You think you know me. You've driven my roads, walked my parks, and smoked under my overpasses. But I know you too.

I know which Spokane alleyways you should walk down and which you should avoid. I know what is stored in the old warehouse along the tracks and whose fingerprints disturb the thick dust. I know why the Freeman High School pumpkin tradition stopped. I know what the old folks mean when they say you should avoid the crick at night

You are sitting in a room, with your heart jackhammering so hard that you think it’s about to burst through your chest like the xenomorph in that crazy alien movie. There’s a girl with a shaved head in the room. She’s got a tattoo of a spider that starts behind her ear and crawls over her bald head.

In the late 1700s, a group of fur traders set out into the woods
of what is now upstate New York. They knew the woods well and were
comfortable within them. So, when they failed to find anything worth
eating or selling within their first few hours of hunting, they
wandered out further and further.

Dolls in the Attic is an eerie and evocative anthology, weaving together ghostly whispers, dark family secrets, and the chilling realization that some things—once disturbed—will never rest again.

Where things lurk beneath the gardens, blind and hungry

Where a priest finds a direct line to the wrong God

Where a baby screams, hungry and alone, for the cooling corpse of her mother

Where the kitchens have teeth…

Yes, don’t be shy—go ahead and knock 

on the 

DOORS OF DARKNESS

Joe Pawlowski Publishing presents Minnesota, as far from Lake Wobegon as you can possibly get. Few know it, but Minnesota is the epicenter of supernatural activity in America. Possibly in the world. Don’t let our nice-guy image fool you.

"At first glance the painting that he was staring at wasn’t that bad. It was a landscape painted underneath a bridge South of town. It showed long and rolling planes underneath a
burning orange sky. Off in the distance, there was a silhouette of a farm house. But in the bottom right corner of the painting there was an open grave."

"He stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed the parking lot, biting down on the filter of his cigarette as he did so. He made his way up the small, grassy slope on the other side of the lot to the road. There he was able to see the shelterbelt across the road clearly. With the sun setting behind the trees, they looked less like a cleverly placed windbreak and more like the dark woods in a child’s fairy tale."

"Billy O’Brian was laid to rest with an empty coffin. The police are almost certain that he’s dead because of all the blood that was left behind, but his parents still hold out hope that something will change. Someone will call in asking for a ransom or they’ll pull over some speeding car and he’ll be there in the backseat. He’ll be smiling and just waiting for a kind police officer to take him home.

But Billy O’Brian is dead. The only thing left of him was a pile of bloody clothes that were found just outside of town."

"Paul’s own head was spinning. He couldn’t remember how exactly he’d ended up at Mallory’s house. The last thing that he could remember was… Well that was the thing. Paul couldn’t seem to remember anything other than Mallory’s laughter."

"The day had been cold and bright, the way that days were in January in North Dakota. The sun would hang in the middle of the sky and there wouldn’t be a cloud for miles and just when you were thinking that it might be nice enough to actually do something outside for a change, that nasty wind would blow in and cut through whatever poor excuse you had for clothes right down to your bones."