A ghostly sobbing has long been reported within the overgrown and nearly forgotten Shadow Farm Cemetery. The ethereal moans have been part of the urban lore for as long as I can remember, creeping into the type of stories told by campfire light where the teller is lit from below by a single flashlight. I am here to tell you that these stories are true-
although the explanation is just as incredible as the stories of wandering souls roaming amongst the cold stones.
I have heard the cries with my own ears, but refused to believe in ghosts and spectres. I am here to tell of the creature known only as the Willowmite.
The night she first allowed herself to be seen, I was camped out in the back corner of the graveyard, recording equipment at the ready for any sign of the supernatural. I heard a soft sobbing, and turned my flashlight towards the noise. What first struck me about this remarkable creature were the eyes. Pupil-less pearl orbs embedded in a sea of black, they shone like nothing I have ever seen before. I was hypnotized as she slowly moved out of the small burrow at the edge of a lonely gravestone. My camera was ready, and I took the first clear shot of the creature nobody knew existed.
In the following nights, I became more familiar with her,and she more trustful in me. She allowed me to introduce a light for better photography.
Through careful observation I have learned several things of her behaviors. First the obvious. She is a small, nocturnal burrowing creature of unknown species approximately six inches in height. She has thick arms and two clumsy 'hands'. She also has eight insect-like appendages projected from her sides, presumably to aid in motivation throughout her system of tiny catacombs. She likes to gnaw on dry wood and lives her life entirely within the shady reaches of willow trees. I assume the willow bark is her sole source of food, but cannot do better than guess at what she may consume underground. An old cemetery with its elderly trees and shallow graves seems to be her perfect environment.
She sings a soft, sad song that is amplified and distorted by her tunnels, making her coos sound like a moaning ghost.
She collects shiny baubles from the caskets she gnaws through, and spends hours staring at these mementos of lost lives. Photographs, buttons, jewelry, and teeth seem to be her favorites. During our evening together, she produced quite an impressive cache of precious objects, and seemed almost eager to show them to me.
She fashions a shawl out of rotted pieces of burial shroud. A thick yellowish liquid seems to run constantly from her eyes like tears, adding to her mournful demeanor.
I have found no record of any similar creature anywhere on earth which leads me to wonder if she is the last of her kind.
This lone phoenix took on the character of a small falcon, with its short, sharp bill designed for tearing flesh from bone. With a wingspan of 11 inches, he is the smallest bird of the series.
The final two did not wish to be separated. They seem to be locked in an eternal dance as they soar in tandem, a study in shadow and light.
Every so often a series of creatures will naturally run its course. It is as if the idea that once burned hot has fizzled to a small ember and threatens to go out entirely. Rather than force the idea and run the risk of extinguishing it forever, it becomes time to let the ember glow in it's bed of coals. Perhaps a new breath of life will uncover it in the future, fanning the flames of creativity until it burns white hot again. Perhaps it won't. Either way, I have learned that once an idea has gone cold, it is best to walk away. What will be will be.
Charlatan. Fake. Trickster. This Pumpkin-headed Scarecrow has disguised himself as a witch and is trying his hand at a devious brew. Is he attempting to concoct a potion to do away with the crows once and for all, or does he by chance have a more sinister intent?
Through careful observation I have learned several things of her behaviors. First the obvious. She is a small, nocturnal burrowing creature of unknown species approximately six inches in height. She has thick arms and two clumsy 'hands'. She also has eight insect-like appendages projected from her sides, presumably to aid in motivation throughout her system of tiny catacombs. She likes to gnaw on dry wood and lives her life entirely within the shady reaches of willow trees. I assume the willow bark is her sole source of food, but cannot do better than guess at what she may consume underground. An old cemetery with its elderly trees and shallow graves seems to be her perfect environment.
