Category Archives: Hallowtide


I self-published my first novel, Hallowtide, this past October. It’s March now and I want to give it away for free. I put seven years into this book, writing revision after revision, enlisted the help of a number of brilliant editors, and worked on the book’s design for six months before its publication. There’s always errors and more to fix, but I wouldn’t release something I’m not proud of, and there’s nothing I’ve done yet in life that I’m more proud of than this novel.

To go to a free PDF of the novel Hallowtide, go ahead and click this link: Hallowtide Free PDF

or click the photo below.

A self-published debut novel is a hard sell. I get that. There’s a lot of crap out there. I also get that free is the way of the future. It’s more important to me to have my work spread first, and trust that it’s good enough to help support me later. Writing is one of my two greatest passions, and it’s the dream to be able to support myself financially while working on the next project.

The only thing I ask in return is your time to read it and chew on it a bit and, if you feel so moved, to maybe toss a review on amazon to help generate more interest. Of course, digital and hard copies are also available through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and iTunes if you’d like something fancier.

Thanks all! I hope it moves you the way it has moved me for the past seven years.

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Hallowtide is the story of one young man and a journey to Hell. Thought he can’t remember it, Will Andrews was a victim of a high school shooting in 2001. They found Will, bleeding out beside the gunman, pistol in his hand, apparently having saved what could have been hundreds of lives. Now, five years later, he’s crippled by nightmares of Hell.

These nightmares, his therapist  believes, are likely one half of himself desperately trying to communicate with the other. But the deeper Will digs at both the dreams and the shooting, the more the lines between reality and fiction are blurred, and he finds himself in a place where nightmare bleeds into memory, the spiritual leaks into the physical, and the world as he knows it threatens to dissolve entirely. 

Both heart-wrenchingly beautiful, and deeply harrowing, Hallowtide combines Jungian theory with echoes of classic descent narratives, deconstructing western philosophy, depression, religion, and the 21st century sense of the self, while following one young man’s fall into Stygian wasteland and the journey that will change him forever. 

Again, you can click the graphic above to read the free PDF,

You can always find more at

And you can always find me at and on twitter @KarlPfeiffer

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Here’s goes! I’m announcing a brand new, month-long contest for my novel, Hallowtide!

If you’ve yet to get on board with the Hallowtide train, well, for one: NOW is the time. For two: Here’s a link to the website if you’d like to check it out..

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At the start of the month of April, I’m releasing an updated edition of Hallowtide to fix the occasional formatting issues or grammatical error that was overlooked in the initial editing sprint that ended last summer.

With this edition, I want to include some front matter from you guys. The readers.

There’s been a lot of love flying around for the book online already, and I want to bring that together in a Reader Review section at the start of the book, which will be made up of blurbs from YOU GUYS.

It’s going to be very simple. Here’s how it’ll work:

You pick yourself up a copy of Hallowtide. Kindle. Hard copy. Mobi. Whatever fits your fancy.

But you know what, money is tight these days too, I know. And you know what, I’m asking you guys to do me a solid. And you know what, I’d rather my book spread right now than demand ALL THE MONEYS from you.

So I’ll tell you what, I’m offering Hallowtide, in its entirety, FOR FREE as a PDF file through the end of March.

You can download or view the files HEREHallowtide PDF

Go ahead and send your friends copies. Tell them what I’m up to. I don’t mind.

It’s so simple:

Check out the book. Read the whole thing, digest it, and then head on over to Hallowtide’s page on Amazon, Barnes&Noble, or iTunes and leave a review. Include your first name, last initial, and state/country.

Now, obviously, blurbs are generally positive, but I value honesty over ego-boosters. So,

If you don’t like it, let me know. If you liked some parts and not others, let me know. I appreciate wit and insight. Leave your review in an honest, enthusiastic, witty, insightful, or comedic way, and I promise I’ll try to put it in the book.

The deadline for the reviews will be March 31, 2013. I’ll do my best to turn them around and have the book available for you guys WITH your blurbs at the front, by April Fool’s Day.

At the same time, I hope to have a page on the novel’s website for special ordering directly through me for personalized and signed copies, which are otherwise unavailable right now. Those will have a bit more of a delay, because I’ll have to order copies, sign, then resend them again to you.

And that’s the contest. Read the book, for free if you like. Leave a review. Get a blurb in the book or all over the website. Become famous for writing the greatest book review ever. Everybody wins. 

All I ask is your time.

(No purchase necessary, batteries not included, void where prohibited, side effects include but are not limited to death by hungry hungry hippos.)

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The Afterlife?

So Hallowtide is about Will’s journey through his personal hell. Since I’ve read the book, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the afterlife and ghosts… Do you believe that everyone has their own personal afterlife tailored specifically for them? Or does everyone have the same afterlife (according to their religion or beliefs)? Or maybe some elements are the same in everyone’s afterlife. I can’t help but think that maybe some ghosts are just living their afterlife and that’s why they haunt specific places. For example, heaven for them would be a particular place that made them the most happy and hell would be a particular place that gave them a horrible experience (where they died, where they were abused, etc.) -Kelly G

This is a great question, and one that I thought would make a good blog post to reply to. Without giving too much away, my novel Hallowtide is indeed about a young man and his journey to Hell. This journey seems to, at the most superficial, be taking place within his dreams. Dreams are a space of subconscious interaction, and many psychologists believe that this dream state is a good place to manifest the mind’s invisible. But the questions are raised within the book when it comes to the “truth” within these dreams, the “truth” of the subconscious, and the doors that opens to much of psychologist Carl Jung’s philosophy, in which there is a deeper layer of unconscious space, the Collective Unconscious, where the collective subtleties of a culture pool. Joseph Campbell took this idea and ran with it toward his search in finding universal consistencies within mythic hero stories. I bring this back in the novel to discussions about then what might be spiritually real happening within Will’s dreams.

The research and study that I did in college and my personal life while working on the novel has definitely melted into my own thoughts on the nature of the afterlife too. Obviously this is a popular topic of reflection too with my job as a ghost hunter.

While I’m actually quite taken with Jung’s mythology, I also find a certain foundation in the theory of Mystical Experiences. Much of mysticism (a broad, broad category in its own right) suggests that there are at least two levels of worlds (more often a spectrum between the two), one of which is this physical world in which we operate (the one of empiricism, the five senses, sciences, and that which we can document) and then the more Platonic world of ideals, ideas, the abstract, a space where perhaps morality and good and evil and intention are as tangible as here, the flesh. This is the spiritual world. This is the non-physical. It seems to me that the act of death is a shedding of the physical, and that whatever is at the core of our experience, this consciousness (soul, spirit, what have you) is then in this inherently non-physical, ineffable place beyond this world we know.

But it seems that these worlds intercross (a spectrum, as many mystics believe). Indeed, if we ourselves are physical and spiritual beings both, most pertinently then, within ourselves.

Emotions play an interesting role here that I haven’t come to a conclusion on. Emotions, I’ve always felt, are what help us to transcend this place. My inner romantic believes that emotions like true love, that deep, world-shaking (indeed, breaking) feelings of compassion, or utter selflessness (even hatred perhaps) transcends this world and puts us on the level of spiritual creatures. But we also find that with emotion is often material attachment. We often find ourselves most emotionally attached to things: temporary, physical, stuff. Whether that’s a person, a place, or a thing, all of which will fade in time.

Emotions then have this kind of two-fold place, where on the one hand I think that they can help us transcend to the non-physical, on the other they tie us to the physical. And I’ve found that with spirits, with these ghosts that we interact with, there always seems to be some kind of lingering attachment. And also, as might be an inherent part of this transition to the non-physical, their emotions and attachments often seem amplified.

There’s a story I like to share, the source of which has gotten fuzzy in my memory (but I think it was from Andy Coppock), of this spirit in an old run down California hospital. Creepy place. This spirit was apparently violent and angry down in the lower levels. But this team went down there, dispensed with the bull, said ‘stop yelling at us, and instead tell us why you’re so upset.’ And what they got from this spirit was that he’d been killed accidentally on the operating table when he was a patient at this hospital in the 60s. Being so upset about this, he made it his goal to try to scare everyone away from this hospital so that the same thing didn’t happen to them. But he was still seeing this hospital as functioning and running as it was the day he died.

This to me suggests a kind of correlation to the old cliches, the Sixth Sense and Casper ghosts who have unfinished business and who see what they want to see. It seems to me though that these emotions that become so pure after death, that surround these various focuses and objects of attachment, do align with a distortion of this physical reality, and the changes in ways of interaction that so go along with it.

But most importantly it suggests to me that the individual spiritual experience is a very powerful and oftentimes unique one.

And that oftentimes it’s layered with attachments, illusions (though who is to say what’s “real” when you’re operating beyond the real), and struggles.

Buddhists, in focusing around the elimination of dukha, (suffering or dis-ease) are focused–you could say–in the study of happiness. And they don’t believe that true happiness is found in material objects because they are temporary. Every single thing in this world will break down. You. Me. Your loved ones. And so finding happiness within them is not true happiness because it will eventually turn to sadness. It’s dependent. True happiness should be independent, and stand on its own. So even, I expect, for a spirit finding happiness–its own kind of Heaven–in something of the material world (a loved one, a home, an object), is not, under this kind of thinking, truly happy. It’s a kind of false happiness. One that, the Buddhists would suggest, is bested by the peace of inner-happiness and of acceptance. Or, as the mystics might suggest, the kind of peace found in transcendence, in moving on, in letting go, in embracing the spiritual, the divine–whatever that indescribable non-physical pinnacle is of such a world.

I think letting go of this pure physical reality is difficult for many of us and that it’s a lifetime(s) of learning what we’re here to learn and then trying to overcome the intoxication of the pleasures (and pain) of the physical that is a real challenge, but a necessary and natural one. Why we don’t see many spirits from the past few hundred years alone suggests that there’s something to move on to. Whether that’s reincarnation or a more pure form of non-physical spirituality (divinity, as some mystics would suggest) (or both), I think that isn’t not nearly so absolute a process of life and death as we think here in our physical world.

Beyond that, to suggest what people see then in their afterlife experiences, I think can be a bit messy. If they’re “seeing” something, there’s an inherent suggestion that there’s still something physical happening there. They have eyes to ‘see’ and that there is something to “be seen.” All of these would suggest that in such a setting there is a still some tie to the physical. So I think if someone is seeing something that can be described, it might be again, some kind of focus or attachment that’s overwhelming the pure experience that is the afterlife. Whether that’s guilt, or whether that’s a kind of excitement for something specific, I think it could become hard to trust.

While researching mysticism, we find this idea of people accessing the divine, the spiritual. Indeed, this is the foundation of many of the religions that surround the globe, especially the theistic ones. A person has an experience of something beyond the physical. They want to share this experience and they want to share how they discovered it (setting grounds for a belief and a set of practices, the foundational cornerstones of any ideology). Of course they try to describe it in words. But the experience is beyond the physical world. And words are a limited construction of the physical. You cannot describe the indescribable. You can only point at it). The mystic also describes it in terms of their culture, which can also be very limited. The culture picks and chooses which elements fit their framework for viewing the world, the experience is repeated, doctrine is described, and in its sharing with thousands of people, is often changed. And so, it’s no surprise to me that we get wildly differing accounts of religious experiences across the world.

So by putting any one religious theory of the afterlife over another, or even trying to describe it in words at all, is to muddy the waters. But I hope that this gives some idea of my perspectives on it all. Certainly I come from a very mystical perspective, one that has lead to a much more pluralistic religious perspective, but one that sustains a lot of respect to all religions and belief systems.

But I certainly don’t know. Many far smarter than I have written many books on the subject. Some of which are quite good, many of which I haven’t gotten to yet. But this framework is what at the moment makes the most kind of sense to me, and ultimately, as structured the question, what found its way into the story of my first novel, Hallowtide. 

Any more questions? Disagreements? Furthering thoughts? Dive into a conversation below. But keep it cool. Religion is touchy. Death is frightening. And we’re all just trying to figure it out.

Karl Pfeiffer is the author of the novel Hallowtide. After winning the first season of the pilot reality series Ghost Hunters Academy, he went on to work with the Ghost Hunters International team on the same network. Since then he’s graduated Colorado State University with a degree in Creative Writing and an emphasis on Religious Studies. He works at the Stanley Hotel leading the weekend public ghost hunts and writes for the TAPS Paramagazine. More can be found at

Is that the devil?

Three weeks ago, my white-haired, quiet, Catholic grandmother studied my final cover photo on the book before leaning in close and whispering in a voice so laden with concern that it bordered on afraid, “Karl, is that the Devil?”

“No,” I said, turning my mouth down and shaking my head. “No, no, no.” Because it’s not. The literal version of the cover is that it’s the main character burning in hellfire. But the devil is in the novel–if you so choose to read it in that light. And the opening quote is from Carl Jung, pointing out that “Man is not fundamentally good. Almost half of him is a devil.” Indeed, the story takes an eastern light on our western culture and blends the black with the white and tries to find a balance between the two. It’s about self-reconciliation and learning about the devil inside yourself and coming to terms with him. But I didn’t want to explain this to my grandma, so I said, “No.” I said, “No, no, no.”

But if I had answered, I would have said, “What makes you think it’s the devil?”

And the voice inside my head, playing my grandmother would say, “Well he’s on fire. And the flames look like horns. And he looks so angry.”

“Is angry all he looks?”

“He looks tortured. And in pain.”

“So is that what makes a devil? Being tortured, in pain, angry, aflame, and with imagery that suggests of horns?”

“And he looks evil.”

“Is that what evil is then? Being tortured? being in pain and angry and aflame?”

“Of course it’s more than that.”

“And he has that?”

Perhaps no, perhaps yes. If my grandmother does see evil in the image, if she says, “That’s essentially what Satan undergoes,”

I’d say, “then that’s exactly what my book is about. My book is about the Devil.”


You can buy Hallowtide through its website at

Hallowtide Facebook Banners

It’s a Wednesday and it’s October so what do you say to snagging some Hallowtide Facebook banners to promote the book and freak out your friends?

Hallowtide Soundtrack!

And for your intellectual and philosophical pleasure, I give you a officially unofficial Hallowtide playlist to take you through the book musically, thematically, emotionally… grammatically.  (You might need Spotify to play it I think..)

Hallowtide: Chapter One (4/4)

OCTOBER 1, 2012


The math teacher Stanley Davis sat in the hospital bed in front of the policeman. The scene was like a nightmare. A man dreaming with his eyes open, watching himself in a mirror. His leg burned beneath bandages. The room was too white. Too bright. Too starchy.

The policeman was a large man, round, thick around the waist. The chair seemed to disappear beneath him. A funhouse effect. The world warping.

We need to take your statement as soon as possible, he said. We know you’re recovering right now. But the more we can find out about what happened, the easier this will be. The easier it will be to get back to normal.


Tell us, Mister Davis. What exactly happened?

“He killed them,” Davis said. “It was like Hell itself fell like a wave. I’ve never been in war, but I think I can imagine one now.”



you killed them, Will.

I did?



classmates. friends. enemies. you’re a motherfucker.

Black smoke clogged the air around him, lingering, formless, at the edge of the small ring of light where he stood. Within the smoke, he thought he could catch the barest of glimpses of trees intertwining into the distance, some kind of fractal pattern lost in an exponent. There were hundreds of them, shifting, moving, as magicians’ hands, twiddling, touching, turning. The sight made him sick, as if the world were spinning, as if gravity had lost hold. He almost felt lighter on his feet, and the sensation made his head swim.

Is that why I’m here? he asked.


The smoke took form and danced in tendrils, as if becoming one with the spindly tree fingers. He couldn’t tell where the branches began and where the whirls ended. This place wasn’t real.

Am I in Hell, then?

It didn’t feel like Hell.

does it feel like Hell?

The smoke twisted and took with it his head, encircling. When the voice came next, it was above him.


Jesus, he cursed, and his head exchanged places with his stomach. The world was turning on a strange axis about his head. I’m going to be sick.

you were a student.

Will dropped to his knees and held tight to the ground, breathing in and out, pressing his eyes closed. If only he could get his bearings back–if only it wouldn’t feel that the world was off its axis. If things could get normal again, he’d be okay.

in high school. you had a girlfriend. she was beautiful. you killed her too.

Will thought of the face he awoke to. He turned his head toward the tree where she sat and studied the touch of light against her profile. Was that her? Did he bring her to this place with him?

it was all very graphic. lots of blood. you didn’t expect it would be so bad. you didn’t expect it would go the way it did, but you didn’t mind.

Where are you? Would you come out of the dark already?

Something twisted inside his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was nausea or frustration.

The voice was silent.

What? Where’d you go?

Still, nothing.

Hey! he said. The voice had gradually crawled into his head, intermixed with his thoughts, and installed itself. He’d accepted it almost before he processed the words. Now that the words had faded, he felt, in a way, hollow inside. It was a connection, perhaps his only connection here, and now it was missing.

Where are you? He was nearly shouting now as he blindly crawled to his feet again, thrashing his way into the smoke even as the ground seemed to tilt and drop beneath him, as if in a funhouse where the floor dipped and changed in the dark.

Please come back.

His assault on the smoke was the way one would run into a tangle of vines and twisted jungle-like greenery, and he felt as absorbed, as knotted, as caught.

Please come back.

remember this, boy. without me, you have nothing.

Will gasped, as if the air had lightened around him, a pressure removed from his chest. He was not alone anymore. He wasn’t alone. He was okay.

Please, come forward.

He could almost feel the thing smirk in the air next to him.

for a killer, you’re awfully needy.

Will frowned.

and if i left? would you stand there thrashing about like an infant?

He felt like an infant.

i am everything to you. i am your connection, i am your vitality, i am your eyes and your voice and your mind. I am how you see and how you touch. I am the neurons between your mind and your skin. I am the brain before your soul. I am how you see the world and you will respect that. Or I will hurt you.

Then there were hands against his face, pressing, without stopping, sliding about his head and his hair and his neck, pulling tight, without tenderness, until it hurt, until the hold was fast, clutching, strangling, squeezing. Will’s teeth cut against the insides of his cheeks and his throat pulsed.

Do you understand me?

Will tried to nod, tried to speak, to mutter even a syllable. He gurgled.

I carried you here on my back. I can make the smoke into tree branches and take away the light. I can show you pain, hold it before your eyes until you want to bleed, wishing you were still alive so that you could die.

Light exploded before Will’s eyes, blending with his reality, white and purple galaxies against black. The mass had grown thick against his body, and his arms became heavy even as he tried to thrash.

As far as you’re concerned,

I am God.

Do you understand me?

The lights went off like fireworks and his lungs burned.

And then the presence was gone from his body. He fell to the ground again, squirming against the dirt and the sticks, pressing his shoulders into the growth, breathing air that stung like hailstones and tasted cold, like ice. Black and white specs rotated before his eyes; the dust, an urn released over a cliff, a handful dropped on a coffin. From between the blurry stars, from the blackness, a shape appeared, a human figure staring at Will with his head cocked to the side.

Will stopped thrashing, his fingers clinging deep within the earth.

The man before him crouched, and the dim glow spread to his face.

At once, Will felt a kind of repulsion wash across him, a fascination blended with disgust. He raised a hand toward the man’s face.

It was Will’s own. He could not remember who he was, what kind of life he led, who his parents were and how he grew up and why he was here, but in an instant he knew that this face was his own, that the small gleaming eyes were his, that the sneer was his, that the power in his presence was his, and that he’d held this power before.

Give it back, Will said.

What do you see? he asked.

Will shuddered.

Tell me what you see.

I see myself.

Of course you do.

The man reached to Will’s face again, and with a sure fist, pummeled the boy in the jaw. Once, twice, three times. A fourth. Each time with a surety that broke bones and vessels, that brought blood against skin and ground and a purple bruise to come crawling, without hesitation, like an insect that lived in the broken places.

Will cried out, screamed into the night, half from the pain that burst along his jaw, half from the slow registration, with the dawning that yes, there was sense here.

WHY? he shrieked.

The man didn’t answer, but Will didn’t need him to.

When the man stopped, Will eventually opened burning, bleary eyes and looked into the dark again for the man. The face looking back had a certain kind of familiarity, but in a forgotten way, different, he knew, from his own. Holding trembling fingers, Will gently prodded the bumps and raw spots along his jawline and forehead and brought the black around him as if it were protection.

In the same way that the man’s fists brought with them a pain and a realization of nerve endings inside his meat, there was suddenly a memory in his mind where before there wasn’t.

What? Will stopped, his hands before his face, his eyes looking upward and unfocused.

A young boy stood on a street corner peering out from behind one of his mother’s legs.

His mother?

No face came to mind. No name. No other memory. Just a leg and a pair of faded blue jeans that his small fists clung to.

She was speaking to someone. This someone was looking at him, smiling, beginning to crouch down. This someone was another woman with dark hair, overweight, but with a pretty face behind narrow glasses. She was wearing a sweatshirt and lazy pants—

That’s what his mom called them, lazy pants.

He covered his eyes. The two women laughed.

“Of course,” his mother said. “If he can’t see you, you can’t see him, right?”

When his eyes focused again on the darkness around him and the two hands before his face, held in the way of the child in his mind’s eye, he pressed them against his eyes and squeezed closed his lids. Starbursts filled his vision, supernova spectacles, shifting colored gasses like the northern lights, like clouds at sunset after sunset after

flickering white days, blue, orange, black, orange, blue.

He felt the whole of the universe behind his eyes, the cosmos stretching far past the nine planets in his solar system, the rings of rubble, the toxic gasses, the bonding of rock and fleck, and–

and there was the big man, the face past his hands, laughing.


Desktop Backgrounds

Excited for Hallowtide to drop in barely a week? Why not represent on your desktop or home computer! Just click, right click, save as, or drag the large file to your desktop. It’s as easy as that.

Hallowtide: Chapter One (3/4)


It had been hours. Days. Weeks. Months even. Time had no meaning here; that was quickly apparent. You could fall asleep and dream of universes and life and generation after generation and kings begetting kings and losing kingdoms and trading crowns. You could sit and watch the face of a beautiful woman who stares back into your eyes and you can lose yourself for what feels like lifetimes. Consumed with guilt, unexplainable, a sense of mystery like the sore against a lip that a tongue can’t stop fondling, a sore that each day festers from the gnawing. And after waking, it’s grown a skin but hasn’t been forgotten, and there’s something altogether satisfying about squeezing it between teeth and peeling it back like wet fabric from flesh.

He came back from his doze. Perhaps he’d slept. There were no dreams. There were no memories. There was still her face, watching him, and there was still that soreness, raw in the way that fingers against untouched skin singe like electricity; pain along nervous highways.

He did not know when the voices began, but eventually, he noticed the sounds. When he awoke, there were whispers amongst the trees and the soft rustle of branches as if in a distant wind. At first there weren’t words, only sibilants and breaths, the kind that tickled his ears and smoothed his skin. Memories of a romance.

When he finally began to make sense of the words, he’d forgotten his fear of voice, of tone, of breaking the silence, but he still didn’t trust himself to speak. Like a cry awakening him from a dream, he was afraid.


That was the word for a while. There were variations thereof, different languages perhaps, different tongues and tones, all that made some sort of inner sense to him. Sometimes the breeze through the trees was only a breeze and sometimes it formed into words and eventually he strained so hard to hear them.


He did not feel welcome.


He did not ask who he–

who the voice was. It seemed fitting that the wind should have a voice and speak. He did not ask who he himself was, which seemed the more important question.

there’s been no mistake,

it whispered next.

As if reading his thoughts, perhaps. Should he discover himself, should he remember, should he find something more concrete than the smoke, would it break again? Was this rebirth? Was this a reconstruction or reincarnation? Was this a conception?

something like that.

He’d risen to his feet almost before he knew it, searching for the voice. There must be a source, he thought now. He could feel no breeze but heard a voice. There must be a source, and there must be some kind of answer.



witness, welcome.

He opened his mouth to speak, but in the formless way of expectation amidst repression, like choking back vomit over an open bowl. He made a hollow whimpering that only he could hear.

The voice grew silent. There was no breeze against his cheeks. There was no sound against the branches of the trees.

He reached a single hand forward into the night. Again, expectation amidst repression, his hand trembled. The air had a texture now. He expected to meet a face, a branch, the wet maw of an unseen beast with a mouth like his own, only larger. Such things existed, he was sure. Anything could exist here.

The anticipation made his fingers feel electric, and again the words formed in his throat, but thick.

He coughed and the sound came out harsh and he thought he could feel it against his hand.

He wanted something to touch that wasn’t his words or his fear, and so with something like a cough and a sob he asked, Hello?

And from the abyss, there was a voice that echoed,


Who are you? Where are you? The words hurt his throat, as if the utterance, for the first time, scratched against unused skin. But they felt good to say.

don’t you see?


then open your eyes.

Tell me who you are. I can see you if you tell me. He remembered the way he saw in the soft light as his fingers reached across the ground and against her cheeks. The forest around him rose from the shadows to the same dim light that lit the ground before him when he sat. He could see the outline of close tree trunks, he could see the spackled ground, and he waved his hand and watched his fingers move at his command. See? I can see. Just come into the light.

but you have to know yourself to see.


Branches chattered above him. He looked up and he saw the suggestion of their interlocking and it sounded like laughter.

i don’t matter. you’re all that matters here






There was only silence. Again the branches, the laughter.

Come into the light! His fragile shout crumbled to a hacking cough.


Why not?


Who are you?

who are you?

I don’t know. He paused and studied his palms. I don’t know.

who are you?

I don’t know, he yelled again, and again he coughed. Who am I?

you’re Will.


and you’re a killer.

Official Hallowtide Cover!

Thought I’d type this up before hopping in the car for the airport to head back home for two weeks.

But after much hype and now being two weeks from the release, it’s time to let you guys in:

Official Hallowtide Cover. (All rights reserved, subject to change, batteries not included)

October 1st…