Tag Archives: folk horror

Art of the island

In the walls

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A wall, are there. Like Black Cat by A. E. Poe. She was inside. (Dr Abbey)

I’ve always wondered about the way old houses fall down once no one is in them. As though it is the faith of the inhabitants holding the walls up. If no one believes that these stones are a house, then the walls also forget, and crumble.

It is normal to put something in the walls, to help a building stand tall. I don’t know why old shoes are popular – perhaps simply because they are easy to come by. Sometimes when old walls tumble, they reveal bones – cats or dogs most often. I like to think these were beloved pets who died of old age and were kept in the walls to be part of the home forever. Not bloody sacrifices slaughtered in barbaric rituals.

There are stories about someone who knew someone who found the bones of a child in the walls. Perhaps these are just stories, or mistakes made with dog bones, It would be fair to say that on this island, unwanted children are as easy to come by as worn out shoes. Easier perhaps, for you have to feed children, whereas worn out shoes can be repurposed in all kinds of ways.

I am not sure how a dead child would help secure the walls. However, who amongst us has not made sacrifices of one sort or another, hoping to appease the nameless, faceless forces that hold sway over our lives?

She was in the walls.

(Story concept and art by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue.)

Flora and fauna

The Turnip Man

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“What are you making?” I ask my child.

“It’s The Turnip Man,” she says, holding up her needlework for my inspection.

I say nothing. I have seen The Turnip Man too many times in my dreams of late, his rooty fingers reaching for me.

“He lives underground,” she tells me. Her voice is strangely neutral, as though this information is of great indifference to her.

“Have you seen him?” I ask, more afraid of the answer than I care to admit.

“I see him all the time,” she says, as though this is perfectly normal. “Don’t you see him?”

“Only in dreams.”

“He wants you to see him, but you have to let him in through your eyes,” she explains.

I do not want to let him in.

“He is cross with you,” my child continues.

“What must I do?” I ask in a frightened whisper.

My child considers this question carefully. Almost as though she is listening for the answer. I have never heard The Turnip Man speak. When he opens his mouth in my nightmares, I hear only the sound of my own screaming.

“He wants you to feed him,” she says. Then she smiles up at me. Her eyes are black holes, her skin the leathery texture of dried turnip skin. Her mouth opens slowly, revealing the rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

I wake up screaming, to find my child standing over the bed, holding a piece of cloth depicting The Turnip Man.

I remember that I do not have a child.

(Text by Nimue Brown, Turnip Man image and concept by Allison Kotzig.)