Mark Antony Raines Blog

 The air in Blackwood Valley didn't just carry the scent of autumn; it carried the stench of rot and cheap molasses, the obligatory perfumes of a failing season. Tonight was Halloween, and Elias Thorne, cynical and clad in a costume that was too expensive to be funny, was determined to hate every second of it. He and his three friends—who had long since become annoyingly enthusiastic about fake frights—had paid the exorbitant fee for Blackwood’s Harvest Maze, a vast, twisted labyrinth cut into thirty acres of dying hybrid corn. "They say this maze is built on ancient grounds," whispered Maeve, clutching Elias's arm, her voice tight with performative fear. "Where they used to hold the original, uh, harvest." Elias snorted, brushing off a stray piece of dry husk. "It's built on a tax write-off, Maeve. Look, there's a teenage ghoul holding a blinking plastic jack-o'-lantern." They plunged deeper. The first half hour was exactly as Elias ex...

 Elias Thorne was a man who preferred the company of the dead. Not in a morbid, ghoulish way, but because they were quiet. They asked for nothing, judged for nothing, and their silence was a balm to his bruised and weary soul. This preference made him uniquely suited for his new, utterly bizarre job: Custodian of the Necropolis Archives. The Archives weren't a typical cemetery or a morgue. They were a sprawling, subterranean labyrinth of catacombs, mausoleums, and forgotten chambers beneath the oldest, most forgotten district of the city. A place whispered about in hushed tones, where the city’s founders and their more… esoteric relatives were interred. Elias, desperate for work after a series of misfortunes, had dismissed the unsettling aura as an occupational hazard. The pay was obscenely generous. The solitude was absolute. His duties were simple: patrol the vast, echoing halls, ensure the ancient lamps were burning, dust the sarcophagi, and maintain a meticulous log of the ...

  The vast, indifferent blue of the Pacific was David’s church, his solace, his escape from the relentless grind of city life. He stroked through the cool, invigorating water, feeling the powerful rhythm of his arms and legs, the glide of his body. The sun, a benevolent eye in the sky, glittered on the surface. He was a small, contented speck in an immense world. Then, a whisper of alien texture brushed his calf. David kicked casually, assuming a stray leaf or plastic bag. But the whisper became a cling, then a grip. Long, slick tendrils coiled around his ankles, then his shins. Seaweed. He paused, treading water, trying to untangle himself, a flicker of irritation replacing his calm. But there was too much of it, thick strands like greasy ropes, clinging with an almost deliberate tenacity. It wasn't just on him; it was around him, a dense, dark forest rising from the depths. He felt a sudden, inexplicable tug downwards, a pull on his legs that was more than just the current. Panic...

 Alistair Finch, a critic of the highest�"or perhaps lowest�"calibre, sat in the opulent leather of his office chair, the city lights below him a blur of insignificant pinpricks. His gaze, sharp and predatory, was fixed not on the panoramic view, but on the crisp printout of his latest review. It was a masterpiece of deprecation, a meticulously crafted verbal shiv slipped between the ribs of an earnest, albeit amateur, playwright. “...a theatrical experience akin to watching paint dry, if the paint were mixed with the putrid bile of a thousand failed ambitions,” he’d written, a faint smile playing on his lips even now as he read it. He savored the sting, not of the words on his tongue, but of the imagined agony they would inflict. He pictured the playwright, pale and trembling, the words burrowing into their self-perception, taking root, and growing. He liked to think of his criticisms as a particularly virulent strain of earworm, investing away at their brains, eroding their...

 The antechamber to Joseph’s laboratory reeked of ozone, embalming fluid, and something subtly metallic, like old blood. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light filtering through a grimy skylight, illuminating shelves filled with labelled jars and an assortment of antique surgical tools that gleamed with a malevolent polish. Joseph himself, a man whose gaunt frame and wild, ink-stained hair spoke of long nights fueled by ambition rather than sleep, paced restlessly. His latest experiment required a fresh specimen, unsullied by embalming chemicals or the ravages of time. A recent death, preferably sudden, preferably young. Then the call came. A whisper through the medical examiner’s back channels, a morbid rumour quickly confirmed: Delores Martiz, twenty-four, heart attack, at the altar, on her wedding day. A perfect specimen. Not a mark on her. Within hours, a discreet, unmarked van delivered a gleaming white casket to Joseph’s hidden, sub-basement entrance. The air grew heav...