Reader’s Tales, Episode 1

As may seem obvious, many of you come to me because you have experienced things in your past that were frightening or utterly bizarre. You see parallels in my confessions. I receive many messages and stories to this effect, but now it has reached the point at which I really feel that you need to see what I have seen.

I think, that if you perceived the continuity to which I have been privy, it would give you great comfort.

There are things that go bump in the night. To that end, I invite you to submit your stories to me. I will post them on my blog, if you consent. If you have encountered something you believe to be a member of my species, do please email your story to me at

Lonecreature@gmail

With instructions of what you want to accompany your story (a name, an image, et cetera). Please understand, I am not asking for fan fiction or fiction of any kind. I am asking for your unvarnished experiences.

Thank you.

Monstrous Myths: The Boogeyman

When I began this series of website entries, it was to demonstrate something of a “unified field theory” of monstrosity, if you will. My reasoning was simple: I am a monster, and if there were other species of hideous man-eaters shuffling over the earth, I would have seen them. For the sake of this experiment, it falls to me to demonstrate that your own mythology, as varied and complex as it is, supports my hypothesis. No monster does better in this capacity than the Boogeyman, and so, in the spirit of this Halloween season, and in celebration of the arrival of my second book, I have decided to pursue that infamous figure shrouded in darkness. My mission takes me from the rooftops to the bowels of the earth.

The Boogeyman is largely undefinable with androgynous leanings and an amorphous appearance, but notable for several key commonalities: he is ubiquitous, terrifying, and born of the shadows. In almost every culture, every country, there is a boogeyman. Spiralling away from Europe into Russia and south to Africa, these divergent stories diverge hardly at all — even their names are closely related linguistically. Variously described as dark, clothed in black, able to blend into the night seamlessly, this monster has one purpose: to torment children.

All the world over, you may goad your little ones with the horrors that could befall them for not eating their vegetables, but you also bless them to protect from such hazards.

There were cases of children vanishing. There were instances of abduction. Long before there were understandings of psychology or criminal analysis, these things were attributed to monsters. And every parent knew that the monster must be invisible to have gotten past their protections.

Every child knows that the monster will find them no matter where they cower and there is no blanket on the planet thick enough to protect them. Sometimes lurking beneath the bed, in the recesses of a closet, or in the corners of rooms by night, this devil invades their dreams. He is just waiting for a moment to gobble them up or spirit them away. The poor dears, heads full of nightmares, go to their beds certain that they have reached the end of their lives.

I think you can see why descriptions of the Boogeyman are never precise. The fear is less tangible now, but in the days of my first memories, death was everywhere, and most children did not live into puberty. The Boogeyman only takes the wicked children, but it is the wicked ones who are most likely to wilfully disregard their parents, or run away into the night to be overcome by the elements or some other horrible calamity. And as you know from reading my short stories, there absolutely were child-predators. The threat was mind-numbingly real, and thus, extremely effective.

But was it all a perfect storm of imagination? Was there ever a real Boogeyman to whom the first instances can be attributed, or is this merely the product of the universality of bad parenting, unseen criminal mischief, and the fear of chaotic reality?

I think not.

In a data set packed with noises beneath beds, knocking on walls, disembodied shadows that shift ominously — all easily explained by heightened awareness and fear — there are a few encounters that speak to me, and some of them come from you, my gentle readers.

Once in a great while, you find a child staring out a window at the man with the sharp smile in their favourite tree. Once in a while, there is the hooded figure on the rooftop next door, looking in as if waiting for something. Once in a great while, a child is saved from drowning by a dark hand. Once in a while, the forest herds a lost little one from its treacherous grasp. Once in a while, the monster with whom they live, turns up dead of a broken neck. Once in a while, the man tracking them vanishes into an orchard and is never seen again.

Once in a great while.

We are dangerous. We are killers, each of us unique. I have never willingly harmed a child outside of war, but I have eaten them. I have my ethics, my feelings, but they are mine alone. I am certain that many of my brethren have spirited your babies away. I am sure that there are many shadowy figures who wait to hear that some little one is nothing but a pain. Perhaps they are salivating in the wings, all too happy to make the baseless threat a reality.

Once in a while, however, a wild child is found.

In the twelfth century, only a few decades after the Norman Conquest of Britain, in the town of Woolpit, two children turned up in a field. They spoke a language no one had ever heard, and were entirely green from head to toe. The young boy was reportedly sickly and died, but the girl acquired English and told her benefactor of a land of eternal twilight. Called St. Martin’s land, its inhabitants were all a fine shade of green. According to this young lady, she and her brother were tending to a flock of animals, when they found a cave and wandered toward the sounds of bells, as if traversing a corridor between worlds.

The accounts that survive are extremely suspect for their vagueness, and modern historians would love to say that whether or not the events actually happened is irrelevant. Some discount it altogether as nothing but folklore, but yet again, they base this assumption only upon the few references to survive the ravages of time. Others believe it must have happened, and that the twilight realm was merely a larger cave, and they wandered out into the sun.

Before you ask, I cannot tell you if these events actually transpired, as this was before my time in England; Indeed it is before the time I remember as my awakening. I can tell you, however, that the story was extremely well-known in my day, and most everyone believed the siblings had been stolen from their beds by a vindictive witch, the fairies, or our friend, the Boogeyman. Compare the tale to Hansel and Gretel, first transcribed by the Brothers Grimm, but predating them. The abandoned little siblings fed a terrible diet of sweets by their cannibalistic captor, kept in the woods until the time was right to make a tasty pie. Everyone knew the Babes in the Wood, and everyone knew that they were lucky to escape.

The girl supposedly lived a normal life above ground, and she never exhibited any magical talents. She married well and was employed. She seemingly never tried to rediscover her colony of green people. And the green people never came looking for their lost children. If it is folklore, I fail to see the point. It could be the delusions of sickly children, but there are entirely too many details for which there is no account. I find it more likely, as odd as it sounds, that it did happen and that there is an explanation for a cloister of people living underground, suffering from chlorosis.

Anyone who has studied feral children knows that they, by definition, lack language. Yet these two spoke a tongue no one, not even their gentleman host, knew— and in those days, England was a cesspit of languages; Anglo-Saxon, Flemish, Briton, Gaelic, Dutch, Norman French. Someone had to have taught them this language. In an era when traveling was fraught with dangers and very expensive, it is doubtful that their ancestors migrated from a prohibitively distant foreign land to start a colony in a subterranean vault.

It is difficult to imagine what sort of person keeps animals in a cave, herds sheep underground. It must needs be someone who never wants to be seen, but eats meat by the pound.

And then again, there is the name of their idyllic sanctuary: St. Martin’s Land. Saint Martin of Tours is the patron saint of alcoholics. If the savage children had no knowledge of faith or English, I wonder how they know to call it that.

There are many explanations for these events, no doubt. It could be a simple story carrying on the ancient trope of the mystical “other” who reveals itself to align with the tainted world of man. It could be that there was a kindly hermit hoarding orphans who had nowhere else to go. It could be that the Boogeyman meant to gobble them up, and had himself quite the collection.

Hell, it could be all three.

Or it could be something else entirely. What that is, I leave to you. Is the Boogeyman real? Who took all the lost children? What peeks out from the treetops as you sleep? Why is it, over all the world, the creature is the same? Is he bad, good, or just terribly complicated?

Shall We Celebrate? The Tapas Art Competition

art-contest

October is by far and away, my favorite month, because I am a monster. Though I spend most days carefully painted and dressed to blend in, during this season, I am free to be myself. October is the month I celebrate my monster-hood, and so…I would like to propose a competition!

To all you gifted artists, you avid amateurs, you comic contributors, I offer you a challenge: look through the scattered pages of The Creature’s Cookbook or Simon’s Snacks (available only on the Tapas app), and summon up your muses! It will be your task to illustrate my life. You may make use of any medium you wish, and submit as often as you like. Your art will be judged by your peers through “likes”, by the staff at Tapas, and most importantly, by me. The winners – for I dearly hope there will be many – will have their art included in the book or short story from which they drew their inspiration. Your art will be available for all to see, an integral part of my work forevermore. You will be, my gentle readers, published artists.

Think of it as a pairing, of sorts.

This contest can be free to enter. What I mean by “can be” is that many of the chapters are open, but these will, of course, have the most entries. You may open more chapters or stories for the cost of pennies per piece (the total cost of the books do not exceed the amount of purchasing the book at a bookstore). You may also submit a portrait, and I will choose the one I like best to use as a bio-pic for my Tapas author’s profile.

Please submit your illustrations by uploading to the Tapas forum post pertaining to this competition. Vote on the submissions of other artists, and please, as always, be polite!

1. The Work Must Be Original:
You must be the creator of the art that you submit to the competition. Your art must be your own original concept and not a copy of anyone else’s copyrighted material. (If your image infringes upon another’s copyright it will be disqualified.) Upon submitting your work, to this competition, you are solely responsible for any infringement on copyrighted materials.

2. Copyright:
The artist retains all copyrights to their artwork without exception.

3. Multiple Submission:
There are no restrictions to the number of contests in which the artist participates, nor the number of pieces they may submit, nor the number of prizes they can win.

4. Submission Deadlines:
Artworks may be submitted until midnight Pacific Time on 10/31/2016. No artworks will be accepted past the posted deadline.

Note: It is best if the images submitted are no smaller than 800px X 800px

I cannot wait to see what you produce, my lovely friends!

Monstrous Myths: Wendigo

Wendigo_beast.jpg

This monster hails from the upper northeast of the North American continent, a tradition from the Algonquian nations. As ever, with monsters, the image of them varies, more than likely because only one man ever saw this creature and warned all the others. the story grew, was told and retold, and thusly, we have several separate descriptions, bound by land and migration patterns, but to me it is clear. I am a wendigo. Or perhaps I should say, a wendigo is me.

Let me give you the most common description: gaunt and emaciated, stretched, grayish skin, large dark eyes, and an insatiable hunger for human flesh. They are believed to be masters of dark magic, with heightened senses, ability to petrify people with terror, manipulate their thoughts, or sometimes mimic their voices. Some reports have him with antlers, and some claim that men can be possessed by wengiowak, however, knowing which came first is a bit challenging, due to the fact that there was little recording of the stories or of the practices with which they were retained, or if any alterations were made when the stories migrated (so far as I am aware). Some reports have a foul smell, while some associate the monsters with blizzards or food shortages. Both of these make great sense to me.

There have been times in my life, of which I am not proud, that I have allowed myself to slip back into that terrible cesspool of irrationality. Most often when it was impossible to hunt, as it is during a blizzard. It almost always ends in a bloodbath and then a newly conscious and disgusting me, looking around at the carnage with an awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach. But this is not important.

No, really.

What I find fascinating, is that to these peoples the condition was contagious. Cannibalism was thought to cause it, and in the early days of the colonies, they would even send death squads out to execute people they believed to be wendigowak. They could not, would not, see us as separate entities. They embraced us as peers, possessed of a demon that could only be extinguished in death. Or perhaps I am being optimistic. Perhaps they were really using our myths to justify their carnage against one another — “Yes, let us go and murder Sam, as he is surely a wendigo…with a very pretty widow-to-be.”

Whatever the reason, they truly did fear wendigo sickness, such that when the Ojibwe eventually did cross paths with me, they paid me to stay away — in the flesh of their enemies. They performed dances upwind from my dwelling to ward me off their innocent children. They sent a poor old man to wave herbs at me. I sent him back staggering with rum for his trouble. They positively cowered at the sight of me, such that I could walk amidst the waginoga, sit down, and even the most staunch warrior would do nothing more than pretend I was invisible.

It made supplying myself very simple, as you can imagine, and though their offerings were made from fear, I repaid them. During the war — the Seven Years war, as they called it, that village was very well protected, especially at night.

But again, all this is immaterial — it was a very long time ago and it did not last long. Someone eventually became tired of my constant lurking and organized a death squad…that did not end as planned.

I left.

And the vicious wendigo continued its rampage through folklore, augmented by my stupidity.

It was the last time I ever did such a thing. Forever more, I was a human, no matter where I went.

Please do not misunderstand me: I am not the first wendigo. I took advantage of the myth in order to live a relatively luxurious existence practicing my knack for trapping and skinning things, and thriving without the need for the exhaustive and risky hunt. The myth pre-dated me, and indeed was pervasive. Everyone in the region knew the tale, the warding songs, the precautions. Which tells me that before I ever journeyed to the New World, my kith and kin had done their devilish best.