For those who are beset by glimpses of their dark sides, tormented by base desires fed regularly by secret indulgence into those tightly worded pages of
horror,they can from time to time take a taste of what has been forbidden,
to break open a tome under a cover of deepest night or down in a
steep-staired basement, to read, to savor, to imagine the screams of men
when church bells ring (HP Lovecraft paraphrased)


 


There was, years and years past, beyond reasonable memory, a wench buried. She was laid in the cold clay of her grave on a raw, tumultous day when rats werein pain.....


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dreaming of long-ago

incense-smothered exorcisms

brought on by

strangely surreal howlings

From white fanged

zombi cathod mawr

fume-struck denizens of 

bacstreet Grangetown bars

Filled with Inebriated

Story update - since last update in November 2010:

 

Night-sounds echoing through the back streets, making pit-bulls shiver whilst cocking their torn, shredded, ears. Dipping them in fear that chills the blood of a black pudding!

Especially when mixed sweetbreads ‘n' oatmeal and soaked in old, grotesque blood with Penderyn Whisky.

 

Aged priests wept with ecstasy on their tastebuds - dreaming of long-ago incense-smothered exorcisms brought on by strangely surreal howlings from white fanged Zombi Cathod Mawr.  Fume-struck denizens of backstreet Grangetown bars, filled with Inebriated . . .

penitents, their chains

Soaked in real

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