Tag Archives: gothic

Creepy Faces in the Woodwork


something strains to be let in to our world from URL http://vals366.blogspot.com/2011/07/definitely-creepy.html

SOMETHING STRAINS…..IT GROANS…IT MEANS TO FIND IT’S WAY…..IN…TO…OUR…WORLD. Lurking about in the furniture. You see it in the woodgrain of your magnificent dresser. It lies in wait. For what? Our consciousness embraces the physical world in strange and inexplicable ways. Faces peer out at us from beside the bathroom mirror, you turn to confront your intruder and it is gone. Fleeting impressions prefer the borders of our perception.¬†

Are you scared? Does it trouble you that many things are unexplained? We still huddle down in our little huts, protected by our electric lights from the deep, dark depths of uncharted domains, just out of reach. They haunt us nevertheless, these faces. The remains of some of the victims of 9/11 are destroyed without honor or respect, and the faces grimace beside the stove. Bodies tossed down a well by a thoughtless killer. The faces scream. silently…..just past the back porch screen. And what of Hitler? you hear whispered faintly from beyond the grave. What of my mother, my sister? Gone now. Faces remain in the ancient stained wallpaper of the upstairs bedroom used no more. Faces.

Have you passed by faces in the strange little buildings in the odd little alleys where no one goes anymore? Except you.

Something’s speaking, lonely grieving for a world lost long ago. Just a flickering flame remains. Faces you cannot face. Faces that scare you to death. Such faces! Filled with hate!

I have seen such faces in the stillness, in the spaces between my thoughts. The faces are the traces of the lives cut short. In the lightning In the rain You see faces. Face the blame.

I cannot continue to write of such faces because the current is so dim. It is hard to make out the faces. We need to come to terms with the faces, for they are our responsibility. You must learn to love the faces, or they will give you no peace. Faces in the waxworks, rigid in their righteous resolve. Beyond this point, no more!

It is unwise to peer into the eyes of these faces, lest the faces pull you in.¬† A mind cannot bear such faces, it preys upon it’s roots. Faces know no truth. Only a vague and pitiful pout. The faces must go out. out of my miserable sight. Something creaking crawling, straining to get out. Faces implore us, faces implore us, oh please sir, is this death?


Don’t ask me what this one is about, it was written after midnight on the fringes of consciousness. Who is this gothic scribe that possesses my tired arthritic¬† hand so late at night?

Land’s End


I live in San Francisco. I’ve been here since 1996, and one of the first places I went when I arrived was Land’s End. Land’s End. It sounds ominous, doesn’t it? Perched on the edge of the world, the Abyss yawning below. Although it was interesting to check the ruins of the Cliff House, a huge Victorian mansion, which burned down on September 7, 1907. The previous Cliff House, a much smaller tavern burned down on Christmas night, 1894. The founder of the Church of Satan, Anton Lavey, a fellow San Franciscan, claimed the ruins are haunted and cursed. I can believe it. I have a sense of foreboding whenever I go there. The waves are huge and impersonal. The rocks are uninviting. The landscape has a much larger than human scale. It is a scary place, even in daylight. One can imagine the rich 1% of the early twentieth century, hobnobbing at the Cliff House. They would gaze out over the unforgiving sea and plot how best to divide the planet amongst themselves. They would have enormous feasts. It reminds me of the lyrics in “Hotel California”, ‘they stab it with their steely knives but they still can’t kill the beast.’ Of course, there is a rumor that that album is actually about Anton Lavey and his satanic church. Big Sur to the south, also has a sinister quality, which Jack Kerouac commented on in his book, ‘Big Sur’. There is a feeling of an uncaring immensity, ancient, far older than humans. This was where the giants walked the earth.

But there is also a strange kind of exhiliration which comes over you at Land’s End. A reckless abandon born of hopelessness. This fatalistic, poisonous cloud permeates San Francisco, but can be felt most keenly in the Sunset. I noticed the curse when I first arrived. There was a wrongness to this place. But with time, I came to embrace it. Row after row of painted ladies, the old Victorians, gave San Francisco a fairy tale quality. A place lost in time. Unspeakable things have taken place here. Deep in the bowels of an imaginary cavern beneath Land’s End lies Cthulu, the Beast. I can never feel entirely comfortable here. There is an edginess, even when I am employed.

The Cliff House sits perilously upon Land’s End, outside of time, it’s ghost light shining in our dreams. Blue Oyster Cult used the Cliff House for an album cover. It was the perfect place for an evil occult scientist to perform his hideous experiments. Land’s End. It’s stark presence is etched in my soul. I have completed my pilgrimage to the grim visage. I have initiated my dance with death.

Land’s End