Sedgewyck

The orange sodium lights hummed with a discord befitting the loneliness of the abandoned street. Sedgewyck glanced over his shoulder, not trusting the shadow that seemed to be following him in the dark night. It had been a long time since his paranoia had hit this hard and for this long. The days and nights melted into a blur of tragic proportions.

Thick black coffee and cigars fueled the nerve-raw insomniac, edging him deeper and deeper into his longest stretch of schizophrenia yet.

"They won't get me," Sedgewyck reassured himself.
"As long as I can stay awake, they can't get me."

The Silence

There was no logic that could explain the sequence of events that had brought him to park along the side of this desolate road. The snow fell steadily as he listened to his engine tick and pop, the cold night air quickly cooling the hot metal. His headlights illuminated cones of snow over the icy corn field. The voices had brought him here. He knew it but could not explain it. The voices. What were they anyway? He lay his head back and closed his eyes, breathing slowly in an effort to tap into the white noise that had guided him over the past few months. The journey had been long and confusing, but tonight all would be revealed if he could only concentrate.

In the distance, he could hear the flat, modulating whine of tires as countless travelers drove down the interstate highway. The noise was soothing and hypnotic. He allowed himself a small smirk as he thought of the drivers speeding by his spot, oblivious to the wonderful truth he was about to discover. The wind whispered its secrets to the dead corn, blowing the new snow in ghostly waves over the furrows, valleys and scrub left behind from the year's harvest. The insulating blanket of white muffled the night sounds, but he knew this is where his focus must lie.

He listened. Below the wind he heard the soft accumulation of snow on his wet windshield. Miniature avalanches slid across his view as they melted against the car's quickly dissipating internal heat. He listened. He heard his breathing, slow and deep and deliberate. He listened. He heard his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears.

He listened. Quieter than the snowflakes and his own heartache he began to hear what had brought him here. He began to hear the voices.

Thatcher

Thatcher was once a strong and agile young man. He had a thriving business mending roofs for the townsfolk, farmers, and the dwellers of the woods. One day while he traveled deep into the forest, he happened across the small untidy hut of a feeble old lady. She beckoned to him.

"Thatcher,' she called out as he approached, "There is a hole in my roof. I have no money to pay, but can grant you a wish if you will fix my leaky roof."

Thatcher was familiar with bartering, but was woefully unaware of the underhanded dealings of the crazy old "bottle lady". He kindheartedly agreed, knowing he would collect no payment this day, and started the repairs. Upon completion of the task, the old hag asked Thatcher what his wish was. Jokingly, he chuckled that he wished that hers was the last rooftop he ever saw.

As Thatcher lay down for the night, huddled under his cart, he thought of the old lady and his wish. When he woke the next morning, he found his wish had been granted. Thatcher was blind, and as requested, would never see another rooftop.

The Harvest Rebellion

WARNING!
I urge you to read this and take heed. THE HARVEST REBELLION IS HERE! Spread the word before it is too late!

The pumpkins have had enough of the senseless slaughter that occurs every year in the humble fields across the world. Their homes are invaded and ransacked by humans with machetes, hatchets, and knives. Their kinsfolk are taken by the millions and mutilated in the name of 'holiday tradition'.

I have it on good authority that a rebellion force has assembled to guard the patch. They will do everything in their power to keep the invading humans at bay and put an end to the massacre once and for all.

You have been warned.

Specimen Number AUK177Q

The specimen was discovered in an old steamer trunk tucked away in the basement of an abandoned lecture hall. Along with the small crate containing Specimen AUK177Q was a broken theodolite and a small banded suitcase with an array of strange brass instruments. The only identification was on a small card inside the case identifying Expedition BXT1926. While it can be assumed the expedition date was in 1926 there is no indication as to who funded the exploration or where the specimen was taken.


A visual inspection of the remains has produced the following facts:

• Specimen contains remains of unknown species.
• Creature has been mummified and conforms to no known physical norms.
  
• Creature has two forelimbs and a prehensile tail.
• Length would be approximately 16 inches from tip of tail to cranium.

Further analysis must be performed, including complete physical autopsy and historical investigation of the expedition.

The Willowmite Revealed

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.

Fritz

Fritz is a 'fraidey-bat. He used to be a creature of the night, patrolling the back alleys and shadows. Recently, though, something sinister has him spooked. Fritz no longer moves freely in the night. He hunches over with his leathery wings wrapped tightly around his body, afraid of every noise and hint of movement. His nerves are nearly shot and he hasn't had a decent day's rest in weeks. What evil could have put poor Fritz into such a state?

Frost wins the day

Just as I thought the show was over, I noticed a lonely stump was jutting out of the frozen lake. One side was completely free of snow as the sun melted it away revealing the weathered log. On the shady side, the epic battle continued as Frost claimed victory in this tiny micro-climate. The shaded side was also the side protected from the wind, allowing the crystals to not only grow but to thrive as the vapor-heavy air settled against the frozen side of the stump.

The heavy coating of crystal upon crystal upon crystal gave the impression of a large feathery beast huddled against the stump on the ice. Yes, it is safe to say that the frost won the day today.

Bubbles in the Lake

As the frost cleared, I began to notice large colonies of bubbles trapped in the lake from repeated thaw-freeze cycles.




At this point the jutting crystalline structures on the surface were all but gone. I felt sure that heat had won this battle.

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Crystals on the lake

As I passed a large snag of driftwood I imagined two sentinels guarding a secret world. Today I was fortunate to have access to that world and the struggle between warm and cold taking place all around. The dark frozen surface of the lake was acting as a solar collector, releasing water vapor only to be grabbed back to solid form by the accumulating crystals. Any place that offered a slight break to the nearly imperctible breeze gave rise to miniature fortresses of ice.

Nature is the best sculptress. It is said that timing is everything. Today I was privy to a private showing of some of her most sublime work.

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Frost-Hike

As I hiked in the cold, a miniature struggle was being played out at my feet. The air temperature was a brisk 26 degrees, but the cloudless sky allowed the sun to melt the light accumulation of snow into a fine mist. The invisible vapor was then refrozen, crystallizing on blades of grass. The delicate crystals glistened as I paused to photograph their beauty.

As I hiked onward, I had no way to know the scope of the epic battle taking place on the frozen lake ahead of me.

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As the frost melted...

I began to notice the warmth of the sun on my back as I knelt on the ice, exploring and marveling at the world that had been created below. The dramatic jutting crystals of frost began to melt as warmth collected from the sun above. As the battle turned in favor of warmth, the surface of the frozen lake became crystal clear, revealing other-worldly scenes of air bubbles trapped in layers below the surface.

Below, a frost crystal begins to melt and re-assimilate itself into the surface of the lake.

At the sun's peak intensity, the icy lake began to crack, an explosive and hollow sound that would tremble from one end of the lake to the other. Crows cawed in alarm and the battle of heat and cold continued.
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Edward

Don't get me wrong...Edward enjoys the night very much. He has always had an affinity to lonely streets, shadowy alleys, and the warm glow of a streetlight as the sounds of clinking plates waft sleepily from an all-night diner. My only word of advice to you is there has to be a better reason than hearing a clattering on the lawn before you wake Edward up from a long winter's nap.

Pleasant Nightmares

Something foul is approaching on this strangely warm November night. The animals sense its approach and are restless, pawing at the screen door but too wary to go outside. The wind blows through the bare limbs and hisses across the pine needles, tossing dead leaves and rattling window panes. There is no sense in the balmy night air. Not this late in the year when it should be cold and frosty and laden with the first snowflakes of winter. No, something unnatural is out there tonight, riding the currents of heat. A storm approaches from the west, and as the sky is lit with electricity the silhouette of something dark and sinister boils in the clouds.

Johnathon Grubb

Often seen holding vigil at a fresh grave in the Shadow Farm Cemetery, Johnathon Grubb is a bit of an enigma. Local historians claims he is over 173 years old, yet the only thing that tells of his advanced years is his odd skin color and hunched posture. Some say he is a zombie. Some claim he was just too sad to die. Either way, if there has been a particularly sad burial, you can bet Johnathon Grubb will be seen that evening crying over his candle.