Rockwood
Sarah
This glamour
has teeth.
Fiction draped in
blood-red velvet
— gorgeous, lurid.
Sharp women, dancing with ancient dangers.
They don't need saving — they're the reason you lock the door.
Poems that find the bruise and press, slowly.
Step inside.
Something beautiful is about to happen to you — and you won't be the same.
A gift from the dark — yours free.
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Some doors you open. Some doors open you.
These are small, patient horrors — each one a held breath, a movement in the shadows, a glimmer of light on a blade. This dread doesn't pounce; it paces, deliberately, across your heart and down your spine.
Tales birthed from gritty sidewalks and sterile mortuary tables, snow-covered fields and velvet-lined rooms, secret caves and ancient forests. As you move from moment to moment, the horror lays a gentle kiss against your throat, runs cold fingers through your hair.
Savour these tales by candlelight, one at a time. Read them too fast, and they may follow you home.