Some stories don’t wait for their author.
They linger in the walls, tapping, whispering—
reminding you they were never finished,
only patient.

Two weeks deep in the hollows: stitching nightmares into words, feeding the dark its due.
The dead don’t stay buried. Neither do I.
What’s the last thing that chilled you to the bone?
(Mine: a fertilizer salesman’s grin. Too bright. Too eager.)
#GothicHorror #BackFromTheDead #indiewriter

The soil remembers.
A Kansas town poisons its land for generations, then prays salvation comes in a bag.
What grows isn’t wheat. It listens.

Ash and Filament — an eco-horror of faith, rot, and consequence.
Excerpt tomorrow.

Ink spills unbidden in the dead of night—pages clawing for secrets the quill never meant to bleed. When the story starts writing you, how far do you sink? #gothichorror #speculativefiction #indieauthor

Writers don’t sleep; we draft in dreams. Last night, the story bit first—claws in the margin, rewriting my endings with teeth. What haunts your page?
#GothicHorror #WeirdFiction

In the Hollow, the river remembers what the law forgets. First whispers from Weird Threads—cursed ink, edited dreams, truths the mind rewrites in the dark. What shadows call to you? #GothicHorror #SpeculativeFiction #IndieAuthor