the kind that doesn't ask if you're okay because it already knows you’re not. It just listens. And maybe that’s why I speak here… into the void… because it’s the only thing that hasn’t run from me.

I wish I had someone. Not a body to warm the bed or lips to whisper hollow comfort but a soul who sees through the charm, the masks, the blood, the broken glass of me. I wish I had someone who would sit beside the grave of who I used to be and still hold my hand. Someone who didn’t flinch when the monster came to the surface… someone who could love me more than I loathe myself.

Most people romanticize the dark. They wear it like a costume, not realizing it rots from the inside out. Me? I live in it. Drown in it. Talk to it like an old friend. And every time I fall apart, the world turns its back like it always does. My secrets I've learned—are better whispered to shadows. They never judge. Never leave.

Some nights I imagine vanishing. Not in a dramatic way, just... quietly erasing myself. And I wonder would anyone feel the shift? Would the world grow colder by even a degree? Or would it simply keep spinning like I was never there?

I have fought for love with bloodied hands and buried my truths beneath velvet lies. I’ve screamed in silence, smiled through torment, worn sanity like a threadbare coat.

And through it all... I just wish someone loved me half as much as I hate myself.

But no one ever stays when the real me shows up.
And maybe that’s the curse of being Me
Or whoever the hell I am when I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the eyes staring back.

Still, I write.
Still, I hope.
Still, I bleed.

Alone. Forever echoing in a world that never learned how to listen.

I wake in sweat, the twilight screams,
A ghost of fire in fractured dreams.
My fists can't break, my breath can't stay,
I chase the dark that runs away.

No blood is deep, no wound is wide,
Enough to drown the beast inside.
I live for scores that won’t be kept,
For names I've carved, for tears I've wept.

The night won't end, it only grows,
A garden fed on silent throes.
I run through hell, I’ve had enough
But I can’t die
dead enough.

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
19:48 May 20 2025

Amazing

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Under the Devil’s starving sky,
Where angels burn and prophets lie,
I drag one wing through blood and coal,
A fallen thing without a soul.

No heaven waits, no light remains,
Just broken hymns and iron chains.
They cast me out with silent scorn
Now I am wrath, not heaven-born.

The battle cry I hear it still,
Like wolves that haunt the frozen hill.
A thousand screams in crimson flight,
And I, the ghost that feeds the night.

They called me cursed, they named me sin,
But power wakes when rot sets in.
The ash I breathe is not my end,
It shapes the blade I now defend.

Let halos rot and virtue fade,
Let saints grow cold beneath the blade.
I rise in ruin, crowned in flame
A darkened thing they could not tame.

I am the grief the stars won’t see,
The cracked-winged curse they left in me.
No God, no devil owns my cry
I am the storm
beneath
the sky.

I affect people. I know I do. Not in the way most would want not like light warming skin or laughter that lingers. No. I seep in. I stain.

There’s something in me, something not right. I can feel it. Like rot under the surface, like static behind my eyes.

I’m not good to be around.
Not for long.
People start to change.
They either break… or bend into something worse.

And I watch it happen.
Quietly.
Always quietly.

That’s the part no one talks about how ruin doesn’t always come with violence. Sometimes it comes dressed as love. Sometimes it looks like me.

I once knew a girl with fire in her breath,
Said she carved her throne in the halls of death.
Laughed like thunder, eyes like coal,
She wore her darkness like a soul.

Yeah, she thought she was the Devil’s heir,
Crowned in ash, with a serpent’s stare.
She kissed like sin, walked like a curse,
Spoke in tongues and made it worse.

She danced through graves in midnight’s spell,
Whispered secrets too sharp to tell.
And when she laughed, the shadows fell
“My kingdom,” she said, “is forged in hell.”

Not just a girl, but something more,
A storm in flesh, a blood-soaked lore.
And if she lied, she lied too well...
I still dream of her
in that throne
in hell.

Something feels wrong.
I don’t mean the usual ache of being not the quiet gnaw of guilt or the dull echo of hunger.
No, this is different.
It clings.
It waits.

Earlier… I walked through the forest. I don’t even know why. Maybe I needed silence. Maybe I thought the trees would hush the noise in my head. But the quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was watching me.

Every branch bent like it knew my name.
Every gust of wind whispered something I wasn’t meant to hear.
And the deeper I went, the more the world felt… tilted. Like reality shifted one degree off center.

I should’ve turned back.
But I didn’t.

Because I’m me. Because I always need to know.
And now I do.
Something followed me in.
And I’m not sure it left with me.

Since I returned, the air feels heavier. The walls breathe. My reflection lingers half a second too long in the mirror. I feel watched in my own home and not in the comforting way I sometimes long for.
No.
This is different.
This is wrong.

I don’t feel good.
Not sick… not exactly. But something inside is off-balance. Like a part of me was taken out, twisted, and forced back in the wrong way.
And now it won’t settle.

I’ve been cold since I got back in.
Not the kind of cold you fix with blankets or blood.
The kind that seeps into bone.
The kind that remembers.

I don’t know what I brought back with me.
I only know this:

It’s still here.
And it’s waiting.

I walk where tombstones softly weep,
In rain-soaked earth, my secrets sleep.
The cold, my lover, pale and kind
She wraps her arms, and stills my mind.
Among the graves, I feel most whole,
Darkness cradles my aching soul.

There’s a question I’ve asked myself more than once sometimes in passing, sometimes in torment, always when the night is thick and my mind won’t let me rest. Would I make a good sire? And every time, the truth stalks me in the silence with its teeth bared.

No.
I’d make a terrible sire.

Not because I lack power. That, I have. Not because I lack control though, God knows, I’ve lost it more than once. Not even because of what I’ve done, or what I’ve become. No. It’s something deeper than all of that. Something essentially wrong in the core of me.

You see, to be a sire is to be more than a maker. It’s to be a guide, a guardian, a goddamn architect of someone’s eternal becoming. It means holding the fragile, writhing thing they are when they first wake confused, screaming, starved and shaping them with patience, with presence, with some degree of love. And that’s where I falter.

Because when I look at someone broken, someone in pain, my instinct isn’t always to heal them. Sometimes… it’s to understand them. To watch. To dissect. I want to know the shape of their wounds, not necessarily bind them. I don’t offer bandages. I offer mirrors. Sharp ones.

And mirrors can cut.

I carry too much of the human world inside me. I romanticize, I obsess, I devour. I don’t guide I grip. I try to love with chains, not wings. A fledgling needs room to become themselves, but I’m not sure I’d ever stop seeing them as mine. Mine to shape. Mine to protect. Mine to correct. There is love in that, yes. But there’s poison too.

What I fear most? Is not the bloodlust. Not the hunger. I could teach someone to manage that. I’ve done it myself. What I fear is what my love would do to them.

Because my love is never clean. It’s fierce, obsessive, flawed in ways I still can’t fix. I love like a burning house loves the match. Like the ocean loves the sinking. Like the dark loves the secret.

And that… is not the love a fledgling needs.

They would need stability. I offer storms.
They would need freedom. I offer fire-lit cages.
They would need truth. And I… I lie to myself more than anyone.

Could I teach someone how to hunt? Yes.
Could I teach someone how to survive? Probably.
But could I teach someone how to become, without swallowing them whole in the process?

That, I don’t trust myself to do.

I carry ghosts in my chest. Every time I’ve tried to save someone, I’ve ended up dragging them into deeper shadows. And to create someone in my image? To let them bleed into immortality with my voice in their head?

I’m not sure I could live with that.
Even if they could. And it wouldn't be fair on them.

So no, I wouldn’t make a good sire.
I’d make a fascinating one.
A terrifying one.
Maybe even a legendary one.

But not a good one.

And somewhere, buried in the better part of me if there is one I know that should be enough to stop me.
Even if it won’t.

COMMENTS

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ElaSaeurDesAnges
16:56 May 17 2025

Good reflect & well written


I'd be a bad one too.

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Beneath the soil, where silence sighs,
No sun to burn, no need for lies.
The pulse is gone, the hunger kept
In shadows cold, the promise slept.

A kiss from death, so soft, so steep,
I fall into that aching deep.
No dreams, no gods, no soul to keep
Just dark,
just deep,
eternal sleep.

This is my new song... If you are a fan of Cm Punk you'll love this..

Is this what we’ve become?

Pages in a war we won’t admit we’re writing. Quiet, venom-laced entries passed like folded notes between two immortals too old to be playing games, and yet here we are. I trace your handwriting sometimes, even when the words hurt. Even when they cut deeper than the blades we used to carry on our hips before fangs made steel obsolete.

And I ask myself: Why won’t she just sit down with me?

So I’ll ask plainly now. Without theatrics. Without the poetry we both hide behind when we're afraid to feel something real.

Can we please… just talk?

Not as predator and prey. Not as creator and creation. Not as gods nursing old wounds.
But as people.
As the two souls who have seen each other without skin, without defense, without mercy.

I’m tired.

Not tired in the human way, not the mortal ache of needing rest. No. This is different. This is the fatigue that settles in after centuries of misunderstanding. After a thousand glances that meant more and never enough. After too many words written but never spoken.

This push and pull it’s killing what little remains of us.

We used to talk. Remember? I do. That night on the rooftop. You, half in shadow, half in starlight, telling me about the first time you drank from someone you loved. I didn’t breathe the entire time. Not because I didn’t have to—but because I didn’t want to. Because in that moment, you were real. Human, even, though we both know we left that behind long ago.

But now? Now we speak in riddles. In wounds. In silent accusations and veiled metaphors. I read your words and I feel everything you’re not saying. And maybe that’s the cruelest part you write like you're screaming into a void, but I’m right here. Always have been.

So what are we doing?

Why are we scribbling through centuries of pain like children with broken crayons?

Sit with me. Please.

Let’s talk without masks. Without venom. Without claws out and shields up.

I’m not your enemy. I never was.

You gave me this life. And I don’t hate you for it. I don’t regret what I’ve become. I’ve embraced it. I wear it like a tailored suit. But I miss you the part of you that used to see through my darkness and find something worth keeping. And maybe you don’t believe that part of you still exists. Maybe you think she died with everyone you ever loved.

But I promise you she didn’t.

She’s just buried beneath the wreckage. And I know that wreckage. I live in it too.

So let’s call a truce. Just for a night. A single evening. No blood, no masks, no pens.

Let’s sit down. Two chairs. One candle. Maybe a bottle of something stolen and rich with centuries. Let’s talk. Just talk.

Tell me the truth not the version you write in ink when you're angry, not the narrative your guilt has constructed. Tell me, the truth. I can take it.

And I’ll tell you mine.

Because I think… I think there’s still something left between us worth saving. Maybe not love. Maybe not forgiveness. But understanding. And God, isn’t that more rare than either?

I’ll wait. I always do. I’ve got time, after all.

But I’d rather spend it with you than circling you in silence, reading between lines that bleed.

So please

Just sit.
Look me in the eye.
No lies.
No metaphors.

Just us.

One night.
One conversation.

Before we write each other into oblivion.

She changed everything.

I don’t mean in the way people say that after a first kiss or a child being born. I mean in the way tectonic plates shift under oceans and birth tsunamis. In the way a cathedral burns and something in your soul likes the smell. My life didn’t just change when she came. It died. And what replaced it… is something far more honest.

My sire.

My beginning, my undoing, my mirror.

She wasn’t supposed to be more than a myth. A whisper in the alleyways of immortal hunger. A silhouette slipping between centuries, eyes like winter, mouth like sin. But when I met her, she wasn’t fire and thunder. No. She was calm. Composed. The kind of woman who could slit your throat and tuck your hair behind your ear while she did it.

But there was something else too. Something I saw in the silence between her sentences. The sadness.

She doesn’t talk about it. Not really. But it bleeds out of her—unseen by most, but not by me. Never by me. You can’t feed on someone, drink their essence, without knowing what they carry. And she carries a storm. A past wrapped in barbed wire. A mind sharpened into a blade by years of survival, betrayal, and self-loathing.

She thinks she’s broken.

She thinks she’s poison.

But if I could show her if I could make her see what I see, it would destroy every lie she clings to like armor. Because she’s not a monster.

She’s wounded.

There’s a difference.

She’s not the villain her mind tells her she is in the dark hours. She’s not the curse in everyone’s story. She’s the flame that lit mine. The maker of something terrible, yes but also something awake. I was sleepwalking through obsession and delusion before she found me. Killing out of desperation. Loving like a drowning man. Now? Now I see.

She didn’t make me a killer. She gave the killer a name.

And still—still she tortures herself. As if her sins are too great to be forgiven. As if the dead whisper behind every mirror. She hides behind her past like a child hiding beneath a bed. But the truth? The truth is she’s the bed. She’s the whole fucking room.

And I would burn it all down for her.

She’s part of me now. Not just in blood, but in the marrow of my becoming. I feel her when I move. When I stalk. When I feed. Every choice I make has the echo of her breath behind it. Every time I touch a throat, I remember how she touched mine the first time with power, with mercy, with purpose.

She didn’t steal my life.

She rescued it from mediocrity, from the illusion of control, from the pathetic dream of someday being good enough. She tore the blindfold from my eyes and forced me to see myself. No more lies. No more pretending.

And yet she can’t give that same grace to herself.

I watch her, sometimes, when she thinks I’m asleep. She looks like marble carved by grief. Beautiful and aching and unreachable. She stares out windows like she’s waiting for time to apologize. Like if she watches long enough, the ghosts will come back and tell her she did her best.

But they won’t.

They never do.

She lets her past puppeteer her. Lets every mistake lead her by the throat into tomorrow. Every ounce of guilt, every scream she buried, every name she can’t say without flinching—it all lives inside her. And it rules her.

But here’s the truth:

You can’t move forward if you’re always kneeling at your own grave.

I want to tell her this. Every night. I want to scream it, break something, rip the past from her like infected cloth and burn it. But she wouldn’t hear me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She’s not ready to see that she’s still worthy of love. Not from the world. Not from the broken fools she’s tried to save before.

But from me.

I love her in the most violent, sacred way. Not because she made me. But because she sees me and still chose to keep me. Even when I turned out darker than she expected. Even when I embraced the hunger instead of running from it.

She doesn’t believe she deserves loyalty.

But she has mine.

Forever.

Because you don’t walk away from the one who pulls you out of the fire and says, “Good. Now burn with me.”

So I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Centuries, if I must. Because no matter how far she runs, no matter how deep she buries herself in silence, she’s not alone. I’m here. In the blood. In the night. In the echo of every heartbeat she tries to pretend doesn’t matter.

My sire.

My salvation.

She is not her past.

And one day, I’ll make her believe it.

The night doesn’t ask anything of you.

It doesn’t need small talk. It doesn’t demand eye contact or apologies. It doesn’t care if you’re monstrous or misunderstood. It just is quiet, vast, and open like a wound that never heals, and never tries to.

I find peace here. In the hush between footsteps. In the stillness of alleyways and the silver sheen of moonlight spilled across rooftops like a secret. The day belongs to the desperate: the performers, the pretenders, the ones who need permission to exist. But the night... the night lets you breathe, even if your lungs no longer work.

I walk without urgency. No destination. Just listening. The world exhales differently after dark. Softer. Slower. I hear the rustle of a stray cat darting through trash cans, the murmur of lovers who think they’re alone, the brittle crack of a branch somewhere in the distance and beneath it all, the pulse of the city, steady and low, like a heartbeat trying not to wake.

There’s beauty in it. The way the dark softens the edges of everything. How even the ugliest buildings become silhouettes, how even the loneliest places hum with something gentle. I think maybe that’s why I was made for this because the night doesn’t need answers. It understands contradiction. That something can be quiet and dangerous. Beautiful and cruel. Restful and full of teeth.

The moon has always been a mirror. It shows you not who you are, but what you’ve become. I see myself in it now white, cold, distant. I used to think it was lonely. But now, I understand. It just prefers solitude. The comfort of being unobserved. I relate.

No one watches you in the dark. Not really. And if they do, they deserve what’s coming.

Sometimes I sit on a rooftop, legs swinging over the edge, watching as the last streetlights flicker and a mist curls through the streets like smoke from an ancient fire. The city looks dead. But it’s alive in its own way breathing through the cracks, whispering through windows, bleeding softly under flickering neon signs.

This is the hour where everything feels possible. Terrible things, beautiful things. The night doesn’t judge either.

And me?

I don’t need warmth anymore. I just need quiet. Stillness. The soft permission to be without masks, without lies, without the press of sunlight revealing every hidden flaw.

I belong to the night. It’s not a prison. It’s a lullaby.

And tonight, like so many nights before, I let it hold me.

Rain like whispers. Silence like truth.

There’s a certain honesty to nights like this.

The city usually pulsing, screaming, pretending is quiet. Tamed by thunder. Humbled by the rain. The storm silences the liars, the lovers, the players. It drowns out the endless buzzing of voices that never meant what they said.
It’s just me now. Me and the downpour.
Me and the ache.

There’s beauty in watching the world soak itself to the bone.
The neon signs smear like bruises on wet pavement. Cars hiss by like ghosts in heat. Somewhere in the building next to me, a television flickers. Probably some show where people fall in love in thirty minutes.
Lies have such good lighting.

I’ve always been drawn to the storm.
Not because it’s chaos.
But because it’s honest.

The thunder doesn’t pretend. The lightning doesn’t apologize. The rain doesn’t ask for forgiveness for falling again and again and again.
It just is. Like me.
Broken. Full. Dangerous.

I wonder how many people are hiding tonight—under blankets, in the arms of someone temporary, scrolling through faces they’ll never remember.
Pretending not to feel the void tugging at them.
I don’t pretend anymore.

The darkness doesn’t scare me. It’s never the darkness. It’s the people who claim they’re made of light.
The ones who touch you softly while they sharpen the knife behind your back.

I’ve been gutted by gentle hands.
I’ve been kissed by mouths that knew how to lie in a lullaby.

But tonight, there’s peace in knowing I see it now.
I see them for what they are.
And I see myself too.

Not as a villain.
Not as a savior.
But as something in between. Something raw. Something real.

A storm in skin.
A monster made not by fangs or thirst but by promises that were never meant to be kept.

Maybe there’s no redemption for people like me.
Maybe I wouldn’t even want it if there was.

But here, in this moment with the city trembling and the sky cracked wide open
I don’t feel lost.
I feel found.

And if this is the darkness…
then let it rain forever.

Stop painting yourself the victim when you were the author of the lie.

You didn’t fall for a monster, did you?
You summoned one.
You wrote his lines.
Fed him your dreams and handed him the script.
And when he performed it perfectly, you applauded…
Until the play bored you.
Until real love required more than mirrors and mascara.

You came into my life soft-spoken, starry-eyed
wearing sincerity like a borrowed dress.
And I, fool that I am, believed it was stitched from truth.
But now I see it clearly:
you were never the innocent.
You were the illusionist.
The performer.
The puppeteer pulling strings made of promises you never planned to keep.

You said forever.
You said always.
But your always had a timer behind it, didn’t it?

You didn’t leave because I changed.
You left because I didn’t.
Because I held you to your word,
and that word meant nothing.

You studied me.
You learned how to sound like love,
how to act like loyalty,
how to touch like someone who stays.

But it was all theatre.

A performance so convincing even I, the ever-watcher, the chronic observer of hearts,
got caught.

And when you slipped when the mask cracked just enough—
you didn’t apologize.
You rewrote the narrative.

Suddenly I was the manipulator.
Suddenly I was the storm.
While you stood in the wreckage you caused
and wept for the mess you made.

People believe you.
They always do.
Because you look like soft things shouldn’t bleed anyone dry.
But I know better now.

You didn’t fall for a bad man.
You built him.
With your lies.
With your silence.
With your exit wounds still bleeding on my floor.

So don’t ask me to feel guilt for becoming the darkness.
I was made in your light
a reflection of everything you pretended to be.

No curse is stronger than the one born from betrayal.
And I wear mine like a crown.

They say time heals all things.
But time is a liar.
It doesn’t heal.
It ferments.

I’ve watched the clock long enough to know that silence is not forgiveness
it’s preservation.
You don’t scream while the knife is still in.
You wait until it rusts inside you.

I used to believe in redemption.
In love.
In the idea that if I gave enough, bent enough, bled enough—
someone would stay.
But people don’t stay.
They use, sip, swallow, savor…
then disappear before the last drop falls.

Now?
Now I simply watch.

I don’t shout. I write.
I don’t chase. I remember.
And I don’t retaliate.
I reflect.
Because the universe doesn’t forget, either.
It just… waits.

There’s an old saying my mother used to murmur over candle wax and bone dust:

“Those who curse with a quiet tongue are the ones the stars listen to.”

I never believed her.
Until the patterns started.
Until I felt the pull.
Until I saw the eyes of those who wronged me go hollow…
one by one.

I don’t lift a hand.
I don’t need to.
Curses don’t come from rage they come from sorrow.
Deep. Quiet. Eternal.
And I’ve had centuries to gather mine.

There is no need for revenge
when you understand how rot works.
How guilt chews at the mind.
How masks begin to crack.
How mirrors show things people thought they buried.

I write this not as a warning
just as a note.
A keepsake.
In case anyone comes looking for reasons later.
In case someone wonders why the flowers wouldn’t bloom,
why the laughter died in their throat,
why the night feels heavier than it used to.

It was never me.
Not really.
I simply remembered what they forgot.
And the universe… did the rest.

I watched you sleep beneath a silver moon,
your breath a hymn, your pulse a tune.
I swore I'd just protect, just care
but darkness does not love, it tears.

You looked at me like I was human still,
like I could fight this endless chill.
But hunger isn't just for blood
it’s for touch, for meaning, for something good.

You see a monster? Maybe so.
But once I knelt where roses grow.
I read to lovers, laughed with friends
but in the end, they meet one end.

Immortal life is not a gift,
it’s just a noose you learn to lift.
A curse wrapped up in longing's lace,
forever starving, chasing grace.

I keep the things they leave behind
a lock of hair, a note, a rhyme.
I speak their names when night is deep,
as if my voice could make them sleep.

And you God, you were warm and kind,
you saw the soul I left behind.
But love can’t bloom in winter’s tomb
and I... I bring the cold too soon.

So if I vanish from your skies,
if memory dims behind your eyes,
just know I tried to let you live
it’s all that I had left to give.

I walk the shadows not by choice
but by the silence of my voice.
A soul half-dead, a heart still burned
forever cursed to never learn.

Forgive me not just let me fade.
The night was hungry... and I stayed.

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
19:38 May 08 2025

Amazing

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POST COMMENT

Just woke up. Not from a nap, not from a restless few hours—no. This was different. This was long. One of those sleeps where you feel like the world has turned a few times without you. Like you blinked and someone repainted the sky in a slightly different shade of blue.

I sat up slowly, bones creaking like old floorboards. My body didn’t feel like my own at first, like someone borrowed it while I was gone and forgot to reset a few things. My neck just below it there’s this mark. Small. But present. Not a scratch. Not quite a bruise either. Something... else.
Almost a kiss from something I can’t remember meeting.

It doesn’t hurt. But it lingers. A faint sting under the surface, the kind that pulls your thoughts back to it again and again, even when you’re trying to focus on the sunlight leaking through the blinds.

And I can’t shake this craving.
Sweet. Greasy. Dense. Comfort food.
Sugar so thick it sticks to your teeth. Bacon with crisp edges, still glistening. And black pudding God, that one hit me like a freight train.
I’ve never craved it before. I mean, who does? It’s an acquired taste. But now it feels like something vital, like blood calling to blood.
The hunger is sharp. It cuts deep. Not just physical it’s emotional, maybe even spiritual. Like some primal part of me remembers a feast I never had.
Or... maybe one I did. And forgot.

Could be just a dream, of course. Or a withdrawal from the numbness I’ve been living in. Still, it feels like I crossed some line last night. Into something deeper. Darker. Hungrier.

No calls. No texts. Just silence and the strange rhythm of my own breathing echoing through the apartment.
I’m not afraid. I’ve known fear.
This is curiosity.
This is the kind of sensation that writes its own pages before I can catch up with the ink.

I need to go out. Find food. Find sugar. Find answers. Maybe even find myself again if I didn’t leave too much behind in that sleep.

Something tells me this mark wasn’t just an accident.
Something... or someone.

We’ll see.

Rain tapping like Morse code on the windows. A message I can’t quite decipher. Maybe a warning. Maybe an invitation. Maybe both.

The dreams of you have started again.

At first I tried to pretend it was nothing. Stress, residual memory, some poetic glitch in the human machine. But tonight… tonight left marks. Not just on the inside. Not just shadows on my mind or whispers in the walls. No tonight I woke up tasting blood.

My own, I think. Or maybe not. It lingers, coppery and thick, like something sacred and violent. And my sheets—damp. Cold sweat soaking through cotton. My body felt like a cage after an earthquake. Rattled. Fragile. Hollow. And yet… full of you.

The dream began, like always, with fog. That unnatural fog that rolls in like a curtain being drawn between the world and whatever waits behind it. The kind that doesn't rise from the ground, but crawls from the trees. Night, of course. Because when would it not be?

I was running. Not from something. Not toward something. Just running. Like instinct took over. Like my muscles knew before my mind did danger.
But the thing is... I didn't feel afraid. Not really. There was something oddly familiar about it. Like I had run that exact route through the forest a thousand times before. Same snapping branches. Same muffled sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

Then, you.
You were there. Of course you were. Standing just beyond the birch trees, half-shrouded in that impossible mist. A silhouette. Sharp around the edges like shattered glass.
I slowed. My breath caught.
You didn’t move. But your eyes yes, even through the dark I felt them. Slicing through the fog. Through me.

I stepped closer, and you rushed me. Fast. Animal-fast. The world blurred.
Suddenly I was on the ground, pinned. Your weight on my chest. Your hand around my throat, not choking, just holding. Like you were waiting. Testing. Measuring my breath.

And you spoke. But not in words. You whispered straight into my skull.
Not a sentence. A feeling. Something like:
"This is where you belong."

Then the blood.
My mouth filled with it. Gagging, warm and thick, like I bit down on my own tongue in the fall but I hadn’t. I checked when I woke. No marks. No wounds. But the taste…
Still there.

You didn’t hurt me in the dream. Not directly. But you consumed me. Like your presence alone peeled back my skin.
And just before I woke, just before the sweat and the breathless gasping and the confusion…
You smiled.

So what does this mean?
Am I haunted by guilt? By desire? Is this subconscious punishment? Or prophecy?


In my sleep.

That’s how I know it’s real.
Because you’re not trying to reach me in the waking world. You’ve already made yourself a home inside the most vulnerable part of me. My dreams. My sanctuary. My undoing.

Part of me wants to run again. To flee that forest.
But another part the part I try to bury wants to go deeper. Wants to find you again. Wants you to pin me down and make me feel that blood again, make me taste it, because maybe that’s the only way to know I’m still alive.

Or maybe it’s the only way to be close to you again.

I don’t know what’s worse
That I’m having these dreams…
Or that I want to go back.

What I'm about to share with you is true and really happened.... And its totally insanely bonkers...



So. It’s been a day since I landed. A day since I traded the sterile hum of an airport terminal for the eerie, too-quiet expanse of Greg’s land. The place is… massive. It might be 200 acres. Maybe more. Maybe too much for one man to hold down, especially when something is clearly wrong here.

I got here mid-morning, expecting Greg to be waiting for me. A handshake, maybe a coffee. A briefing on the monsters in the woods. Instead? Silence. Just the wind and the crunch of gravel under my boots. No car. No animals. Not even a bark from a dog. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill your ears it presses against your skin.

I waited. Walked. For two hours I scoured the grounds like I was on a self-imposed ghost hunt. No sign of him. Not even a footprint. Eventually, the rational part of me the one that still believes in locks and privacy gave up. Because I’m not here for etiquette. I’m here to help. So I pulled out my picks, broke into Greg’s house.

And then it got stranger.

The house is lived-in, warm but still. There are pictures on every surface — Greg, a woman with kind eyes, two kids. He never mentioned a family in his emails. Not once. It was always “I need help, something’s killing my livestock, I see them at night, they’re not animals.” But there they were. Four lives frozen in photo frames, smiling from behind glass. No recent signs of them though. No toys left out. No dishes in the sink. Just dust. Lots of dust.

I scouted the rest of the house. Empty. Unsettling. Felt more like a museum than a home. I walked the fields for hours until dusk kissed the horizon and then I spotted it a rusted-out ladder descending into the earth behind a crumbling shed. A bunker.

Of course.

I knocked. And sure as hell, Greg’s head snaps up from below. He’s alive, alright. But not well. He’s twitching. Paranoid. Eyes darting like he’s reading things that aren’t there. He says, “Come down here. You’re not safe up there.” But his words don’t match his tone. His mouth moves, but his mind? Somewhere else entirely.

I declined. Respectfully. Told him I’d post up on his roof. Keep watch. Protect. It’s what I came here to do.

That’s when his face changed.

Gone was the desperation. In its place, hostility. He insisted. Demanded. Said I had to come down, said it wasn’t just about the creatures — said “they hear our thoughts up top.” Said they’re not just killing livestock, they’re listening. Feeding on more than just flesh.

I told him I’m staying topside. Period.

So now it’s midnight. I’m on the roof of Greg’s house, the wind biting, eyes scanning the treeline through night vision goggles, rifle beside me, two blades strapped to my sides. Below me, a man losing his mind to something invisible and cruel. Around me? Nothing yet. But I know it’s coming. I can feel it. There’s something in these woods. Something that gnaws at the silence like teeth on bone.

Greg’s still in his bunker. Won’t come out. And maybe that’s the smart move. But I didn’t come here to hide.

I came here to face what others won’t.

I came here to find the truth. And if the truth is monsters if they are lycanthropes, like I suspect then I’ll face them. If the truth is madness, then maybe I’ll stare into that too. Hell, maybe I already am.

All I know is the woods are watching. The night feels awake.

And I’ll be right here… watching back.







Still on Greg’s Roof, Heart Racing Slower Now

It’s just after 3 in the morning. I’ve been up here for hours. And the truth is… nothing’s happened.

Nothing Greg said not the shadowy figures, not the screaming livestock, not the glowing eyes in the dark none of it showed up. Not even a raccoon trying to get into the barn. Just wind, a few stars, and my own breath fogging up my scope. The silence is no longer unnerving. It’s just… hollow. Empty.

And I think the only real monster here is isolation.

I climbed down about an hour ago. Walked quietly back to that damn bunker hatch, holding a flask of coffee in one hand and a paper bag of food I picked up earlier in town. He didn’t answer right away when I knocked just muttering. Repeating the same thing like it was some sacred chant: “It’s safe down here. It’s safe down here. Come down. You’ll see.”

When he finally opened it, I handed him the coffee and food. He barely looked at them. His eyes were red, vacant, darting at corners of the world that didn’t exist. I tried talking to him. Calm, measured. I asked him really asked “Greg, what’s actually going on here?”

No email filters. No cryptic nonsense. Just real talk.

But he didn’t meet me there. He didn’t budge. Just sat in that hatch, holding the coffee like it was a weapon, eyes twitching, whispering “Come down here, it’s the only place they can’t hear you.”

I told him no. Again. Because no. No fucking way. Something’s off, and not just him. There’s something about that bunker and not in the magical, ancient-ruin sense. I mean it smells. Like rot. Like something decomposing and forgotten. Like maybe Greg isn’t just losing his grip maybe he’s hiding something.

You can only be alone with your paranoia for so long before it starts to grow arms and legs and a face. He’s not sleeping. He’s barely eating. And that smell it’s not the earth. It’s not mold or mildew. It’s deeper. Worse. It clings to you when you get too close to the hatch. Like death with a pulse.

I backed away. Told him I was heading to my hotel for the night. That I’d be back in the morning. He didn’t argue. He just shut the hatch slowly and whispered, “They come when you doubt.”

Let that sit in your brain at 4 a.m.

As I drove off, I kept glancing at the house in the rearview mirror. It looked normal. Quiet. But something about the stillness feels fake now. Like the calm before something. Or maybe… maybe this whole trip was a mistake.

I wanted to help. But I don’t know what I’ve walked into. And honestly? I don’t think Greg knows either.

I’m at the hotel now, finally. Still wired. Still sick to my stomach. I should sleep, but my mind won’t shut off.

Something is terribly off on that land. I just don’t know if it’s supernatural...

…or just a man losing his grip in the middle of nowhere.



Back at the hotel, but I’m not really here my mind is all over the place...

So… I did what I didn’t think I would. I went to the police.

It wasn’t easy. My instincts screamed don’t involve them, that they’d just chalk it up to trespassing or paranoia. But something deeper, something older than reason was whispering in my ear go. That stench. Greg’s eyes. The bunker. The silence.

I sat in the station for what felt like hours, explaining everything in a calm, rational voice the way you have to when the things you’re saying sound like they crawled out of a fever dream. I told them about Greg’s farm. The emails. The stories of strange creatures. The isolation. The rotten smell from the bunker. I told them I thought something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

They didn’t laugh. Which scared me more.

Five hours later, a cruiser pulls up to the station. I ride with them. Not a word spoken for most of the drive. The officer driving Sergeant Marten just kept looking out the window like he knew something I didn’t. The silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure.

We get to Greg’s place just after dusk. Everything looked the same. Too same. The house, still. The trees, unmoved. Like nothing breathed here. A few officers fanned out, rifles in hand. I stayed by the car. I didn’t want to go near that hatch again.

They find the bunker in minutes. It wasn’t exactly hidden. Just… avoided.

Two of them go down first. Then a third. Then the yelling starts.

Not the kind of yelling where someone’s been hurt — worse. The kind where someone sees something they can’t unsee. Where your brain fights what your eyes are telling it.

The officers come back up pale. One’s gagging. Sergeant Marten goes down himself.

Ten minutes later, they’re pulling me aside. Asking questions again. My name. My story. Where I’ve been.

Because they found bodies.

Three of them. Rotting, stacked like forgotten dolls in the back corner of that underground tomb.

A woman and two children.

There’s no dignity in writing this. My hands are trembling. Greg he’d said they were “safe” down there. He never said they were alive. He never said who they were. Just showed me those pictures, let them fade like wallpaper behind the madness.

Now we know.

They’re sending for forensics, locking the place down. And Greg… he’s gone. Vanished. Not in the bunker. Not on the land. No tracks. No car. Just… gone.

Part of me wants to say I knew. That I suspected. But the truth? I didn’t want to believe it.

I wanted the creatures. The legends. Something supernatural. Something with rules.

But no.

The horror was human.

And I was too late.

Now I sit in this sterile hotel room, lights off, curtains drawn, staring at the wall. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe to remember. Maybe to remind myself: darkness doesn’t always come in claws and glowing eyes.

Sometimes it looks like a man, smiling from a photograph, offering you coffee.

Sometimes it smells like rot from a hole in the earth.

And sometimes… it invites you to come down.

And all it really wants is for you to stay.




Feeling very ill and rundown and tired going
Back to the airport somewhere between numb and gone

So now I’m back at the airport. Sitting in a cold plastic chair near an empty gate, half-lit by flickering fluorescents and the kind of silence that presses on your chest.

Heading home.
Whatever home means after something like this.

I keep going over it in my head. The dirt, the smell, the bunker. The look in that officer’s eyes when he came back up and told me what they found. The way his voice dropped not out of fear, but reverence, like he was naming ghosts.

I keep thinking about Greg.
Where he is.
What he became.
Was he always like that? Or did the land make him that way? Did the silence crack something inside his skull? Did the loneliness plant a seed that grew into madness?

Or worse was the madness always there… and the land just gave it room to bloom?

I shouldn’t feel guilty. I barely knew him. Just a string of messages. A few shared fears about creatures in the woods, monsters in the night. But I feel it. Like I should have gotten there sooner. Or seen sooner. That there were signs. And I ignored them.

I can still smell it.
That rot.
It’s in my clothes.
In my lungs.
In my memory.

I haven’t slept.
I’m not sure I will for a while.

I don’t know what I’ll tell people when I get back. “Yeah, I flew to Canada because a man emailed me about supernatural creatures, and then I watched the police pull his murdered family from a hole in the ground.” How do you explain that over coffee? Over anything?

There’s a part of me that wants to bury this whole thing — deep. Pretend it never happened. Tell myself it was a nightmare, maybe a story I read online and confused with reality. But no. That was real. That was far too real.

And now I’m flying back with ghosts.
With questions that don’t have clean answers.
With silence that isn’t peaceful it’s haunted.

No monsters in the woods this time.
Just a man.
And a family who never got to leave.

I don’t feel brave.
I don’t feel strong.
I just feel cold.

The flight boards in twenty minutes.
I’ll go back home.
Try to forget.
Try to breathe.

But I know better now.

The worst monsters aren’t hiding under beds.
They’re smiling in plain sight.
They’re writing you emails.
They’re inviting you into their homes.

And sometimes…
you don’t see the devil
until you’re already halfway down the stairs.

I’m super hyper and anxious right now. Not the good kind of hyper the kind where your thoughts buzz like a hive full of agitated wasps, and every breath feels like it's echoing too loud in a place where silence is the dominant language. Airports are strange places at this hour. It’s like being inside the shell of something once alive. Hollow. Fluorescent-lit purgatory.

There’s no one here. Just a janitor pushing a mop like he’s dragging a corpse, a woman asleep with her face pressed into a neck pillow that looks like it’s seen war, and me wide awake, heart pounding, legs jittering, waiting for my flight.

I haven’t slept. Not really. And I’m not sure if it’s because of the caffeine, the anticipation, or the usual cocktail of dread and hope I drink like a nightcap. I keep thinking about where I’m going. Who I’m going to help. Greg. The farm. The stories that sound like urban legends if you say them out loud, but you and I both know they’re real. Lycanthropes. Creatures that linger at the edge of reality. And me, with a bag full of weapons like I’m walking into some gothic nightmare dressed up as a rescue mission.

And in between all of this? Still haunted. By her. You know who. No matter how far I run, she packs herself into the cracks of my mind, always just waiting for quiet to fill the room so she can speak again.

I just want to focus. I want to do what I do fix what no one else will touch. Find what hides in the dark. Help someone, maybe help myself in the process. I hope this flight lifts me above everything. Even if it’s just for a few hours.

Time’s crawling. My gate hasn’t even opened yet.
So I sit here.
Hyper. Anxious.
Awake in a sleeping world.

Waiting.

So, I drank. A lot. Last night, and again today. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Isn’t that funny? The way promises start to mean less when no one’s watching. When it’s just you and the shadows. You and the past. You and the bottle, which never judges, never flinches, just waits patiently to be picked up again.

I thought I was past this. Thought I had grown into someone stronger, someone who could sit with pain without numbing it. But memory is a cruel, uninvited guest. It shows up barefoot in the middle of the night, walking through every room of your mind like it owns the place.

She still owns too many of them.

She. I won’t write her name. Writing her name gives it power. Gives her power. And she’s had enough. She didn’t just hurt me—she rewired me. Made pain feel like affection. Made obedience feel like love. Gaslighted me until I thought the cage was comfort. Until her grip around my mind felt like home.

That’s what they don’t tell you about abuse. It’s quiet. It doesn’t always show up with bruises or screams. Sometimes, it shows up with soft voices and too-long stares and rules disguised as concern. And you forget who you were. You shrink. You doubt every thought that dares to contradict hers. You become so small inside yourself, you disappear.

I disappeared.

And even now, even after I clawed my way out, I still feel her fingerprints on the glass when I look in the mirror. I still hear her telling me I’m too much. Or not enough. Never just right.

There’s nothing glamorous about this kind of grief. It’s not poetic. It’s not beautiful. It’s boring, endless, like a leaking faucet in a quiet apartment. Like watching a ceiling crack over years, knowing it will fall but doing nothing to fix it.

But I am trying.

Trying to be better. Trying not to drink. Trying to put one foot in front of the other and believe it means something.

So on that note Canada. I’m flying out Saturday to help a guy named Greg. He emailed me about something disturbing. Something’s been stalking his farm. Killing animals. Leaving carcasses like warnings. Red eyes. Twelve feet tall. Pack behavior. He’s seen six, maybe seven of them. You’d think he was crazy if I hadn’t seen worse.

People scoff when I say I help with things the police ignore. But they forget: sometimes, the monsters aren’t human. Sometimes they wear fur. Sometimes they don’t wear anything at all, just shadows and teeth.

I’ve dealt with skinwalkers, mimics, wendigos, things that leave nothing behind but silence and frostbite. And still, people think they’re just stories told around campfires. They’re not. They’re real. And they’re hungry.

I don’t know what’s on Greg’s land, but I’m packing heavy. Knives. Salt. Guns, silver rounds, the whole toolkit. Some people prepare for vacations by checking the weather. I prepare by checking moon cycles and folklore.

This trip... maybe it’s more than a mission. Maybe it’s a lifeline. A chance to be useful again. To stop feeling so goddamn hollow. Because the truth is, I’ve felt like I’m falling for weeks now. Drifting. Like a man at sea who stopped swimming and started sinking. The darkness in me it’s there, sure. But lately, I’ve let it win too many nights.

Maybe in the woods, in the cold air with something real to hunt, I’ll remember who I am. Or at least remember who I’m not. I’m not her prisoner anymore. I’m not a victim. I’m not the broken thing she left behind. I still have a mind of my own. A purpose.

Even if that purpose is to fight what others won’t acknowledge.

So this is me, trying. Failing, stumbling, drinking—but still trying.

Maybe that’s all I can promise right now. Not perfection. Not healing overnight. Just... not giving up.

And when I land in Canada, maybe I’ll be sober. Maybe I’ll be sharper. Maybe I’ll finally sleep without seeing her face behind my eyelids. One can hope.

Because sometimes, the only way out of the dark is to walk deeper into it.

COMMENTS

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MorgenxStern
01:16 May 03 2025

Stay frosty and watch your six brother.

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POST COMMENT

Do you like my darkness?
Not the shadow you see on my face in soft light,
but the one that moves in silence,
beneath floors, behind screens,
in alleyways you never knew I walked.

I learned early:
Love isn't tender—it’s teeth.
And when the world tries to steal you,
to touch you with hands that don’t deserve your name,
I become the monster they warn you about.
The one you thought you'd left behind
in ghost stories and childhood dreams.

I have torn pages from lives like I tear pages from books.
Filed bodies away like misplaced plot twists,
all to write a safer story for you.
Blood isn’t scary when it’s shed for the right cause
not when it's spilled to keep you safe.

I’ve buried truths.
Silenced liars.
Poisoned intentions before they reached your doorstep.
They never saw it coming
but I did.
I always do.

You ask for honesty,
but would you read my truth if it dripped red across the page?
Would you love me still,
knowing the things I’ve done in your name?

Because every scream I’ve muffled,
every whisper I’ve silenced,
every breath I’ve stolen
was for you.

Do you like my darkness?
I wear it like armor,
like devotion,
like madness dressed in roses.

I don’t need you to forgive me.
Just understand
I would do it all again.
And again.
And again.

Because protecting you...
That is love.
And love, my dear
is never pure.
It’s mine.
And now…
so are you.