James Colton

It’s abnormal for a new pastor—fresh out of seminary and immediately upon accepting his first post—to lead a Christmas Eve service. I’ve often wondered why this is the case. The annual candlelight service leaves very little room for creativity—and consequently, error—making it ideally suited for a novice. I suspect it has much to do with the aversion to novelty that the holiday engenders; no one wants a new face intruding upon their cherished traditions.

Regardless, such was my circumstance in the December of ’87 when I found myself, very suddenly, the pastor of this small rural church.

It sits in the middle of nowhere, an ancient building composed of rough stonework. The ground floor is occupied almost entirely by a sublimely old-fashioned sanctuary. Intricately carved wooden beams, dark with age, support a high, arched ceiling. Between these, the walls are punctuated by tall, narrow windows of stained glass. Above the pews hang suspended candelabras, regally wrought in black iron and fitted with electric bulbs. My first impression of the place, when one of the deacons gave me a tour, benefited greatly from the seasonal décor: Christmas trees glistened in every corner, wreaths stood sentinel over the doors, and every window was illuminated by a stout candle.

Less picturesque, however, is the basement. That utilitarian space is divided up into sunless Sunday school classrooms and locked closets, with a single musty corridor running down its length to connect them all. Modern renovations entangle with the ancient foundations to produce a rather unpleasant effect. Natural stonework bursts through as if something else has fallen away, while the white drywall is never quite white enough to shake a sense of corruption. When I first laid eyes on it, someone had tried to cheer the atmosphere with garland and ribbons; but even these, in the dim, artificial light, seemed like mournful remnants from a happier time long forgotten.

Who draws the fabric of the dark From naught and folds it to become Invisible cathedrals strung With galaxies in vaulted arcs?

Who orchestrates the silent dance Of planets spun ’round alien stars And plots dark paths for meteors To plunge the fathomless expanse?

Who forges ghosts to roam the void In cloaks of dust and turns tow’rd night Their gazes—grasped in astral light— To fear the wonders there deployed?

Who frames what nameless mysteries— Unknown, save him who them designed— May haunt cold worlds where sun is blind And pens their shadowed histories?

Who all such sundry signs contrives In awe-inspi’ring art—  And why?

The dreadful curtain, starless, spreads Upon cold vale of dusty beds. It claims and chains Its silent sleepers.

What still, small breath disturbs the shroud— Lays bare pale remnants ’neath the ground— To brush the dust From off the sleepers.

What dew of light through dark prevails— As ratt’ling echoes fill the vale— To stir and spur: “Awake, O sleepers!”

While taking a shortcut home one night, a man hears the sound of a child crying in an abandoned tunnel, and his investigation leads to a terrifying encounter. As he is haunted by disturbing shadows and whispers, the man begins to fear that he has fallen under a terrible curse.

I will not name the city or street. If the place described seems familiar, then heed my warning, or share my fate. Although I have lived here for several years, it was only three weeks ago that I found myself on X Street for the first time. It is a dark-looking street, even by day, threading its way between and beneath more traveled thoroughfares, barely wide enough for the two lanes of traffic its painted surface advertises. It is a path only the locals know to take, and this only when speed or circumstance make other routes unsuitable. My circumstance was that my car was undergoing repairs that Thursday, so the more direct, high-speed roads were inaccessible to me. Bicycle was my mode of transportation—much slower by far, so any shortcut seemed a good one, especially after an exceptionally late night at the office. I mentioned that X Street seemed dark even by day, and here I was navigating it by night. I felt as though I had fallen through the cracks in the city’s pavement. Looking up, I felt buried in the shadows of the buildings and expressways that rose indifferently above me. The distant roar of traffic was like static, reaching my ears as if from a radio in another room, a room from which I had been shut out. This desolate atmosphere was helped rather than hindered by the few lamps that flickered at uneven intervals along the street. I was the only living thing down there. Perhaps ten minutes after I had first turned down X Street, I noticed that sheer concrete walls now loomed on either side. I found myself steering my bike through an artificial canyon that must have been at least twenty feet deep. The walls seemed to choke out the sounds of the city above, and in the silence I thought I heard something else. Something high, soft and distant, yet oddly piercing. Something about it caused my chest to tighten. And then I came to it. Up ahead, in the wall on the opposite side of X Street, a dark archway. Just a simple opening in the concrete, unadorned save for a pair of dead lamps on either side. A tunnel. And from inside the tunnel came that plaintive sound which I now recognized as crying. A child crying. I brought my bicycle to a skidding stop and stared across the street into that dark opening. I couldn’t see anyone, but my ears could not have been deceived. Some poor young thing was in there, alone in the dark, sobbing softly to themself. I turned my bike and pedaled it across the empty street, stopping once more at the mouth of the tunnel. “Hello?” I called. The crying continued, although I still could not see anyone. Letting my bike fall to the sidewalk, I took a few steps into the darkness. Straight ahead, I could just make out the faint shape of the far exit: a pale semicircle of sickly gray in the middle of the surrounding black. And all around me, echoing off unseen walls, that hitching, high-pitched cry. “Hello?” I ventured again. “Are you all right?” I received no answer, but a moment later something eclipsed the faint light of the far exit. A low, bobbing shape. Without thinking, I began moving toward it. The crying grew louder. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” I now thought I could make out a clearer silhouette: a small human figure, hunched over so I could see nothing but the top of its head. It moved toward me with a limping shuffle, hardly gaining any ground with each labored step. In response I increased my own pace until I was halfway through the tunnel, mere feet away from the sobbing child. “Shh, shh,” I said. “I’m here. I can help.” Its small shoulders trembled as it sucked in a breath. Then, still looking down so I couldn’t see its face, it said in a frail, high-pitched whisper, “W-who did it t-to me?” “Who did what?” I asked. “Are you hurt?” In reply, the figure only repeated, “Who d-did it to m-me?” Then it began to straighten up. Two curtains of dark hair parted to reveal a thin, colorless face. A face with white, widely staring eyes, and an even wider, lipless grin. And still, that crying.

Master the Art of the Rapier

In his Academie de l’Espée, Dutch swordmaster Gérard Thibault d’Anvers recorded one of the most sophisticated fencing systems ever devised, blending elegant geometry with a precise, systematic approach to combat. Yet its complexity has often made it a daunting read for new students.

Thibault Rapier: A Systematic Guide to Thibault’s Academy of the Sword presents a structured introduction to Thibault’s fencing method, distilling Academie de l’Espée down to its essential theory. Beginning with high-level strategy, it explores key techniques, their tactical applications, and their connection to the broader tradition of La Verdadera Destreza, the Spanish school of rapier combat. The book also includes essential drills to help readers internalize the fundamental actions of the system.

Sharpen you knowledge. Refine your technique. Step into the circle.

As the classic Christmas song says, “There’ll be scary ghost stories”. So here’s one about a wicked winter apparition that’s sure to make your December a little chillier:

Oscar’s breath rose in a pale haze, momentarily veiling his backyard from sight. Then the crystallized vapor receded, and there it was. Standing at the far edge of the yard, right up against the fence. A place where the unbroken whiteness of the ground reared up in a crooked pillar, flinging wide its slender, misshapen arms that ended in not enough fingers. Oscar looked back and forth, surveying the entirety of his fenced-in property, before returning his gaze to the snowman that newly occupied it.

“Kids,” he sighed, shaking his head. How they’d gotten in and out was a mystery he’d tackle later. However they’d done it, they’d done it silently, without disturbing his sleep. That tree, on the other hand…

It was rooted by the back corner of his house. A black, twisted growth that was mostly docile, except for that one explosion of branches that grasped at his bedroom window. All night long, they’d interrupted Oscar’s sleep with a tek tek tek like fingernails against the glass.

Oscar’s boots crunched across the snow—a sound at once shocking in its violation of the morning’s silence, yet muted beneath the low, gray clouds. The guilty branches quivered as Oscar approached: tek tek tek. Oscar hefted the pruning shears that had until now rested against his shoulder. The scraping hiss of the blades as they opened seemed to cause all of frozen nature to hold its breath. The first offending branch was laid between the shears, where it stilled in acceptance of its fate.

A swift, remorseless action. The twig hand fell away without a cry, and lay black and dead in the snow.

The blades opened again; more branches were offered up. The heavy air was filled with the singing of metal as wood was parted from wood. Fingers that had once clawed at Oscar’s window now jutted out of the snow at his boots. And then the amputation was complete. Oscar gathered up the dismembered branches—wincing as his back and knees protested—and carried them off to the woodpile behind his shed.

As he passed, he once more examined the snowman. It wasn’t right up against the fence, as he’d originally thought, but a couple feet forward. The ground around it was unbroken by footprints or other evidence of its creation. It must have snowed overnight to hide the kids’ tracks.

Oscar dumped his bundle behind the shed and paused to catch his breath, which blossomed around his head in a ghostly nimbus. It hadn’t been hard labor, but he could feel a film of sweat freezing across his face, causing the hairs of his beard to stiffen, tickling his chin. He craved a hot cup of coffee.

He passed the snowman once more as he put away his tools. Its eyes—small dark stones pressed so deep into the malformed face that they were almost lost—stared past him toward his house. Oscar shivered under a fresh gust of wind, and went inside.

Once a year, my family would drive several hours north to spend a week with my grandparents at my father’s childhood home. The house occupied a quiet suburb, a small white ranch nestled in the shade of an enormous oak tree. The front door ushered you into the living room, a space darkened by walnut paneling, leather furniture, and carpet the color of pine needles. A large bay window overlooking the front yard provided adequate illumination by day; by night a pair of lamps in the corners gave off the barest amount of rusty light. One end of the living room opened onto the kitchen, from which could be accessed the garage and the basement. The other end led to a narrow hallway lined with doors. The dining room stood directly across from the living room; farther down were the bathroom on the right, and the linen closet and master bedroom on the left. At the very end, a small table stood against the wall, adorned with ornamental flowers piled up to form a sort of pedestal, upon which sat a cloth doll. It wore a primitive gray dress. Its face, sewn from pale fabric and framed in straw-colored hair, was utterly featureless. Directly to the right of this display was the door to the guest room. It was here that my family slept whenever we came to visit—my parents in the double bed that filled most of the space, and I in a creaking old cot tucked against the wall. And it was here, one crisp week in autumn, that my experience began.

My little sister and I are twelve years apart. This trivial fact occupies an exaggerated space in my mind because it is attached not just to the birth of my only sibling, but also to the single most terrifying experience of my life.

For twelve years I lived in that house as an only child, and I never imagined living anywhere else. So it was a double shock when my parents informed me of my sister’s impending arrival, and of the concomitant need to find a new, larger home. And yet, after the initial shock wore off, I couldn’t say I was altogether displeased. Yes, our current house hoarded all manner of nostalgic memories, but I couldn’t honestly say that I liked the place. There were other feelings less pleasant than nostalgia, feelings I could never satisfactorily explain.

My bedroom lay at the very end of a short hallway. Mother often told me that, in my youngest days, I was a restless sleeper—if I even slept at all—and I never truly outgrew that restlessness. I would often have trouble falling asleep at first, and when I finally did, it was only to awaken some time during the night for no reason I could identify. If put to it, I’d have said there was some noise, or some sensation of movement, from out in the darkened hall. But if ever I held my breath to listen or strained my eyes to look, there would be nothing. As I aged, I learned to ignore these uncomfortable moments. As Mother said, I was simply a light sleeper; a warping timber, a soft snore from the next room were all it took to wake me.

This I told myself. This I believed. Yet even this explanation, so rational, could not banish the semi-conscious dislike I had for our house.

Read the rest:

It took longer than expected, but I’m thrilled to finally invite you to check out Volume 1 of the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights anthology!

It contains 30 illustrated short horror stories, including my own “The Porcelain Hand”.

Here’s an excerpt:

Although Alan had thus far insisted he felt no guilt regarding Grandmother’s death, there must have been something, at least on a subconscious level, that worked its way out through his dreams. Black, cold dreams. Dreams of stiff limbs, icy soreness in his joints. He could see nothing, but he heard, as if from far away, a voice calling. A creaky voice. A voice he knew and hoped never to hear again.

Alan sat up in the nether hours between night and morning. It had to be guilt. It was the most sensible explanation.

He was about to roll over and fall back asleep when he heard a sound from out in the hallway. A thump, as of a heavy, linen-filled sack dropped on the floor, followed by an interminable dragging. Then there was a period of silence. A moment for Alan to realize he was holding his breath, and it started again.

Thump. Draaag.

The sound moved along the hall.

Thump. Draaag.

It drew near Alan’s bedroom door.

Thump.

His heart beat out an echo to that final, gentle impact. That impact right outside his room. He waited for it to move on, to continue down the hall, to leave him alone.

Thump.