Mythos Artist John Donald Carlucci needs your help!

black stocking cap wearing, bespectacled grey bearded man in a hospital with sensor on his finger

Did you all like the Fiction Advent Calendar we ran in December? Well all that art was done by our very own John Donald Carlucci. Unfortunately, he does not have medical insurance and has been in the ER lately more than a Boston Trade Unionist goes to Dunkin Donuts for coffee. He needs your help to get back on his feet, and back to making horrible things for us to enjoy. Check out his GoFundMe here:

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Mythos Author Laird Barron needs your help!

All around awesome person Mike Davis of The Lovecraft Ezine & Podcast has helped set up a GoFundMe to help with the medical costs for Laird Barron. If you’re a fan (and you should be) you should consider pitching in! Every bit helps!!

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Just Another Apocalypse

A group of civilians being lead through a ruined city street escorted by armed rescuers. In the sky are these flying monsters that are a cross between a bat, a squirrel and a snake and behind it all is a green and purple energy wave closing in on them. The group should be lead by two men, one is a tall bearish man with a black beard and the other is also a bearded man about half as big as the first. They both have rifles and are dressed in a post-apocalyptic fashion.

The civilian cart nearest me lurched to a halt; the driver, his wife, and daughter were arguing. “Move!” I yelled without breaking stride. “We have to get to cover! The next wave is coming, and we have to get indoors!”

They stopped at my harsh words and stood there for a moment. Then a distant screeching echoed off the ruined buildings. They dropped everything and ran, the parents half dragging their young child who was sobbing. Urgent yelps of concern rang out down the line of people as everyone abandoned their wagons and freed as many of the mules as they could but time was running out. “Leave everything, including the pack animals!”, Rick yelled from the back. “The streets here are too full of debris and ruin, going on foot is the only way forward. Move!”

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Santa Claus (Avatar of Nodens)

A man dressed in a long, rough woolen gown, dyed red with white spots. A large white beard obscures much of his face. His head is adorned with a reindeer skull and antlers. He rides astride an eight-legged black reindeer. The animal's mouth is drawn in a hideous grimace, slobbering.

“He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.”

A Visit from St. Nicholas, Clement Clark Moore.

Alternative names: Berchtold, Bokkenrijder, Nikamund the Red. 

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Boxing Day

A disgruntled back room/stock room female employee who's dealing with shoggoths being delivered to the store she's working. The logo is odd, the packages are unsettling (and unsettled, in some cases) and she's had just about enough of this bad joke.

Everyone knows about shoggoths. Everyone knows how dangerous one can be – and is! — let alone an army of them. And all those grotesque, wet eyes. Bubbly, shiny, like blisters waiting to be popped. 

They’re hard to kill but Hildy Allbright took out plenty during the Unspeakable War when she still belonged to a team with a purpose. 

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A Midnightmare Stop 

Black and white, gritty, noir, an image of a beastly form/werewolf as the night sky/backrgound of the image and within that space is the gas station/mini mart with the bus and cars, a man running or coyotes.

I abruptly awoke into darkness. Screaming, someone was screaming.

“No, NOOOO!!!”, a male voice from beyond the darkness pleaded. That voice: it was so full of terror, so soaked in fear, and with the pitch of one who is about to…a deep snapping squelch cut across the darkness with finality. The screaming stopped.

I held my breath and listened, not moving a muscle. My awareness grew and my heartbeat was deafening in my ears. Surely it could be heard for miles around it was so loud. I had to get control of myself. My thoughts were a jumble but some of them cut through the panic and chaos; what had killed the screaming man? Was I next? What the hell is going on?

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A Victorian Christmas party thrown by ghosts bent on returning to flesh as demons.

“Good morning. I’ve brought you your breakfast.”

Reluctantly, I awakened. I’d been having the loveliest dream—something about warmth and sunshine, and some gleaming object in the palm of my hand. I fought to hold onto the images, but they slipped away from me.  

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A monster with a thin, spindly body and an enormous oval-shaped head. The head has no mouth and giant black eyes.

It never leaves me. Wherever I go, it follows me. Always watching. Always staring. At the office. At the park. Standing over my bed at night, those giant black eyes just inches from my face. I scream at it to do something, to kill me. It does nothing. I put my hands around its throat, trying to pull its bulbous head from its scrawny, skeletal body. It doesn’t even fight back. Just dies, staring me in the eyes the whole time. But it’s not over. It’s never over. I kill it, and there are two more a couple of days later. 

Alternative names: Those That Watch.

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The Santa Swap

The silhouette of a young child facing the open double doors of a gothic-style ice castle. The doorway is glowing so that nothing inside can be seen (pure white), and black tentacles are emerging from the inside.

Dear Journal,

It’s Christmas Eve again, and it’s been the worst year of my whole life. I snuck you and this pen out of the trash, so I have to be careful. I’m hiding under my covers with a light right now so I can write everything down before I start forgetting even more about what happened last Christmas. 

The others are all asleep, and if she catches me up past bedtime . . . I don’t even want to think about what she’ll do to me. None of the others that she took away have ever come back. But I don’t want to forget my life from before, and it’s getting harder and harder to remember. After I write everything down, I’ll hide you in the secret hole I made in my bed.

I can already hear that thing outside in the sky again. Like it’s calling to me with that deep groan that echoes in my brain and makes my heart beat weirdly. I have to hurry now before I run out of time.


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Sacred Ground

A Gothic chapel with all the gory Catholic imagery. A huge crucifix over the altar. A desperate unhoused woman. Being chased by an ancient elder god.

Evelyn Mullins knew she sometimes saw things that weren’t there. Where other people saw only the harmless moving shadows cast by streetlights or car headlights or lights spilling out from buildings, she would often see more alarming things hiding in the darkness. She had learned not to warn others of these lurking dangers. What other people could not see; they could not believe. And what they could not believe, they pitied or mocked or scorned.

Or worse.

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