Author Jay Sturner

I fell in love with Berella in a Parisian café, the nearby Eiffel Tower shrouded in gray and dripping with rain. She was attractive in the unconventional sense, with bulbous, milky blue eyes set wide apart and a hirsute, ebony face of the most hypnotic countenance. Exotic in every aspect of the word, her beauty surpassed that of any woman or wild thing I had ever seen. Her dialect, too, was as mysterious and hypnotic as the tone of her voice, unfamiliar despite my numerous travels outside England, to regions of the Carpathian Mountains even, where she claimed roots. In esoteric knowledge, beauty, and intelligence she was unparalleled, and these traits, among others, sealed the fate of my heart, which, despite having previously only desired adventure and material wealth, now longed for her attention, and her attention only. That evening, after the storm had passed, in a park bordered and threaded with wet roses, I bent to one knee and asked Berella for her hand in marriage: me, clad i...

Dear reader, how might the following story—or any of the thousands told the world over of inanimate objects coming to life—be explained? I believe, that with the passing of centuries, a significant buildup of residual magic, misspoken curses, incomplete incantations, and other dark emissions have encircled the earth to such an extent that, by some strange, mysterious law of attraction, a number of curious objects—such as Gothic statues—have become increasingly enchanted. This is, of course, just a theory. Perhaps you’ve one of your own. Rock should not walk in the evening. — from “The Gods of the Mountain” by Lord Dunsany      Rain slants heavy like a torrent of curses from an angry god. The twin dragons of Altgeld Hall at Northern Illinois University crouch on either side of the front archway, spewing water from stone grins. In the nearby garden plot, a human-sized statue stands dreaming and alone. This is Olivegoyle; not a true gargoyle, per se, but one of several grot...

Author’s Note: The following message was transcribed on 29 April 2022 during what I believe to have been a psychic transmission. Although I cannot validate any of its content—nor the bizarre source of the transmission itself—I feel it is in our best interest to take it seriously.  Will we ever receive the evidence promised within? Or further instructions? I do not know. What I do know is that the message, true or not, gives me an uncanny sense of doom. I pray it never comes to pass. Transmission #1 (unedited): To all members of the human race: What follows is an introductory message, a warning, and a call to action. Please keep an open mind when reading. First, I am a communications officer. I am stationed deep within the Pacific Ocean and come from the cephalopod tribe. More specifically, I am a giant squid. If you’re wondering how this communication is possible, know that my species has, for millions of years, possessed the ability to telepathically reach sensitive minds such as ...

My toes squish along the path. I chant. I sing. I fling bird hearts and lamprey livers. Scatter bits of pig intestine, salamander bladders, an ape spleen. Then out I leap into the jungle-humid glade, where a gathering of lethargic, grub-shaped gods sweat beneath a continuous summer sun. And of these, it is the shadow of Slishra-Ew—God of Troubled and Ailing Viscera—I so gleefully enter. Falling to my knees, I retrieve a dagger and cut out my own kidney. Ow, shit , that hurt. I present the organ in my proffered palms. “O unsightly one—please accept this offering as gratitude for all the disposable poetry you’ve inspired in me; for the success I’ve had in ephemeral, lowbrow publications. Through fevered dreams, a nervous stomach, and other chronic ills, you, sir, have smeared your poetic influence across my shivering mind!” “Hmph mlughh.” “How did I find you? Well, first I altered my reality by self food poisoning with rotten meat and questionable mushrooms. Next I vomit-grunted a short ...

Tonight we sense him, hidden in the sunken shadows of the bedroom: a ghoul moving silent, forcing quiet the other monsters. Chunks of enamel, grooved by nightly gnawing, fatten his belly. And our own teeth tighten in the jaw, fight the urge to drop and slip away, to escape his gluttonous rage. You see, the foul thing broke from fairy law: took to ripping out the loose teeth of children, a calcareous shit slipped beneath their bloodied pillows in a gesture of defiance; a jab at us proper fairies. And though imprisoned for a time in the amber caves, he broke free—saber arms flapping and chipping with madness. Now we wait within this toy-box, scanning the room for residual energies: the moans of bloody roots, the chattering of crowns, the hissing red of severed nerves . . . . Such things betray his whereabouts. At last we fly and crawl from the moonlit box, eyes narrowed and tongues writhing with an invocation. Oh how swift, how sweet the coming of revenge from its ancient lair! ...

The sky was clear, the moon nearly full. Fireflies rose from the gardens and drifted over manicured lawns where old timers, arm in arm with nurses or slumped forward in wheelchairs, returned from late afternoon strolls. Two male residents sat on the porch of the nursing home in flannel shirts and overalls, sipping chamomile tea in their rockers. They had spent the last few hours catching up, as they had not seen each other in sixty years. “I really do miss her,” Sam muttered, eyes moist and red beneath his flat cap. Virgil stopped rocking and leaned sideways over the small wicker table between them. “What’s that you say?” Sam raised his mucus-lined voice. “ Ruthie . I miss Ruthie.” “Oh.” Sam stared into his mug as if hypnotized by a vision there, the lines of his face deep enough to hold thin shadows. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought the better of it. Finally he put his tea down and said, “Virgil, there’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to ask you for sixty years now.” ...

Thane arrived at the Wisconsin Indian Reservation around noon, having just bounced along ten miles of dirt road plagued with pot holes and tree limbs. Lake Michigan, sunlit blue and specked with gulls, sat low in the east behind an autumnal stretch of maple and birch. His pickup came to a skid at the general store and launched a dust cloud at a waiting tribal officer. The officer, whose black hair hung past his shoulders, lifted an eyebrow and watched the cloud pass through his legs. Thane dropped from the truck and tore off his sunglasses. “Sheriff Stalking Bear?” “Ike,” the man said, gripping Thane’s hand. “You must be Mr. Swink, from the Field Museum. Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you, too. Call me Thane.” The pickup coughed and pissed some fluid, then fell silent. Thane withheld eye contact just long enough to suppress his embarrassment. “Might wanna get that checked out.” The sheriff’s tone had a laugh pushed up against it. Thane slid the sunglasses into the v of hi...