Thursday, January 15, 2015


I observed in the herbage a number of weather-worn stones, evidently shaped with tools. They were broken, covered with moss and half-sunken in the earth. Some lay prostrate, some leaned at various angles, none was vertical. They were obviously headstones of graves, though the graves themselves no longer existed as either mounds or depressions; the years had leveled all. Scattered here and there, more massive blocks showed where some pompous or ambitious monument had once flung its feeble defiance at oblivion. So old seemed these relics, these vestiges of vanity and memorials of affection and piety, so battered and worn and stained -- so neglected, deserted, forgotten the place, that I could not help thinking myself the discoverer of the burial-ground of a prehistoric race of men whose very name was long extinct. 

Ambrose Bierce

Image by Michael Hartford.


Jay's Shadow said...

That story reminded me of the little graveyard from the 1800's that was found by a church near me that was all over grown.

Frankenrock said...

Rot the Carcosa from True Detective totally reminded me of your work. A terrifying place of branches, roots, filth, and evil. :)

Damian Michael AKA HalloweeNut said...

"The Black Stars Rise..."