I point to the venue where I encountered the mystery girl. “Ladies, this child roamed the exotic fruit section, now ballet dancing, forlorn, next playing guardian of the stall—look, right there! I swear, she interacted with me.”
“Why didn’t you refer the lost child to reception?” the plain clerk says.
A ghost hunting night in a fin de siècle palazzo flipped luxury restaurant reveals eerie staff and a basement dark mirror capturing unidentified oddities and personages from a novel, Darxination.
A ghost hunting night in a fin de siècle palazzo flipped luxury restaurant reveals eerie staff, baffling ghosts in my novel Darxination, and a spooky dark-crystal mirror in the basement.
Ghost touch. Not on your screen, but on your skin. While writing a scene, I gatecrashed my deceased aunt’s soul and summoned a spooky chill from an unworldly north pole.
Damn shadow. What hellish anatomy sustained its voice? Hell’s pits hid arcane recorders for human speech—in living and dead language. Its spooky source exposed, the shadow lost ground. The stiffer incarnated, the weaker its devious mesh. As stock-still, the doorknob waited. No stir, no squeal.
Teen me beckons. Diva in limelight, fake romance and casino fun. A raving lamb. Teachers and colleagues murmuring reach me from the vial of fragrant memory pearls I carry everywhere. Its label reads: HIGH SCHOOL.
I tasted mystery in a spooky hotel room of old Bucharest.
I point to the venue where I encountered the mystery girl. “Ladies, this child roamed the exotic fruit section, now ballet dancing, forlorn, next playing guardian of the stall—look, right there! I swear, she interacted with me.”
“Why didn’t you refer the lost child to reception?” the plain clerk says.
A ghost hunting night in a fin de siècle palazzo flipped luxury restaurant reveals eerie staff and a basement dark mirror capturing unidentified oddities and personages from a novel, Darxination.
A ghost hunting night in a fin de siècle palazzo flipped luxury restaurant reveals eerie staff, baffling ghosts in my novel Darxination, and a spooky dark-crystal mirror in the basement.
Ghost touch. Not on your screen, but on your skin. While writing a scene, I gatecrashed my deceased aunt’s soul and summoned a spooky chill from an unworldly north pole.
Damn shadow. What hellish anatomy sustained its voice? Hell’s pits hid arcane recorders for human speech—in living and dead language. Its spooky source exposed, the shadow lost ground. The stiffer incarnated, the weaker its devious mesh. As stock-still, the doorknob waited. No stir, no squeal.
Teen me beckons. Diva in limelight, fake romance and casino fun. A raving lamb. Teachers and colleagues murmuring reach me from the vial of fragrant memory pearls I carry everywhere. Its label reads: HIGH SCHOOL.
I tasted mystery in a spooky hotel room of old Bucharest.
Mim fell in love with soil and envisaged her future paintings, born from orgasmic loneliness. God cast Mim among fields to unite her with earth. Otherwise, her love would have stayed voiceless, and her paintings, too watery.
A shadow perturbs Mim’s intuition, expands within the apartment, pressurizes her temples. Her visit is overripe… As the shadow closes in on her heart, Stefan reappears, followed by a young woman in plush house slippers. Mim recognizes the short-haired girl of a quick roving eye—aha, that one.
Soon, it got into Mim’s head that commuting was wearing her out. Waking before daybreak and the infernal prospect of missing the return bus and not chancing on a four-wheeled…
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