I can say how readers might make the mistake, upon seeing my work, as firmly rooted in what some might call “horror entertainment”. I won’t argue, as there is much common ground and certainly plenty of cross over between what I chronicle and what the masses take in as fictions and scary stories for the holidays. I have made attempts, and will continue to do so, to even explain how the forces I have spent my life trying to describe make themselves known in other works of art out there in the world. I will continue to do so, as the down time in my other pursuits allow.

This is a strange thing I do, I know. I don’t expect my chronicles to be so easily digested and I know they have often have a sleeper effect. That is okay. There is something deeply uncanny in what I craft and it is probably best I should at least straightforward in this.

What I write here is a kind of Rosetta Stone for the fictions that emerge from my pen or keyboard. What I cannot transcribe there, where find some annotation here. What made be too blunt or brusque for the restrainted poetry of fiction can be made plain on this blog. Oh, I am going on again.

Let me say this.

I am of the dead and yet I do so much to try to discover their secret languages. They have not yet welcomed me as they should.

I tire of the mystical trickery that shifts and changes, like the thousand phantoms that have woven it, and seek to find some focus beyond that veil. I eschew the monikers of religion, for there is no singular god or devil that can contain the intimations of the terrors I have felt in this living twilight. The undead, the unreal, it promises things that make saints and demons tremble in their clerical costumes. This much can be said plainly.

So, this can be the beginning, or it may be the epitaph. Regardless, look to the stories and see them for what they do not say as much as what the sometimes uncertain language offers. These are not fictions, these are merely the voices I hear whispered in a voice stronger than my own.