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Of the long dead, who lived therein,

Paused by the cold hearth I felt the tendrils of hot sin,

Call of the bed, lover’s sigh made my head spin,

Head all aswirl, my mind lit in colors ablaze,

Will I survive this Christmas witch’s love haze?

Will I survive this Christmas witch’s love haze?

–CHRISTMAS WITCH

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‘Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer that was not meant to be acceptable in Heaven; and soon, in the pauses of her breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually increasing so as to drown and overpower the charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the singing of sweet female voices, which in their turn gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth.’

–NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (The Hollow of the Three Hills)

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Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!
I daur you try sic sportin’,
As seek the foul thief ony place,
For him to spae your fortune.
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
And lived and died deleeret
On sic a night.
–Robert Burns (Hallowe’en)

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Dim, dubious, bat-like creatures seemed to be flitting to and fro between one of the stone vats and the group that toiled like sculptors, clothing the bony foot with a reddish plasm which they applied and moulded like so much clay. Gaspard thought, but was not certain later, that this plasm, which gleamed as if with mingled blood and fire, was being brought from the rosy-litten vat in vessels borne by the claws of the shadowy flying creatures. None of them, however, approached the other vat, whose wannish light was momently enfeebled, as if it were dying down. –Clark Ashton Smith (The Colossus of Ylourgne)

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A Greek god horror story to kill all HOPE. Really dark stuff.

‘The old man continued on his way to the sea, coming after a time upon two men who were digging a grave for a third who lay dead.

“It is a holy office to bury the dead,” he remarked.

“Aye,” said one of the men, “especially if you have slain him yourself and are hiding the evidence.”
–ROGER ZELAZNY (But Not The Herald)

Bark at the Moon, scream as a madman,
Five decades have past golden father of the dark,
Voice pure fire, pure blues in metal desire,
Spilled your sins as easily as blood on black altar,
Kept it real growing the red army to stay,
Kept them hypocrites screamin’ the Devil’s at play.
–KING OF DARKNESS

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The evening was damp and chilly, but the sweat streamed down his face. He struck a match, and there was a strange momentary vision of the vast room, almost empty of furniture, a hollow space bordered by grave walls and the white glimmer of the corniced ceiling.–Arthur Machen (The Idealist)

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hey were people of curious aspect, short and squat, high-cheekboned, with dingy yellow skin and long almond eyes; only in one or two of the younger men there was a suggestion of a wild, almost faunlike grace, as of creatures who always moved between the red fire and the green leaf. –Arthur Machen (The Turanians)

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“How say ye that I was lost? I wandered among roses.
Can he go astray that enters the rose garden?
The Lover in the house of the Beloved is not forlorn.
I wandered among roses. How say ye that I was lost?”
–ARTHUR MACHEN (Ornaments in Jade: The Rose Garden)

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