OAK HAVEN

Venomous Lips

Infected by the venom of your lips, she carves out a skull—

scraping flesh, splintering bone—until all that remains is a hollow effigy of the self

she used to be. The death of her ego is no mere surrender; it is a violent offering, a

grotesque baptism into something far darker."

Horror Knights

Late at night, I see them at the circus, though I can’t remember

buying a ticket. Their skin isn’t painted—it shifts and bleeds color like an old

photograph dissolving in water. They don’t walk; they glide, their limbs moving just

after I see them move. I try not to blink. They are hungry, but not for food. They drink

fear like it’s thick, sweet syrup, their grins stretching wide enough to swallow the

stars. One tilts its head, and I hear a wet pop, like something snapping loose inside

my skull. I shouldn’t be here. They giggle, a sound that doesn’t come from their

mouths but from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside me. The lights of the circus

flicker, and for a split second, I see something underneath their faces. Something

raw. Something grinning too wide. I turn to run. But the ground is soft beneath my

feet, like flesh. And when I look down, I realize—this isn’t the first time I’ve been

here."

Witches Nest

"A dark, tumbled road stretches ahead, cracked and uneven, as if the

earth beneath it has been trying to swallow it whole. The grass on either side is too

tall, whispering as it sways, though there is no wind. I don’t know how I got here. I

don’t know where here is. Above me, the moon isn’t right. It’s shaped out, carved at

strange angles like something has bitten into it. The sky feels too big, too empty, as if

something is waiting just beyond what I can see. Then, the howls begin. Not just

wolves—something else. The sound is layered, voices splitting and merging, echoing

in ways they shouldn’t. My stomach knots. They’re close. The road offers no signs, no direction.

Only the dark ahead, the howls behind, and the creeping sensation that

the tall grass isn’t just swaying—it’s watching."

Black Fangs

"My breath barely makes a sound, yet the silence is deafening. It

confuses me, disorients me—as if my existence is fading, dissolving into the night.

But the black cobras do not fade. They pulse with a liquid darkness, their slick bodies

writhing with an intelligence that feels aware. Their eyes gleam, not with hunger, but

with something worse—recognition. They know me. They’ve been waiting. Their

hoods flare. Mouths yawn wide. Venom beads at their fangs, thick and glistening like

ink, ready to spit. And then—movement. The wolves convulse, their bodies twisting in

ways that should break bones. The cracking sounds are wet, echoing like shattered

branches in the hollow night. Their limbs elongate, muscles rippling, jaws stretching

into grotesque grins as fur erupts from their skin. They are no longer wolves. They are

no longer men. They are something in between—something worse. And all I can do is

stand there, silent, fading, as they turn their glowing eyes toward me."

Locked Cabin

A shadowy figure looms outside the window, faceless and devoid of any ego, moving with an unsettling stillness.

The night is eerily silent, broken only by the rustling of leaves as I fumble with the door's lock.

Is he a murderous phantom, or merely a lost soul wandering the dark, haunted woods?

The chilling calls of an owl pierce the air, while the distant howls of wolves echo like sinister warnings through the oppressive darkness.

A Frightened Dragon - “I Dream Of A Dragon Every Night.”

It waits in the distance, curled around a ruined world that flickers like dying candlelight

Its scales shift like a liquid shadow, rippling with images I almost recognize—faces I’ve forgotten, places I’ve never been.

It does not breathe fire. It does not speak. It watches. And every night, I wake up closer.

The dream follows me into waking life. Reflections flicker with scales.

My shadow stretches in ways it shouldn’t. I hear slow, deep breathing when I am alone, the sound curling inside my skull.

Then, one night, I woke up in a dream. The dragon is no longer distant. It is waiting, its great head lowering, golden eyes locking onto mine.

"You are not dreaming," it says. And I remember— I have never woken up.

Blood Moon

Under the crimson glow of the moon, the night awakens with a hunger that cannot be silenced

Its silver light, now stained with a deep and ancient thirst, calls forth the cursed—the beasts that roam and the shadows that hunt.

In the distance, wolves rise with hollow cries, their bodies convulsing as bone stretches, muscles twist, and men become monsters beneath the watchful eye of the sky.

In the crypts below, the vampires stir, their breath slow but their hunger sharp, tasting the air for the scent of warm, pulsing life.

The moon is their mother, their silent queen, her light a song that only the forsaken understand.

She does not judge—only guides. And so, beneath her glow, the cursed dance, they hunt, they feed.

But as dawn sets fire to the horizon, the creatures retreat, vanishing into the shadows from which they came.

The blood dries, the echoes fade, and silence returns.

Yet the moon still watches, her eye unblinking, waiting for the next night, the next hunt, the next rise of the ones who never sleep.

Dark Devotion

I do not ask for forever; I ask for this moment—for the space where your heart beats uncertainly, where your fears whisper that love is a risk too great to take

But love is not a trap, and I have no desire to cage you.

I see the way you hesitate, the way your soul flinches at the thought of surrender, but I am not here to demand or to chase

I am here to stand beside you, to offer my hand without expectation, to love you gently, patiently, until you realize that love does not have to be heavy

It can be a sanctuary, a quiet refuge where you are safe to breathe, to grow, to stay—not because you must, but because you choose to.

And if that day comes, if your heart ever reaches for mine, know that my devotion will not waver, that my love will not fade,

that I will cherish you not as someone conquered, but as someone free— free to love me back in your own time, in your way, for as long as your heart allows.

Resting Place

The tomb was empty, but not silent. Something had moved inside, scraping against the stone—slow at first, then frantic.

The grave clothes lay in shreds, not neatly folded, but torn as if He had struggled to leave. The air smelled wrong, thick with something like burnt incense and rotting lilies. They said He had risen, but when Mary looked into His eyes, her breath caught in her throat. The man before her was not the man she had known. His hands, still pierced, twitched as though they did not belong to Him, his breath too slow, too measured, like He was remembering how to use lungs. The wounds on His body did not heal, did not close, did not even bleed. They only gaped. When He finally spoke, it was not with words, but with something deeper—a pressure inside her skull, a whisper that did not pass through her ears but curled into her mind. She staggered back, nausea washing over her as the others rejoiced, as they fell at His feet and wept in joy. They embraced Him, but His touch lingered too long, fingers pressing into their flesh as if learning the texture of human skin. That night, Mary dreamed of the tomb. She dreamed of Him, awake in the darkness before the stone was rolled away, lying there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling with dead, glassy eyes—waiting. Remembering. She woke with the taste of blood in her mouth, a shiver lodged in her spine, and outside, beneath the cold silver moon, He was standing in the street, watching her window, motionless. Smiling.

Under The Night

The alley was slick with rain and blood, the scent of iron thick in the air. Two figures stood in the darkness, neither breathing, neither blinking. One was old—older than cities, older than kings—his skin like parchment stretched too thin, his eyes black voids that had seen empires crumble. The other was younger, but not weak. His fangs dripped with stolen life, his hands curled into claws. This was not a fight of strength; it was a war of hunger. They circled each other, shadows shifting unnaturally, the city around them blind to the battle of monsters. The older one moved first—too fast for mortal eyes, a blur of decayed silk and predatory rage. He struck, his fingers like daggers, his grip like steel, but the younger was waiting. He did not dodge. He let the blow land, let the pain bloom across his ribs like fire—because pain was nothing compared to the hunger. And then he bit. Not the throat, not the wrist—he sank his fangs into the heart, piercing flesh, bone, and the cold thing that had beaten for centuries without purpose. The elder gasped, a sound like wind through a graveyard, his body convulsing as blackened blood filled his chest. His strength drained instantly, pouring into the one who had bested him, his ancient power unraveling into dust. His skin cracked, his veins darkened, and with a final, rasping whisper, his body crumbled to nothing. The younger stood, wiping his mouth, feeling the power settle into him, twisting, burning, changing him. The hunger remained, but now it was deeper, darker, infinite. He had won. But as he looked down at the ashes beneath his feet, he understood—**he was no longer the hunter. He was becoming the hunted.