a short story by M. Wilson

“He lay still under the covers, freshly abed and cozy. The recesses of his large room were not things of fear or tense concern when his blind was open and the streetlight let in.”

He lay still under the covers, freshly abed and cozy. The recesses of his large room were not things of fear or tense concern when his blind was open and the streetlight let in. He lost himself in his mind, daydreaming intently and attempting to inspire sleep. All attention of what was in front of his wearied eyes mostly ceased as if he’d “tuned out”. The gentle shimmer of the headlights from passing cars across the wall opposite his bed further negated his fears and wild thoughts. He defended also his use of an albeit-dim nightlight by saying that he often saw humanoid silhouettes in the darkness, and that the light dispatched them. This he believed, but largely felt that it was only ever an “overactive imagination”. It still very much troubled him, however. He grew more tired by the minute and resumed talking to himself – something he did often. He considered various things and dwelt in particular on one vivid daydream which came to him as he drifted off. He stated it aloud, trailing off somewhat as he fell asleep. A story about the friendly spirit which dwelt in his room; the soul of the beautiful, kindly young woman who held residence there around sixty years prior. Intuitively, he felt that her name was Rosie. He believed that she cared about him and was the only being who dwelt in his room; a guardian of sorts. He fell asleep very much at ease; all was good in the world – and certainly in his room.

Once he had been asleep for an hour, they crept from the dark recesses and from his doorless walk-in closet, the view of which was obfuscated by a brickwork column. They gathered and stared, at least twenty in number, at their victim, their vessel, their home. Like wraiths they were, hovering above him and whispering to him – some frantically, some deliberately – his sheets provided no barrier. When awoken with a start or otherwise unexpectedly, as he sometimes was, the Shades had the blessing of being invisible in anything but total darkness. Due to this requirement of total darkness, their true visage was barely describable save for ostensibly-faceless, black, translucent humanoid silhouettes. Little had been or could be written of them in any bestiary, Dictionnaire Infernal-esque thing, or book of folklore he’d hitherto read, so he was barely aware of the things’ existence if aware at all. With this said, the newest edition of his absolute favourite – released only a few months prior – described a handful of stories featuring smoke-bourne malevolents and numerous hymns to eventide regents. (His friends, who had the edition before him, spoke also of new entries about werewolves, cults, paranoiacs, witches, and obscure primeval deities. He wasn’t aware of too many details, though.)

Morning came and was like every other: imbued with inspiration and the feeling that everything was fine. The sunlight poured in and lit everything in its path. His room was his sanctuary, and the energy he called “Rosie” was all he needed to protect him…

Verse & Vision: Turning Your Manuscripts into Published Works

Mark Winters left aerospace engineering to build a music career from scratch. Now four albums and 107 tour dates deep, he joins MAKE // BREAK to talk late-blooming ambition, DIY touring systems, and why choosing positivity is harder than it sounds.

You're reading Lowkey Hellish — essays on folklore, horror, philosophy, and the strange places where ancient fears meet modern anxieties.

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