

Each button, it turned out, led to a new page with dozens of images displayed under headers like “Slammed,” “Punctured,” “Scraped”. Single words, violent but nonspecific, doing nothing to help explain the images beneath them, which were all like the one on the front page: sludgy, indistinct pools of hazy color, vague shapes jumbled together…
The suns light exterminated in the massed leaves and an early dusk fallen. A catholic wilderness where the wind whispered in the snaking branches hymns of doom and the earth slept in churchly darkness. As he walked, he passed areas where the land had fallen sheer and extreme and ancient stones held the trail sovereign…
We had been receiving phone calls in the small hours of the morning, my caregivers reporting each time an inability to discern any presence on the line.
A voyage through four incidents of predation. The mysterious, the hunted, the inhuman, the trapped.
A fragmented tale of a teenager tormented by receiving a cursed image in their DMs.
A “mutilated detective story” by David C. Porter set in the exurban hinterlands, NTTN follows two investigators as they listlessly attempt to solve a rash of brutal crimes, using an ominous closed-circuit television station as their North Star.
Grief as a conduit for passage beyond the veil, always returning us to life.
Two collections of poetry on grief.
An envelope opened, photos scattered on the table—all that remains of a prior life.
The poetic conjuring of a backwoods haruspex guiding us into the charged experience of encounters with hanging animal corpses, forbidding landmarks, and crumbling ruins deep in the forest.
A notebook left on a bedroom floor, mechanically pinched up and deposited in a numbered plastic baggie by a uniformed man.
[Man]will know his fault by the sun which stands in fiery witness and the wind which breathes its judgement in the final silence of the world.