Yesterday’s Cold Front


Yesterday’s Cold Front

Yesterday was so cold, everything had been cloaked in frost. The trees looked like they were drooping, which got me to thinking: how would a tree feel? If I were a tree, or turned into one by some fluke, my life would become a nightmare. Imagine things crawling on you, boring through your skin, or just ripping it off?

I can see love struck idiots carving their names into me–I don’t want your names carved into me, I do not care! Now I shall contract a fungus. You’re too kind. Thanks.

I try being agreeable as a human, and sometimes other humans take that for granted. Somehow that agreeableness gives them the excuse to dehumanize me, to ignore my personhood. Seldom do other humans truly want other humans acting like humans (alive, flawed, and emotional). As a tree I would be a slave to the elements, bending and swaying till I grow old and rot. I would have no say.

As I’d rot I’d still be alive. Begging for someone to put me out of my misery . . . Then and only then would anyone care about my well-being. They’d say: let’s help this tree, and then only prolong my misery.

Yesterday’s cold front would have been the day I truly broke, as whatever bodily fluids would have been leached out to the surface. Or they would have frozen, expanding till I snapped.

Since I am not a tree, I am thankful that I haven’t.



Constantly Ringing, Ringing, Ringing

tinnitusConstantly Ringing, Ringing, Ringing

He always heard ringing in his right ear. It started when he was in high school, and it had endured all the way to university. Back then he had been able to ignore it, giving him a false reprieve for a time. For a time. Those blissful moments of ignorance were what he craved most. Back in the present– the cold, empty now–he had lost his touch. Ignorance had eluded him.

That bastard.

He supposed that the only way to stop the ringing was to go back to its source . . . Back to the run-down shed he had broken into with a group of friends. They were all fine, or so they said. Why just him? That was the question that had burned him for six years.

“It’s not like they didn’t see it too,” he told himself aloud. At the sound of his own voice his head began to throb. He squeezed his eyes at the pain. A constant ringing meant a constant headache. To admit that his life had come to this was embarrassing. What he was going through was debilitating.

Paul, he thought, wincing, You need to get it together!

The pain was a thousand times worse when he thought. Paul could almost hear the words that spoken inside that shed; he could swear that he saw the incident unfold in front of his face. The shed loomed before him, somehow stark against a backdrop of blighted trees, giving off the illusion of bleeding into the structure. Once again that eerie silence wrapped itself around him, pulling him in. Closer, closer, closer.


The broken doorway stared at him. It captivated him. Through it was the source of the silence, the thing which devoured the light.

When Paul woke up he found himself spread eagled on the floor. As he checked himself in the mirror he noticed that the right side of his face was stained with blood.

It is inevitable, a voice said.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head. The ringing . . . 


The Outside World


 The Outside World

The world outside had its own rules, and those rules were not human.

― Michel Houellebecq, The Elementary Particles


Beyond the Waterfall


Beyond the Waterfall

Up in the forest, in places I used to haunt there was a lake; Lake Nettleton, they called it. Or so I’ve been told. I’m sure the First Nations people had another name for it long ago. It was a small lake that trickled down to an even smaller creek. The creek would have been a river I’m sure, if it weren’t for the beaver dam–if I called it a wall I wouldn’t be that far off the mark, for it blocked one end of the lake forcing the water to enter the creek at a trickle. If I was brave, I would have walked across the dam. As it is, the waters of Lake Nettleton set me on edge.

If you followed the creek it would take you to a small waterfall. I know this because to use the paths that circled the lake one would have to cross a makeshift bridge (which was three wooden planks, courtesy of the neighbourhood) that was literally five meters away from it. The water there was shallow, and on a sunny day it was nice to dip your feet in. Out of concern for my safety I never did; the creek bed consisted of large, slippery slabs of stone, and although small the drop down the falls would have proven fatal.

In the winter there is a drastic change that comes across the land; something that was once familiar becomes alien. When you’re walking alone there is only silence, thick and impermeable. The cold air is like oil. There are no smells . . .

The waterfall was now a wild sculpture, beautiful and ugly. One day I noticed a strange scent around the area. There was nothing like it, and it terrified me. Without even stopping to think I immediately found my way to the bottom of the falls. It was all harsh white and deep blue shadows, and the air was colder. No amount of sun could penetrate the canopy above.

For a while I was content to stare at the cold, cerulean sky. The trees reminded me of bones. The sterile scene was at odds with the mysterious smell, and I soon found myself feeling queasy. After several seconds of searching I found the source. A pile of skin and clothes, and the skin still steaming. Nearby I heard the sound of flapping; it was like thunder, which was then followed by a sharp hiss.

I took care not to throw-up as I backed away.


The Deep Blue Secrets


The Deep Blue Secrets

Whether it be of the sea or the sky, there had always been a certain mesmerism that the colour had for him. It came more from the sky than from the sea; he would often find himself alone and naked in a field at night, staring upwards. It was those nights that frightened him the most. The same things always happened: he would awaken from his stupor, assess his surroundings, and then stare down at his body in horror. He would find blood on him, but not his own. With no memory of the event he was would feel empty, hungry for something that he could not quite name; he could almost swear that he saw a veil descend over him when he’d wake up, covering the truth.

Living like this held no charm for him. He could not seek help . . . And who would help him if they knew his secret? Who would believe him, or better yet: if they did believe him, what would they do with him? He was not himself, but then he never truly was.

His only solace was found in his sleep. In his dreams he was free from his cumbersome body, which he shed like a snake’s skin. The true form that hid in the daylight was sinuous, graceful, with a hideous strength. Free from his prison, he would take to the skies, searching, thirsting for one like him. Before the sun rose above the horizon he would return to his body, empty and alone.


They Sickened Me


 They Sickened Me

I hated my neighbours. Whenever I walked past them in public they would always smile and say hello, then good bye. Just like that. There was no ceremony in it what so ever. You would think there wasn’t a care in the world from the way they acted. It sickened me.

They sickened me. They were the kind of people who thought that every facet of life was a game–no, they didn’t think, they believed. And I hated them for it. Who did they think they were?

The particular couple in question shared the same apartment complex with me, and their apartment was right next to mine. After my first night in the building I had made it a point to change my schedule so as to avoid them whenever I left for work, or returned from it.

It was 2:30 am and I couldn’t get to sleep. I wasn’t accustomed to the amount of noise that the other tenants made, coming straight from a normal household. And no amount of anything will express to you how normal my family is compared to them.

At 2:45 am I began to hear rustles from next door, and then quiet laughter. It continued like that for the next fifteen minutes, until the laughter came to a horrible crescendo. I was like a statue in my bed, stiff and wide-eyed as I drank in the shrieks and screams. The noise was like a horde of hyenas . . . That’s the closest thing to it . . . Until it stopped abruptly. Following that the building was quiet.

Too quiet. My ears still rang with those horrible sounds. At around five I couldn’t take it anymore, and got out of bed. No amount of caffeine helped the situation. All I could do was be thankful I had the day off, and the day after that.


I studied Paul’s reaction when I finished my tale. “So, do you still think I’m being harsh?” I asked him. “Is that a good enough reason for you?” The question may have seemed a bit defensive, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. People who didn’t bother to understand my decision weren’t worth the time. Anything relating to the people next door to me was moot, along with my disgust for them.

It was that simple. Hello, good bye, without any ceremony what so ever.

After a minute Paul rubbed his right ear. He had the odd habit of doing that whenever something bothered him. That’s why I assumed he did it so often, I had never really asked. Finally he said: “Yes, that makes a lot of sense.”

I was so surprised at his reaction, I practically spilled my coffee on my shirt. He laughed at me. “Why the sudden change?” I asked him.

Paul paused for a second before replying. “I–wanted to hear it from you. Let’s just say we’ve had the same experience.” Paul lived on the ground floor. Before I could open my mouth he went on. “When I first moved into this building I was in the same apartment as you, and the same freakin’ thing happened.” Paul never came close to swearing, but freakin’ was extreme even for him. His eyes became unfocused as he shook his head. “The storage closet beneath them used to be an apartment too, a family lived there. According to someone on the floor the husband went insane, shot his family, and hung himself. Your neighbours moved in just two weeks before.”


Enigmatic Updates, 2015 Style

Enigmatic Updates, 2015 Style

Here are the updates, and here is Penny’s face. Now you cannot deny her existence. I am so evil . . .


For the tumblr:


Friday Stuff

Theo_icon–The Monster Made Me Do It

This week has been very busy for me, I set up some new goals, made some new things, and also got a new job. The job is a part-time design job, which means that I’ll still be able to do work on the project. The first goal I set up is to grow The Enigmatic Monster Project; the second is to grow our youtube channel.

So, with that in mind, you can expect some more things this year (like the ABCs of Horror!). Today you can expect an update video to pop up on our site. It’ll talk more in-depth about what’s going on, and some of the changes.

Right now, as I write this, I’m actually getting ready to see my new employers. Yay! But, before I do, I’d like to thank you all for your love and likes! You are the reason I’ve kept up this endeavour!




The Bird


The Bird

The body of his best friend was dumped unceromoniosusly into the crude hole he had dug.

His best friend.

He shook his head, shaking. Perhaps his head shook because he was shaking, or because he still couldn’t believe what he had done. Things looked bleak for him now. Was there a future for him?

And what about his friend?

His best friend?

When he had killed him they were alone. No one heard those dying gurgles, which had grated upon his and his ears alone. That was the hope. It almost drove him insane–gurgle, gurgle gurgle. The sound replayed itself in his head with a vengeance.

It was like his friend wanted him to hear it, wanted him to be driven mad. After all, he had murdered his friend . . . What was he thinking?

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I don’t know what I did. Don’t ask me why!” He groaned.

There was a flapping sound. When he looked up he met the steady gaze of a raven. It was the biggest bird he had ever laid eyes on.

“I saw what you did there. You’ll never get away with it.” The bird opened all six of its wings.

A gurgling wail resounded across the countryside before trailing off.


A Very Different Matter


A Very Different Matter

Night was a very different matter. It was dense, thicker than the very walls, and it was empty, so black, so immense that within it you could brush against appalling things and feel roaming and prowling around a strange, mysterious horror.

― Guy de Maupassant, The Complete Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant, Part One



Nothing Today


–It’s Just a Silent Day

As far as winter goes, that bench is gone.

The roads are gone.

We are gone.

There’s nothing today,

Just a thick coating of silence

As we lay under grime and snow

Staring up at an oblivious sky.

We think of you,

And wonder when you’ll come to join us.

More company–yes–would make us joyous.

(But it’s for the best if you simply avoid us . . .)



sweet new banner logo i did in like two days after designing for a month


Start your Sunday up right with the latest edition of Peril In Panels!
Once more, I, Jonathan Kruschack are bringing to you another comic review:
Neil Gaiman’s THE SANDMAN, specifically volume one, Preludes & Nocturnes.
An award winning and much acclaimed series from the 90’s with a rotating cast of artists (all of them quite incredible and sought after), this story is the beginning of what can be called a saga of epic proportions. This comic has risen from its humble starting point to lofty heights. Let’s dig in, kind reader. Continue reading