To whom it may concern

The ravens had found something interesting, and whatever the ravens found interesting was usually something that humans found gross and therefore, to a certain type of small boy, exciting beyond all measure.

Harley Schwarzenegger Holmes was exactly such a small boy, which was why when he'd spotted the ravens pecking intently at the gutters of Mr. and Mrs. Walter-Funke's small two-storey home, he'd gone to investigate.

Knotted and fibrous strands filled the shallow plastic troughs, fed both by the rain which fell on them from above, and something fetid and rotten and mammalian from below. As Harley watched, it twitched.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

( Read more... )

The traffic lights had become a trio of eyes, all three open, unblinking, and glowing red, amber or green. Cars shot through junctions ad around corners heedless of the danger, or else idled nervously beside crosswalks where green men smiled wide and sinister smiles from atop tall black poles.

The ravens clustered atop the Mayor's desk, feathers ruffling in agitation, long beaks clacking, and scaly claws leaving long scratches in the richly polished hardwood.

"Gentlemen," said Chisel, surreptitiously sliding a day planner out from under razor-sharp talons and avian cloaca. "Always a pleasure. Do tell me how can I help."

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

( Read more... )

Watch it here.

Sunday challenge time! Your prompt for this week is:

BIRDS ON A WIRE

Jack in the Box fast food premium. there’s a small set.

— It's Trash Culture (@ItsTrashCulture) June 1, 2020

How did I not know about this?! EERIE, INDIANA probably represented my childhood better than anything else!

— Stephanie Crawford (@scrawfish) June 1, 2020

forgot to mention that there’s also a Wendy’s set and a Carl’s Jr./Hardee’s one. completely different pieces in each. pic.twitter.com/XMSK3eMRhV

— It's Trash Culture (@ItsTrashCulture) June 1, 2020

Thank you for finally giving me a goal in life. pic.twitter.com/JFlTxKcmRV

— Stephanie Crawford (@scrawfish) June 1, 2020

Marshall sets two reheated bowls of mac and cheese down on top of his dresser, careful not to touch the contents which have the approximate temperature and texture of lava. By the time they've made a half-hearted attempt at their homework and a considerably more careful inventory of their UFO-spotting equipment, it will have cooled to the point of edibility.

Unlike his dad, his mom knows the right way to use a microwave.

"So one of Harley's monster chickens learned math?" he asks, shuffling through page after page of graphing paper covered in chicken-scratch. "D'you think the ravens taught him?"

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

( Read more... )

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

( Read more... )

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

( Read more... )

The spot by the dead tree was always full of shadows, but the void-black cockatrice was darker than any sheltering gloom.

Simon picked a spot not littered with cockatrice scales and pebble-hard droppings, and sat down, his backpack half-open beside him and loose leaf paper spilling out onto the dying grass.

"So," he said. "How was your day?"

Tweedle-Tweep toddled over, serpentine tail dragging in the dust and raptor-like claws clicking against the stony patches that formed wherever a cockatrice had stared too long at the soil.

He trilled again, and above Simon's head a single raven echoed the song.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

( Read more... )

One of the old ladies from Grandma's Kitchen had made little hats and scarves for the ravens. The ravens didn't seem to mind, bobbing this way and that and trailing bright streaks of wool in their wake.

Sergeant Knight approached the park bench were she sat, surrounded by bundles of yarn and long sharp needles engraved with strange markings.

"Hello, Officer," said the Grandma, grinning a gummy grin. "Have you come to arrest me?"

The Sergeant stared impassively down at her.

"Is this a confession?" he asked.

The Grandma gestured.

"Accessory to murder!" she said.

"That's crows," he told her.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

( Read more... )

The ravens had covered it with fallen leaves and clumps of torn up grass in a half-hearted stab at concealment, but it was still pretty obviously a body.

Sergeant Knight, impervious to their raucous scolding as he was to everything else, knelt beside the corpse. The eyes were gone, but that would be the birds' at work, like as not.

The uneven covering of plant life looked to have come from the surrounding greenery but he gathered a few samples, sealing them in ForeverWare just in case.

He saw the name badge, blank except for E=MC2, and the sunglasses.

Fuck.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

( Read more... )

Ongoing Verse: Milkman

( Read more... )

Eerie Indiana merch from RedRawlo https://t.co/Dti0KgRbdz

— eerieindianadw (@eerieindianalj1) April 22, 2020

I do not need an Eerie, Indiana-themed bathroom, I do not need an Eerie Indiana-themed bathroom...

— 🧟‍♂️ Undead Rebel Scum 🏳️‍🌈 (@deifire) April 22, 2020

but you do

— William Arthur (@Wart_M) April 22, 2020

I mean, I personally do NOT need Mister Wilson watching me soap my private particles, but a different EI-themed image... yeah I'd be down for it

— eerieindianadw (@eerieindianalj1) April 22, 2020

Yeaaah. (Or Marshall and Simon, for that matter.) I was thinking this one: https://t.co/Om8y7FztVx

— 🧟‍♂️ Undead Rebel Scum 🏳️‍🌈 (@deifire) April 22, 2020

That one would be awesome. I also wouldn't be adverse to one with a repeating pattern of eyeball-eating ravens but done in the style of rubber ducks, with bubbles and shower caps

— eerieindianadw (@eerieindianalj1) April 22, 2020

Oooh, yes! Would totally buy

— 🧟‍♂️ Undead Rebel Scum 🏳️‍🌈 (@deifire) April 22, 2020

The clack-clack-clack of the pinwheels whose human eyes stared at him with hatred as he passed mingled with the click-click-click of the human bone wind chimes hung over Mr. and Mrs. Walter-Funk's back yard.

Atop the street lamps, tiny glowing things threw themselves against the slick glass walls of their prison, and on the telephone lines the ravens croaked endlessly.

Marshall wheeled his bike down the pre-dawn streets of Eerie, the empty saddlebags draped over the handlebars as he went to collect the day's papers from Mister Radford. He thought of Jersey, of car horns and raised voices, and sighed.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

( Read more... )

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

( Read more... )

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

( Read more... )

I've mentioned before that hot chocolate is pretty much my go-to comfort food, and right now I need a pick-me-up more than ever. With that in mind, I bring you Thirty Days of Hot Chocolate!

Today I'm having Sloane's Winter Blend in an Eerie Indiana mug designed for me by Scott Weston:

Marshall slid the security bolt back into place with his foot, his arms being too full of Cantonese takeout from the Black Dragon to be able to spare a hand. A Rawhead wearing a Cone of Shame the size of a Buick gave him a considering look, but the gigantic plastic collar removed most of the terror inherent in being stared at by a towering mass of bloody bone and torn meet, so Marshall shrugged it off.

"Hey," said Simon, pushing open the back door of Happy Brothers Veterinary and Taxidermists (under new management these last five years, although he still hadn't gotten around the changing the name). "Come on in."

Marshall followed him up the short set of stairs and into the file room, which doubled as a staff canteen since Simon was the only staff member who needed to eat. Sheila waved as he passed the open door to the waiting room, and he returned it awkwardly, the waxed white cartons he was holding shifting alarmingly in his grasp.

"Hey," he said. "What happened to the ravens? I think this is the first time I've come by where they didn't dive-bomb me the second they smelled chow mien."

Simon scowled.

"I told them to leave," he said. "Sheila caught them bullying one of the chupacabra, right there on the back steps."

"Huh," said Marshall. "I didn't know that was a thing. Cryptid-on-cryptid bullying." He considered, then corrected himself. "Weird-animal-on-cryptid bullying, I guess, since nobody disputes the existence of ravens."

"Well, they're not existing out by my parking space until they stop acting like a bunch of bully-ostriches."

Marshall blinked.

"A what?"

"A bully-ostrich," said Sheila, drifting in with a stack of paperwork. "We have a client who has an ostrich. It's a bully."

"The phrase stuck," Simon explained.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

( Read more... )


Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

( Read more... )

The raven set a single glistening eyeball down at the edge of the table, cawed once, then hopped down onto the wet lawn. It bobbed and strutted it's way over to a small flowering shrub, where it flew up and settled amongst the blossoms.

Simon stared at the eye. The eye stared back, and then, in defiance of both good taste and logic, it winked.

"Ah," said Simon. He looked at the raven, which preened and fluffed it's feathers expectantly.

"Thank you," he said, tearing a chunk from his half-forgotten sandwich and tossing it to the bird. "That's very kind."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

( Read more... )

There are cornfields in her painting that were not there the day before. Yesterday this had been a street scene in a bustling city, pedestrians and cyclists weaving their way along the cobblestones, the signs in shop windows all in French. Sara Sue can still see them there, the faintest palimpsest beneath the wash of yellow and green.

A butchers shop displaying hams and ropes of sausage is now full of ravens, and the ravens' beaks are full of eyeballs. A French poodle has become a bichon frise that bears her teeth to the surrounding humans. One of the humans is taller and hairier than the rest, and appears to be rummaging through an American-style metal trashcan.

At a small table outside a café that is no longer there, a heavy-set man in a sequined jumpsuit reads the paper. It should be La Monde. Instead, it's the Eerie Examiner.

The palette knife isn't sharp enough to pierce canvas easily, but she forces it through, dragging the dull broad blade through layers of paint she doesn't remember mixing. The dog snarls at her as she cuts, and the ravens take flight, fleeing to the safety of the edges of the picture.

Ongoing Verse: Pay Attention

( Read more... )

Simon tossed one last handful of dried rosemary into the dust bath, picked up the old wooden-handled rake he'd borrowed from Mr. Teller's garden shed, and ran the tines briefly over the greyish-brown grit coating the sunniest spot in his parent's weed-choked back yard. He slipped on a pair of protective eyeshields, took a deep breath, and unlatched the door of the makeshift chicken coop.

The cockatrices - cockatrice? cockatrii? - emerged blinking into the wan daylight, their serrated tongues running along beaks edged in sharp teeth. Even muted by the enchanted sunglasses, their colours glowed - gold and scarlet feathers blending seamlessly into blue-green scales.

"Hey guys," cooed Simon. "Look over here. Lovely dust baths, just for you."

He still wasn't convinced that using rosemary and thyme in a bath for a mythical creature that was at least partly chicken was the best idea, but the Eerie Library's books on domesticated fowl had been unanimous in their recommendation of those herbs as preventative against parasites, so he'd gone with it.

The Corn alone knew what sort of parasites a cockatrice might pick up.

He clucked encouragingly as the first of the monstrous hybrids made it's way over, examined the dirt-filled hollows he'd spent the morning digging, and flung itself into it, alternately squawking and hissing with delight.

"Good boy!" said Simon. "Good chick! What a good chick!"

He moved slowly around behind the other three, herding them as best he could towards the bath. None of them seemed particularly inclined to go, and he considered bribing them with some of the frozen mice he'd hidden in the freezer.

Really, he thought, it should be Harley out here doing this. It had been Harley who'd found the toad, squatting at the edge of their parents' property line. Harley who'd discovered the clutch of eggs it had been guarding and stolen them, and who, at their hatching, had named them.

Names had power, and whether he'd meant to or not, in naming them, Harley had bound the newly-born quartet to him. Now they lurked in a makeshift coup beneath the shade of a dying oak tree, hissing and clacking and trying to turn the ravens to stone with their fearful gaze.

(The ravens, for their part, merely stared back, occasionally letting out a dismissive croak or two to show their unconcern.)

Simon watched Chick One, Chick Two, Chick Three and Chick Four, and sighed.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

( Read more... )