Written by Victor Escalade McClain

“Nightenberry Grove: Samhain” Part IV (Horror)
Written by Victor Escalade McClain

I know… it’s been a while. Thinking about what happened in the library triggers me in such a way that it makes my brain start to… short circuit. I can’t really make sense of it all, but I need to try to tell and explain. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.

We walked past the praying wretch. Down another corridor that seemed to disappear around us as we got further, and further away from the light of that friar’s dim candles. The area beneath the church was starting to feel much larger than it should’ve been, while feeling too closed in all at once. As an old cop, I thought that nothing could surprise me anymore… but I was wrong. Ever since that fu**ed up night, I’ve felt lost in the world. And the feelings of disorientation I was getting inside the catacombs reminded me of that.

When the candles’ reach from that unholy shrine finally disappeared into nothingness behind us, the old man stopped walking and I heard the sound of a match. A dull glow started to seep out from the priest’s skeletal fingers, his hands looked like bones wrapped in paper as the light passed through his frail skin. Somehow, the tiny spark turned into the crackling flame of a brazer on the ground next to us. And suddenly… from what I could make out through the shadows, we were surrounded by rotting scrolls stacked up all around us.

He started talking again. His voice sounding closer to death than that of life, like a man that had been lost in a desert with no water. Sounds coming from a dry place, a loud whisper of a groan that reminded me of the crumblings of dead leaves.

“We are here. Blessed be the blood of the lord. Blessed be the tears of God, that we may drink and be replenished.

This is the bibliotheca silentii, my son. Through these texts we have found a balance and learned the importance of silence to find God and grow in his wisdom. But… we have also found many other things—things that should never be found. Language is power and names are keys. The death of old tongues was never a mistake, but an attempt at separating our world from what was forgotten… God’s will.

There is more to this world than just heaven and hell; and there is more to hell than a devil and his demons. For even the word ‘Demon’ is a lie, for if we were to speak their true names on our tongues, they would latch onto our breath, climb into our bellies and our souls would fester.”

I looked around. And as my eyes slowly adjusted, I thought that I could see something else in the darkness. You know when you close your eyes after you shut all your lights off in your room at night? You see random colors floating, swirling, flashing dots flickering in and out of existence in a sea of velvet black—well, it was like that but—I could’ve sworn that these swirls were twisting into screaming faces, like the patterns weren’t so random or something. F**k—Maybe I do need the medication.

He went on. His decrepit voice echoing throughout the chamber as he slowly read through the decaying scrolls, speaking in a tongue that was foreign to me. His speech sounded like a sharp gibberish, unlike any language I’ve ever heard before… but all the words made sense still. Each syllable painfully scratching images into my imagination in the form of memories that I’ve never experienced. But could recall upon as if I’d been there anyway. My mind trapped within his grasp, being pulled into the past in order to recapture, revisit and re-experience moments long lost to the flowing currents of time.

The light from the fire seemed to get sucked back into the brazer, and I was frozen. All the while, I felt like I was moving through a tunnel of inky black space. None of it made sense. Yet—all of it made sense.

All of a sudden I was in the middle of a field surrounded by rows of turnips. The wind was crisp and the sky was painted in flame. Whether it was sunrise or sunset, I did not know. But the sun was low to the horizon, and an eternal sea of twilight was overhead. Beads of water covered the leaves of the plants, and the scent of men filled the air. I looked around and didn’t see another soul but couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

I started walking through the field, holding my arms out so that my fingers would comb though the oddly tall leaves of the turnip plants. When I put my wet hands to my face… it wasn’t the scent of fresh rain, or morning dew—but instead the smell of sweat. The eyes I was trapped behind started to close and I felt a, sick, twisted smile come into my face. But in my own mind I was disgusted.

When the eyes opened again, I was in a candle lit cabin room filled with faceless women. The fronts of their heads just featureless mounds of flesh; a layer of skin moving back and forth, ballooning and deflating where their mouths should’ve been. As if they were trying to breath—but couldn’t. And they were crying. All of them, including myself, frantically carving eyes, noses and lips into dried up roots with cut up, bloody fingers. Until one of the roots bit me and I knocked over a candle.

Flames quickly caught onto my thick dress and the straw beneath my feet; it was in that moment that I realized that I too was female. My body jumped up in a panic and tried desperately to put out the loose fire, but the flame continued to spread. All the faceless women around me continued to carve, even as the inferno started to consume their dresses and eventually their flesh as well. Smoke replaced the air and the lids shut themselves over my eyes tightly again, while the smell of burning human meat filled my nostrils.

The sounds of crying and screaming slowly transformed into the melodies of laughter and singing. When my eyes were forced open again, I had something sweet being pushed into my mouth; while chanting and dancing around in a circle with children. All our heads covered in burlap sacks as we frolicked around a woman burning on a stake. We sang in a language foreign to me, but the lyrics seemed familiar and old to me none the less.

As I tried to pay more attention to my surroundings, I noticed that I was head level with the rest of the children. And the sweets being pushed into my mouth was being helped along by a tiny hand—my own. The more we danced, the more I noticed a pattern. The steps of our feet dug a circle and star into dirt around the woman burning in agony. And we were happy.

As my eyes started to close again once more, I started to peer deeper into the flames, and I could see the woman’s burning face start to crack into a smile. I could see another type of light start to dribble out from her burned, hollowed out eye sockets.

An evil… yellow… light.

I could see the dark bright billowing out from within her mouth—along with long, inhuman, black finger-like things reaching… clawing. Slowly bending like the limbs of a spider, grasping upon cooking human flesh. And then my eyes closed again.

I woke up laying on the ground in puddle of viscous liquid. Gasping for air and choking on smoke. The old priest was standing over me, staring down at me in silence as I tried to get used to my own body again.

I was back in the library.

After I gained my composure, I got up off the ground. Everything was back to normal. If you could consider any of this s**t normal. Or at least… I thought. The priest didn’t move. And his skin looked more like papier-mâché than it had before. At first, I wanted to punch him in the face, even though that might have killed him. Fu***ng old piece of s**t… but the more I looked at him, the more dead he seemed to be.

He was breathing, but his breaths were shallow. His eyes looked dry and stuck to his lids. And that’s when I seen it. A bug. A single insect crawled out his mouth, across his face and under his eye lid. He didn’t move. And then something else happened.

I started to see the light. The light was coming from within his mouth. I immediately pulled out my sidearm and shot him in his fu***ng face. F**k that. He lived a long enough life anyway.

Before I knew it, I was hastily moving back out through the path that had led me into that deep, dank place. But as I put space between me and that old co**se, I could hear inhuman things—things that sounded like gasping, but from too many throats. All of them too dry. And I could see a dull yellow glow growing slowly from within the library as quickly made my way back towards the entrance.

The rusty gate was wide open and no one was there. Just a bloody looking crucifix and freshly lit candles. I made my way back though the catacombs, following the flow of that putrid liquid running through the open drainage system and the illumination of my flashlight. I walked up the spiral stairs, and when I got to the top, everyone in the church was staring at me with blank faces. Some of them with open mouths.

When I finally made it back outside, I saw that it was the middle of the night. I had no idea that much time had passed. But I was glad to be above ground and out of that fu**ed up place.

After getting back to my car, I noticed some sort of pastry resting on my driver’s seat, sitting on top of a folded piece of paper. It was a small round cake with an “X” baked into it. There was dried fruit on the top of it as well—it almost looked like flesh. I slapped it onto the wet ground on the parking lot, kept the paper and drove off.

As I cruised down that lonely road through a valley of endless trees, I knew what I had to do next. I understood what couldn’t be described in any language that was present in the world today. I felt like I had bore witness to something long forgotten in time. I felt like I had seen Samhain—lived it… and the weakening of the veil. I felt like I had taken part in an ancient ritual. I felt like it was a part of me now.

I know what I must do… I’m not crazy.

To be continued…

The process of becoming a broken person due to immense trauma is an interesting journey on all facets. Transferring the pain into literature can be a bountiful torment with seeds that will hopefully blossom into healing remedies for the minds of others. I fear my best art will come from my most trying times. We paint and write with our blood and they call it beautiful… they have no idea.

Morning Thoughts: Growing up, then getting older… the journey.

When you’re young, the world is a fresh and exciting place. You’ll run into several new things that you’ve never seen before; colors, foods, stories, places, individuals… sometimes, even monsters. It all can be a bit overwhelming. You’ll have all these people around you with deep wells of knowledge—secrets—that only come with the gift of wisdom. A precious resource that is only granted to the big. And the journey to explore this vast unknown called “life” will be a brand new adventure every day.

In your teenage years, the world is still new and exciting. But you’re now tired of all the “kid stuff” and it’s time to learn about the secrets of the grownups. The things that are off limits. The things that are bad, because they’re “cool” right? You still have a ton of questions, but at this point you’re determined to chase down the answers that everyone’s been hiding from you thus far. “I’ll tell you when you’re older” isn’t a barrier that can contain your curiosity anymore… because in your mind—you ARE older.

In your 20’s, you’ve learned how to walk the path of youth thoroughly. You’ve also learned that most of the things shown to you during your childhood were lies meant to either control, or protect you… maybe both. It’s not so much about exploring the world around you anymore, because in these moments, you feel like you’ve experienced enough so that nothing really surprises you like it used to. Now, it’s about who you’d really like to be in this world. It’s about exploring your inner self. Because now you have all the secrets, and no one can really add onto this repertoire of knowledge that you’ve acquired… right?

In your 30’s, all the things that once were new and fresh are considered to be “classic” now. You remember the days when you really didn’t know so much, and you thought you knew everything. Time has begun to move a little faster. But at least now, you know more about the person you’ve become. The person you are now—and you know that you’re always subject to change. You know that “change” is life. You’ve also learned that you really don’t know anything, and that you can only truly speak from experience. It’s all a bit confusing when you really sit and think about it. And by now, you surely have acquired a lot of things to think about…

“Things…”

Things have happened that you never thought would. Things that you never thought could happen—both good and bad. But the bad is heavy. You don’t have as much energy as you used to, but you’ve learned how to make longer strides in shorter steps. The colors aren’t so bright anymore and the flavors of life not so vibrant… but there’s still so much. The excitement of tomorrow isn’t as strong as it used to be, and now you know it’s not guaranteed anymore. But you also know that now is a gift, and “that’s why we call it the present” sounds less and less like a cliché as time goes on. But that’s the point—time goes on. To be continued…

Shout out to my friend elli_rae_arts for turning me into a comic. Check out more of her stuff!
https://instagram.com/elli_rae_arts?utm_medium=copy_link

“Nightenberry Grove: Samhain” Part III (Horror)
Written By Victor Escalade McClain
Art By Egregore Design

I’m afraid. I’ve been afraid. Everything I’ve done since that damned night has been out of fear. That… that ‘thing’ has taken everything away from me. And now, fear is all I have left. Fear, wisdom, and memories… s**tty-fu***ng-memories. Hopefully, I can share some of these things with others. Pass them on, so that more could understand. So that they could have a chance—a chance to know. A chance to stop it. A chance to save themselves. A chance… to celebrate.

The shrink always came to visit me at the start of the week. I didn’t keep track of the visits, but they felt… annual—like it was always on a certain Monday or something. F**k Mondays. They’d come over, treat me like some crazed lunatic and ask me stupid questions in monotone, like:

“Are you feeling depressed?”

“Do you feel like you want to harm yourself or others?”

“Have you been taking all of your medication?”

It’s annoying… but it’s the only human contact I get, bitter-sweet in the saltiest of ways. I don’t know if I’m depressed, but I know I can’t feel anything anymore. And as for wanting to harm myself, maybe all the whiskey and ci******es I’ve consumed could answer that question for me. About me wanting to harm others, though… I just wanted to slap the s**t out of that dumb-ass therapist. But that’s not important…

This town has seen it’s fair share of unexplainable things happen in the past. All the cold cases and missing persons reports can attest to that—surprisingly high for such a small population. All seeming to revolve around those woods… that dark, ungodly place.

I decided to visit the small church, just west of the town square before I headed into to the grove. I’m not a religious man at all, but if something that bad exists, the opposite has to be true as well… Right? Yeah… Plus, the place has this really old library underneath it. A collection of books from times long past, some even dating back before the Declaration of Independence was even a forethought. If there was any place in town that could give me a little insight into what I was getting myself into, it was there.

The drive to the chapel was rough. It had been raining on and off for the past week and all the weather channels had been giving out warnings for flash flooding. I could barely see the road through the screen of cascading water on my windshield, but barely was good enough. And my old ride needed the wash.

When I got to the church, hardly any other cars were in the parking lot. But the front doors were open and I could see a few dim lights in the entry way. I walked through the unpaved, muddy parking area towards the building; trying not to trip as I stumbled through little pools of undetermined depths.

When I got inside, I saw that the bowl of “holy” water had a disgusting film atop it, like it hadn’t been changed in ages. Incense smoke filled the empty nave, and a few people sat still like statues in the dusty pews mumbling to a deaf, blind and dumb god. Must be nice to still have imaginary friends at their age.

I walked deeper into the building. And as I did, I saw an elderly priest look at me for a moment, before he walked off to the side into one of those confession booth things. I needed access to the old library, so I followed him and sat on the other side of the small enclosure.

When I closed the curtain behind me, the smell of p**s, bad breath and burnt herbs started seeping through the wooden mesh; along with a raspy whisper of a voice that sounded like it was gurgled up from a decrepit place, more ancient and withered than the temple itself.

“My son… what sins have you to confess before god?”

I told him that I wasn’t there to confess anything, but I was searching for information and I needed access to the library. I also told him that I was a semi-retired cop on an investigation, and showed him my badge. Without another word, he very slowly stood up and exited the booth.

As I stepped out of the confessional, I could already see him walking off towards the backside of the church. So I followed him. Eventually, he led me to a very small, very aged looking wooden door with a pointed top and rusted metal bolts along with latches decomposing into it. It looked like it could fall and crumble into dirt at any moment, but it was surprisingly sturdy.

The elderly man gestured the sign of a cross and pulled out pieces of corroding metal from his pocket, skeletal keys that looked nothing like you’d see in use in the world today. He opened the ancient barrier and exposed a spiral stairway that looked like it was built for children. Narrow steps barely protruding out from the walls, spinning downward into darkness…

As I followed the priest into the bowels of the church, I wondered about the true age of the place. I wondered about the true age of Nightenberry Grove, because the space underneath the structure seemed way older than something that would’ve even been built by the early settlers of America. Like it was pulled right out of the mid-evil and placed right here—right in the heart of this small town.

We walked for a while. And as we journeyed down the spiral of steps into the abyss, the priest started talking to me in that dry, raspy voice of his again.

“My son… I knoweth why you are here. Ye seek knowledge that you can not find in the world of flesh. Ye shall know the truth, for the lord gives wisdom; from his mouth comes knowledge and understanding… but be wary of the fruits of wisdom that hath been long forgotten. For if the fruit must rot, be it the will of god…”

When we got down into the sub level of the temple, there was another bowl of “holy” liquid; this one more putrid than the first. A clear, yellowish substance filled the dish and let off a terrible odor. The priest immediately dipped two fingers into the bowl, put the foul juice onto his forehead and proceeded to lead me down a long corridor, lit by mostly spent candles, melted wax caked on the walls and floor from previous tapers.

We walked for a while—in silence. Passing by unmarked graves that were built into the walls of the corridors. Some leaking a yellowish liquid into some sort of exposed drainage system… the same yellow sheen as… I don’t even want to think about it.

Eventually, we made it to another strange looking doorway. Patterns of antiquated runes of which the origin I can’t even begin to recognize decorated the frame. A gate made of more rust than metal obstructed our path; trapped within the chamber was a person dressed in filthy remnants of a black robe, praying to a glass crucifix that was drenched in red paint and surrounded by candles. They didn’t even budge as the old man unlocked the door and we crossed the threshold. Finally—into the library…

To Be Continued

“Nightenberry Grove: Samhain” Part II (Horror)
Written by Victor Escalade McClain
Art By Egregore Design

I can’t sleep. The lights keep me awake at night; a dull orange glow pulsating on and off. On. And off. Constantly burning away the shadow from my window, then letting me drown in darkness—over, and over again. I don’t like the dark as much as I used to anymore. It almost feels like I’m not alone when the shadows of the night wrap their cold fingers around me.

And the buzz. The piercing white noise of electrical current flowing through dim lightbulbs. For months my decorations have been… safeguarding me. I don’t know if I’m crazy, but I know the ritual must continue. I can feel it in my heart. There has to be a reason to why we do these things.

Don’t you ever wonder?

It’s nearly been a full year. Celebrating Halloween every day has definitely taken a toll on my personal life, I haven’t gotten laid since… f**k it. I’m still alive. Besides, I can’t even get it up anymore. Waste of time anyway.

At first, I just left my decorations up. I just tried to pass it off as some lazy f**k that was too preoccupied with “work” to do anything about it. Christmas was interesting, though. I put up little knickknacks from that one movie—you know the one. The film with that du***ss skeleton who finds a doorway into “Christmas land” or some s**t; all the characters had their own little spot on my lawn. Guardians. The neighbors loved it. The kids loved it. And I hated the attention.

It’s funny… I don’t like kids. I never have—the little s**ts. But ever since I’ve started this routine, I always find someone’s sq**rt standing within view of my house, just looking in awe. It’s annoying… But at least I’m safe.

I’m sure they all think I’m a little off. But they don’t know. They don’t know s**t. They haven’t seen the things I’ve seen. Yellow light dimmer and more twisted than the deepest places in hell. Dead, bloodshot eyes caked with tears, horror and pumpkin flesh; trapped in eternal torment, watching their final moments over, and over, and over again… And those poor girls. That smile. I can’t even sleep anymore.

After that night, I just stopped going to work. I stopped answering all my phone calls—I stopped everything. Time stopped.

Eventually, the agency did a wellness check on me. The big heads decided to send in a shrink to see if I still had all my nuts and bolts, but mostly because it’s just standard procedure. They don’t care about us, they just care about appearances. Just another pony show with all the bells and whistles. I knew they would. I’ve been on the force long enough to know what would happen, and I was hoping it would be some tight young fox with a problem finding clothes in the appropriate size. A man can dream, right? I’m not that f**kin’ crazy.

Instead, they sent some hotshot poindexter fresh out of college, he didn’t stand a chance… but I got my goddamn pension out of it. And it gave me more time to focus on finding that damn thing… and killing it. Like I should’ve done the first time.

Even though I left the force, you know how the saying goes, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I kept up with the case, getting bits of information here and there from old cop buddies. I’ve also been doing my own investigating, it’s not like I had anything better to do with my time.

They never did find the husband though. But I feel like I saw him… not him, but… I could’ve sworn the damn thing was wearing his body like a goddamn costume. Not like a mere skin suit, but all of him; flesh, bone, muscle and sinew—everything. Neatly pulled over it’s aberrant form, made to look like we do. I remember as it shuffled off into the forest, I could’ve sworn I heard it screaming… laughing—bones breaking from the twisted angles of its grotesque movements… I don’t even think it let that poor man die. Or at least… nevermind.

Sigh… of course they blamed him. He was the number one suspect. All the news outlets hinting at it being the father, wanted posters disguised as missing fliers. But I know better. I know the tricks of the trade all too well. And, it was fairly obvious… everyone thought it was him anyway. But I know the truth, I was there.

After I gained the courage, I went back to the scene of the crime a few times. Not the house—the old woods—Nightenberry Grove. Discarded candy wrappers littered the edge of the place, it wasn’t like the city took care of the old woods anyway. Garbage was everywhere in there. It looked like a landfill had taken root at its edge and was trying to force itself inward, trash being pushed up from beneath the ancient soil; slowly growing out like hungry weeds with rust for pollen, and broken glass for thorns. Nearly impenetrable.

The weird thing about it though, is that all year round, it seems to always have fresh candy wrappers blowing around in there. Sort of like the fallen leaves from dead trees in a dying thicket—it really lends to the mysterious nature of the place. And that old poem that elderly people tell to children to keep them from going in and getting lost… maybe there’s more to it than it being a simple rhyme…

“In Nightenberry Grove there is no life
No crickets chirping, no birds a flight
Only in silence, it comes at night
Sweets for the maw
Nowhere to run, no way to fight
No tricks to play, just wrongs to write
Give it treats, or lose your life
No way to run, no place for light”

Stupid poem… soon, I’ll make my way in there. I guess it can’t hurt to have a pocket full of candy. It’s almost Halloween again.

To Be Continued

“Nightenberry Grove: Samhain” Part I (Horror)
Written By Victor Escalade McClain
Art By Egregore Design

I still have my decorations up. People keep saying that I’m crazy, but no one understands. I need to get it off my chest, but who can I tell? I feel like I need to spread the word, because I’ve been trying so hard to protect people.

But it seems like it’s been getting worse and worse every year…

I still remember that day. The day that changed me forever—Halloween. I know it’s July, but it doesn’t matter. Holidays are one of our most common rituals and I’ve learned to fear what they protect us from. I’m here to warn you. And I hope my story sparks an interest in your heart that may one day save your life.

I guess I’ll get right into it…

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to help people. Even my costumes on Halloween were always some sort of public servant. From firefighters, to doctors—it was always about saving lives. Ya know? So it was only natural that I became a cop, right? Yeah…

Anyway… There was this serial killer that would only operate during the month of October, the sick bastard. He would do things—he would do things—to children. He’d pick a house as his base of operations, a different house every year. And the things he would do to those poor families… the ones who didn’t celebrate, the ones who didn’t care for such festivities.

One time, I was called to a scene where a fresh dog co**se was flayed open and fashioned into a overstuffed candy sack; filled with all the popular sweets. All the candy out of their wrappers, covered in blood, s**t—and something else. It’s eyes were popping out of its head while candy, vomit and bile spilled from its mouth. Placed on the porch to temp anyone with a tooth sweet enough to grab a taste. I remember immediately drawing out my pistol, and approaching the house to go inside. Trying not to vomit as I passed by that poor creature.

You know what’s one thing you never forget? Sights are one thing—sure. But smells… you never forget. You see crazy s**t on TV all the time, so it kinda prepares you in a way. But smells—no preparation for that. No “smell-o-vision” s**t to f**k around with when you’re sitting alone in your living room. Just the real deal. I can’t even begin to describe to you the stench that was wafting from that house’s open door. The sickly sweetness of it… the thickness it had. The oily residue that it left on my tongue and in my throat… it still lives with me.

Sigh… when think about it now, whenever I think about it, I don’t know why I didn’t call for backup right away. I think I was on autopilot or something. I really wish… f**k it, never mind.

So I walked into the house, pistol drawn; holding it so tightly that I could literally feel the sweat being squeezed out from my palm, cold water bleeding onto the handle of my weapon. The house was nearly silent, except for the TV on in the living area; blasting sounds of a horror marathon and casting shadows. Everything was neat and tidy—no signs of struggle. That was until… I got into the kitchen. At first, all I could see through the doorway was a long dining table with several pumpkins sitting atop it. But as I slowly walked into that room… I saw them.

It looked like the mother was tied to a chair and forced to watch her loved ones suffer. Bound in a place where she and her family sat and shared countless meals, memories and good times. Never imagining that this would be the place of her greatest horror. The place where she would watch her kids die.

I knew she was forced to watch because her eyelids were neatly sliced off her face, dried blood and tears ran down her cheeks and dyed her non festive sweater a dark red. On the other side of the table, sat a pair of twin girls—maybe ten or eleven in age. Their cheeks ripped open from the sides of their mouths, stuffed with more pumpkin flesh than their little faces could handle. Their stomachs poking out from being force fed until they died. Orange, red, and brown matter seeping out from beneath their little pink dresses. F**k…

Once I saw that, I ran out the house. I just… I just couldn’t! Okay!? I just couldn’t see… (sobbing) I couldn’t, I couldn’t…

…

…

…

I ran back into my car, to try and catch my breath. Maybe, to try and catch my mind. But there he was. Right on the edge of the old woods. There “it” was. Evil yellow light spilling from its face like liquid, the blood from that family on its deformed hands. And roots growing directly out the flesh of its legs… it wasn’t human. It wasn’t something that belonged here. It was like… it tried to dress up like us. Like it was trying to trick me, but couldn’t move like we do.

It stared at me. Into me. Through me. And then… it smiled at me. I was frozen, trapped in my own body. Pinned to my car seat under the weight of its gaze. I watched. I watched as it shuffled off into the woods. It’s movements so grotesque and wrong… that it’s hard to describe in words.

They say that we dress up once a year to scare the evil spirits away, and offer treats to pacify them. So now, I celebrate Halloween every-single-day. I want to protect us… I want to protect you. Happy Halloween…

To Be Continued