Echoes from the Loam

Dracula, The Hollow Prince

The sea was black and Whitby slept,  
Its cliffs like teeth the fog had kept.  
No moon to mark the sailor’s cry,  
No star to watch the storm drift by.  
So light no lamp and speak no prayer  
If fog and bells are in the air.  
For Whitby’s bride still walks the shore—  
And Dracula is never far from door.

Samhain, the witches new year

The ancient Gaelic festival that marks the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. A time when the boundary between the living and the dead grows porous, and the spirits of kin, stranger, and forgotten god alike may walk among us.

Blood in the Pines

They say the forest in Northern Michigan doesn’t whisper—it growls.
They say it walks upright, like a man, but moves like something born wrong. Something that shouldn’t exist.

Ghostly Guest Spot

This time I am joined by my very good friend Zach from the most amazing true crime podcast  Murder Most British.
Opening the door to the things that never left—the cryptids of his home state. 
Link to their podcast found below
 
https://linktr.ee/MurderMostBritish
 
 

Awakening

The house had stood empty for years, in the market with no interest.
Ask yourself why, lock your doors and stay out of the attic.

For whom the bell tolls

The bell is one of the oldest ritual instruments in human history.  
But bells were never just practical.  
They were sacred.

Patrolling The Grave Yard Shift

St. Morden sat on top of a hill made of crooked earth, its wrought iron gates rusted shut.
That should have been sign enough not to enter.

Drifters

They glide—not walk—through the darkness. Limbs impossibly long, torsos barely there. Silent. Pale. Watching.
So dim the lights. Lock the doors. And listen closely. Because the nightcrawlers are already here.

Second Skin

You won’t see them at first.  
You’ll hear them—calling from the trees, crying like a child, whispering like a friend.  
And you’ll follow….

Weeping Waters

The river had not run in years. Its bed lay cracked and splintered, a mosaic of forgotten floods.
Weeds clawed through the silt, brittle and sun-bleached. But beneath the silence, something moved. 
Light your lanterns, grab your wards and pray she isn't here for You.