Category Archives: halloween

It wasn’t a nightmare


I can’t write this because I have no fingers. I have trouble thinking too. Words and images are like pollen floating in the wistful wind, I try to pick them up but it is hard. I have no fingers. But I think about how it all was before everyone went sick. I think about how I used to hate rush hour, and about all the stress at work, and about adverts in TV. I think about all the bad things, whenever I think about the bad things of before, it feels as if I had lived in paradise and I had been condemned to hell. Things have changed. I am always hungry now. I never sleep. I roam the streets, looking for food, avoiding my reflection in the shattered windows that hang from the shells of charred shops.

But whenever I see another one I know, I know what I look like. Rotten wet skin seeping with black fluids the body shouldn’t be able to produce, a wasteland of flesh even the most putrid worm wouldn’t dare to inhabit. The body, ah, the body, I guess I am talking about a living body. But I think I am dead.

The whole world is covered in a big cloud, it is as there was an eternal fire burning, smoke everywhere, and in the midst of the smoke the shapes of those like me, roaming the concrete streets, silent or worse, and from time to time, a flash of lightning, red and yellow and pink, food, food running across the street at a speed I can’t hope to achieve, food. What I wouldn’t do for food. Sometimes I grasp one of those thoughts floating like pollen in the wind, trap it inside in my maimed hands which I open slowly, and stare, a memory of the smiling face of my children. And I wonder, if they were food, wouldn’t I take a bite of their tender flesh? The only thing that might keep me from doing it is the fear they would come back, be like me, see me in the same way I see the others.

But food bites back. Food scares me. That’s why I hide in dark spots, inside the shells of charred shops, and wait, and hope that one of them will show up in the middle of the night looking for food, like I look for food. Approach it from behind, silent or worse, as it scrambles across the shambles of former shelves, approach it as silent as I can be. And when that blinding light which is food, swirling red and yellow and pink contained by a shape that doesn’t stumble or crawl or limp as it looks for food is close enough, I bite.

Because I don’t have fingers, but God knows I have teeth.

Dieter Moebius-Rast

Because Black Dice are nothing but a Brutal reconstruction of Kosmische. And we love them for that. Get this in Dieter MoebiusKram.


The confounded noise. Their idle scrapings of my beloved furniture. The screams and moans and laughter and tearful pleading. The banging of my irreplaceable antique oak doors against my bruised frames. Damn them and their claims to occupy my halls. Damn them.

I look out onto the bay from a low cliff, awoken by the moon and it’s lazy double in the water. My ‘guests’ are sleeping their uneasy sleep under my soft linen. Their taunt young skin glistening with sweat. Their personal night terrors distorting their desires. They’ll blame me of course. Eventually.

They wake at such inconvenient times. Their tolerance for the purgatorial nightmares exhausted, they prowl my halls in search of sounds and visions. No doubt a ruse to encounter each other, half clothed and dazed. Disarmingly mixing their exploitative attraction with the stench of death surrounding them. For all the myriad sights glimpsed from my grand windows over the centuries, it is this scene, within my darkest corridors, that remains unchanged.

Eviction is always awkward. They struggle. There emerges a leader of sorts: stubborn, righteous, possessed of an unerring sense of entitlement. I have no control over this. My body reacts as theirs does, fighting off the invading cells until the whole is cleansed and order returns. This leaves me ill for a while, full of puss and bile, their noise and thrashing a temporary thing to be endured. Order always returns yet my halls are a little more worn, my beds more soft, my precious antique doors less sure on their hinges. Yet I endure on this cliff top, my forbidding stone secretly dreading the next party of curious ‘kids’.


This has been posted a bunch of times in other internet places but we ♥ Den Haan so here we go, piling on…

Matt and Gardi bring their fully fledge adoration of Italo and Hi-NRG to bear on this arpegiated nautical epic. The Herman Melvilles of glittering hyper-camp deliver a Sean-Connery-In-The-Navy disco warhead to the heart of a flooded Baltic disco. Vincent Price organs, a male choir and a hyperactive code machine (disguised as a synth) crash the party half way through and blow all the ballast tanks sending the whole thing towards the stars. Ace.

Den Haan – Russian Boat Commander

You can get this along with Heist on Den Haan’s latest 12″ out at the end of November.  More info here.

We hope you’ve enjoyed our Hallowe’en perspectives.  If you’d like to hear them your humble scribes are journeying out into the night this weekend…

On Friday:

cannibal Karma

at Al Duomo
7 Pavilion Buildings, off North Street, Brighton.

Juan (20jazzfunkgreats)
Dave Liteyear
Barry the Van (Prostitutes & Policemen)
Ed Lilo (Ghost Ryde)
Murlo (Angry Dance Party)

More info here

Then on Saturday one of us will be in Stockholm:


More info on that here (if you speak Swedish).

And if in NYC on Saturday; halloween times For The Death, say hi to Hugo from us!


A dark power awakens pt. 2

Featuring : halloween

A series of global incidents of paranormal happenings began to infiltrate the media a few months ago. The internet was rife with reports about these chillingly violent acts. A spate of rumours erupted on blogs and forums pointing towards a new and highly involving A.R.G. where people would converse with a shadowy agency, known as ‘I’, and receive word of when they would be looked upon and judged. A grand unveiling was set up for a significant date with record amounts of people transfixed by every available clue and tidbit of evidence about ‘I’. But when that time passed and all traces of the site were removed, people lost interest. The violence persisted regardless:

A housewife and mother of two in California was found by a neighbour clutching her handbag on the sidewalk outside of her home, large dark brown splashes of blood soaked into her pale-pink poloneck sweater. When the police arrived they entered the house and found her two young children covered in lacerations from a meat cleaver, one folded up and brutally stuffed into a small oak cupboard by the front door, the other floating face-up in the family’s swimming pool. When the woman was coherent enough to form words she explained with a calm and precise clarity that the eye wouldn’t leave her alone, she was unable to hide from it, but she still protested at the things that it demanded her to do. It was only after a tall, menacing presence began to manifest itself in the house, creeping up behind her and whispering into her ear, that she finally relented and carried out her orders. Her husband, thought to be away on business, was later found in a cardboard box in the basement of the home, his head completely caved in and his back riddled with stab wounds in a circular shape. The space within the circle was darkened by bruises from repeated punching that took place after his death.

One busy mid-morning on the London subway at Charing Cross station, a vagrant man was heard mumbling to himself about ‘the black star in Heaven’ just before he boarded a tube train. Witnesses on the train told reporters that he began to scream over and over again and lash out at the other commuters who tried in vain to restrain him. He grabbed and scratched at his fellow passengers in a strong and frenzied attack; tearing out a young girl’s left eye, dislocating a man’s shoulder and crushing and eventually bursting a teenage boy’s stomach under foot. He then leapt through the window of the carriage, falling upon the live tracks and electrocuting himself to death. The left eye of the girl was fused to the burning flesh of his outstretched hand.

Ennio Morricone – Paranoia Prima

I can feel an intense and all encompassing pressure around me as I go about my daily business. The media only brings tales of death and mass destruction so I have stopped paying attention to it altogether, going so far as to unplug my internet connection and leave my PC off at all times. It is not until I catch a glimpse of a TV report on the local news when shopping in town that tells of a man found in woodland the previous night that my life changes. Eye witness reports had placed the man at the airport around 8.30pm, hailing a taxi. The taxi driver had not come forth but allowance for time suggests that he came straight to this town without deviating. Sometime between 10pm and 2am he had entered the woods adjacent to my home and calmly drivin a ballpoint pen through his left side, dragged it across to his right side and pulled out his intestines with sub-human survival and strength. He then hung himself with them from a tree branch. No tracks were found in the woodland floor except for his own, and no element of foul play were thought to have contributed to his bizarre suicide. His bag lay discarded a few hundred meters from the scene, and in it were found 10 journals full of accounts on grizzly acts of suicide and violence, coupled with images of a great eye suspended in the sky. A photo of the young man flashed on screen and I fell silent as I recognised him. He was the same young man that I had been exchanging emails with, the same young man that I had met at the American Anthropological Society. This, I thought to myself, was a sure sign that I should leave. My name was sure to be present in those notes.

The pressure bearing down from the skies was increasing by the hour.

Narrative of Sheriff Gordon Pym, as relayed on the radio to Officer Margarett Shetland, 08th/12/2007.

(06.13AM)-I can’t believe this Maggie, it’s totally insane. The woods are full of crawling things, I have seen them, they are surrounding the house, I have tried to convince the old professor holding the dark clay globe inside, he didn’t want to leave, he thought he’d be safer there, but then they started breaking in through the windows, pale bloated things advancing stubborn like slugs, their eyes, are they eyes, covered in a film of yellow ooze, a glimpse of recognition, was it old Jenson who I shot in the head with my shotgun as he trampled through the door, I don’t know, hasn’t old Jenson has been buried in the cemetery for months it can’t be him, but then, what are these things advancing silent towards the house with the the same malignant clumsiness of carrion flies drawn by blood and filth, piling upon poor Carruthers, two months left in the service and now his body is just an empty sack lying in the lounge of that house, his pale face frozen in a silent shriek, while his entrails cover the walls and ceiling.

But I made it back, I am inside the car, I only have five shells left in my pump action shotgun, a couple of reloads in my 45, and there are so many of them, SO MANY OF THEM, I can hear them moving around me, shadows reconfigure in the darkness like a deformed claw opening ready to engulf me, I guess they are done with the old man in the house now, it’s my turn, well, things like these shouldn’t live, what is dead and buried shouldn’t walk the Earth at night, stumbling like in a dream, or maybe a nightmare, I wish this was one, but it isn’t, and so I know there’s no hope and no God, maybe it’s better to die, I only fear I shall become one of them afterwards like that fat fellow with the U.F.O. t-shirt that Carruthers and I found on our way through the woods. He was hidden inside a van with a ‘THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE’ stencil on the side, trying to keep his guts, with pudgy pale fingers, from spilling like dirty laundry from a big seeping gash in his belly, how he vomited a geyser of blood and then we thought it was all over and turned away to find out what was going on in the darkness of the forests, and how he jumped upon us, jaw grinding uncontrollably like a shark in a feeding frenzy, the translucent ooze covering eyes that didn’t seem to see yet saw from frightful depths of death and corruption, we smashed the thing’s skull into pulp with the butts of our guns but it kept moving so we threw it inside the van and left it trashing there, a pyramid of flesh with a mess of blood and cerebral matter at its apex trying to get out furious, still silent, so SILENT, the only noise it made was the CLACK CLACK CLACK of what was left of its jaw opening and closing spasmodically, which I swear to god must be the noise of hell’s gates, but then…

…This is Hell.

I shall make sure I leave a last bullet in the shotgun to blow my brains out before they get me, maybe that’s a way of escaping the dark night full of bloody dreams in which these creatures must be living… So yes, this may well be my last words Maggie, I think it’s over, tell Lise and the children I love them, but before that, contact someone, the federals, the army, someone, tell them to bomb these forests, use napalm, termite bombs, nukes, whatever, but burn them, BURN THEM!

Burzum- Dunkelheit

I rush back home to gather up a few essentials, my journals, contact numbers, a gun, and bundle into the car in a slight panic that causes me to drive faster than I am usually comfortable with. The roads are empty and the towns I drive through are the same. The sky darkens at an alarming rate and the sun seems to dull and lose its shine, as if some malevolent shadow in space is cast across it. Its night time when I reach my destination, the headlights illuminating the sign on my parent’s gates: ‘Thadeuss House’.

Fabio Frizzi – Tenebre Viventi

Driving up to the main house, I pass my sister’s car on the road up which is left seemingly abandoned and thrust at an angle into the surrounding trees. As I exit the car and slowly walk to the front door a cold sweat creeps down my back as I consider the lack of lights on in my parent’s home. I look up to the sky and a pale green lining surrounds a series of spiking clouds that streak across the Moon. The pressure is becoming unbearable.

The house is stone cold as I make my way past the reception and into the lounge. No one seems to be home.

As I round the corner into my father’s study a shriek escapes from my throat even before I can take in what I see. My sister is slumped over in an armchair, her clothes shredded, and her skin dull white and crumpled where gashes cut across her flesh. Her head hangs over, slimy tendrils of sticky blood oozing down and collecting in her lap. I freeze but step back as she begins to twitch and slowly but silently rises to her feet. Her head raises and her eyes clear of blood to reveal yellowed blank spheres. She moves towards me, stumbling and losing balance on her broken legs. I raise the gun and fire a single shot into her left eye, flooring her instantly.

I have no time for my emotions to get the better of me. My Mother is standing in the doorway behind me as silent as my now dead sister, thick blood dribbling from her open mouth. The same blank yellowed eyes stare back at me. I scream out as I rush towards her, emptying the gun clip into my mother’s chest and head. She flops to the ground with a thump, dark blood flying out of her wounds in thin spindling arches across the moonlit floor.

I sob as I drag myself into the main hall, where I slip on something warm and wet. Entrails are strewn across the floor, flesh torn and shredded like a plastic bag, fashioned into a thin line of viscera in the shape of a circle. Wailing, I drop the gun and hold my hands to my head in disbelief. Its my father. Lightning forks across the sky through the bay window casting luminous glittering purple flashes across the remains. The thunder that follows is drowned out by an intense high pitched drilling that pierces straight through to my brain. I fall onto a dresser by the staircase, gritting my teeth and tensing my body. I slide again on a pool of blood, stumble into the pantry, slam against the basement door and roll down the hard wooden staircase into darkness.

Gyorgy Ligeti – Jupiter and Beyond

The darkness of the basement is soon replaced with a grey light that softly enfolds from the centre of the room, reflecting off the clouds of dust I created on my entrance. I can hear plodding and damp sounding footsteps from the top of the stairs; my family are not as dead as I thought. The light shifts to a pale purple, a small pinnacle of white forming and growing in mid-air. The white sphere shines brighter, blinding, enlarging. The shrill drilling strikes back up again. I grab my head to stop it from splitting in two. Instinctively I grab the gun from my pocket and slam the hilt down into the light, shattering a physical surface that deafens me instantly with its screaming sound. I am thrown back off of my feet into the staircase by a tremendous force, intense heat burning, shards of brilliant white tearing through my eyelids and into the back of my skull.


All is black around me. The floor is a dark terrain of dusted soot, soft like sand. I am deaf; the dense throb of blood in my ears is all I can make out. I rub my eyes and get up slowly, steadying myself, winsing at the pain from busted ribs. The gun is gone. My left arm is lifeless, the bone snapped and twisted around. My mouth is full of blood. I cannot breath through the sticky liquid filling my airways. I fall onto my back, black dust clouding up around me momentarily. The star filled night sky glistens above me as my head falls to the left and my eyes focus on my sister’s blood covered body, her neck opened fully, tendons sprouting into the air. My mother lays beyond her, her mouth a gaping hole, her throat spilling out from behind a row of broken teeth. My vision is failing, everything is blurring and darkening. The drilling begins again.



On the tunes-

Ennio Morricone is one of our gods, and that’s that.

Let a thousand rotten flowers bloom, Burzum will sprinkle them with copious amounts of blood.

We can’t talk about zombies without thinking of Fabio Frizzi’s dark ominous dirge.

Gyorgy Ligeti created the canvas on top of which the spaceman became a psychedelic baby, here he illustrates the process of dark enlightenment attained through extreme carnage…

…Perhaps this weekend

One of us will be at Release the Bats on Friday. YESS.

And on Saturday:

Hello. Best live band in the planet (with Boredoms) play Brighton.

HTRK and Rolo Tomassi Support.

Barfly Saturday the 3rd

Get tix at Resident, Rounder etc, big up Lack of Communication for organising this thing.

DJs from the Do club and something else soon (includign your 20JFG trusty types) play party hits for special people afterwards.

**Do something magical and disappear**

A dark power awakens pt. I

Featuring : halloween

My researches have taken me to strange places, the city of pillars of Irem and the Himalayan heights where, if you were to follow tracks no human foot could have left you might arrive to a shrine of clay which lays hidden in a dark cave, under a strangely uniform elliptic vault stand arranged in a silent dance statues of terracotta all of them staring above, at a celestial map which depicts with frightful precision the orbits of the planets in our solar system and the stars beyond, and something else… Because there sits, in this map of the heavens, one dark stygian globe which, as far as I know no astronomer has spoken of, but whose presence fits strangely with an underlying current of esoteric lore I have researched for years, the undecipherable symbols that identify this orb are present in a myriad prophecies of primitive tribes across the world, and in the dreams of writers, poets and sculptors, identified under many names, one of which is Hyperborea. Might this legendary land from whence mighty beings came not incarnated into physical bodies have been not a continent up in the mists of the North, but a dark planet hiding in the proximity of our own solar system, like a shapeless shadow crouching close to the sleeping body of mankind, which dreams its petty dreams in the darkness ignorant of the ominous presence looming above it?

Phillip Glass- Candyman in the Kitchen

And now in my sleeping chambers away from such places of theory and wonderment, the suffocating darkness envelopes me once again as I lay awake, seeing beyond the blackness of the room and outward to the decaying, fetid void of the Heavens. The globe is here with me, a dull blackened presence patiently waiting in an eternal silence. But the catatonic and paralysing fear I feel is nothing compared with what I am about to experience. Something has entered my plateau of maddening seclusion, breaking the monotony of the infinitely darkened plains of my mind. I stir and move toward the window of my once solitary confinement. The night is warm and still and the trees in the woods outside my window are unaffected by the winds. Beams from the yellowed Moon brush the tops of the great pines and reflect into the mountains beyond them. There, in the dank air of the woodlands, I envision a great chasm tumbling downward into the earth and carrying its journey onwards into the same space that I see in my waking dreams. Sharp pinnacles of dread fire into me a thousand times over as I realise that an intelligent presence is casting a shadow in this world.

John Carpenter & Alan Howarth – Starker and Marge

Post in the What Lies Beyond Blog 05-12-200X 00.45 AM.

As you know, I met Professor Thaddeus in a reunion of the American Anthropological Society which took place in Toledo, OH. a few years ago. I attended this meeting lugging a suitcase overflowing with papers, articles and reports sent to me from all over the world by readers of this blog, all of them referring in one way or other to a growing force in the sky which somehow seems correlated with strange occurrences in the four corners of the planet. These are but three examples out of the hundred of documents I brought to the conference:

Bigeagle, WO 05-12-200X- Humbert Delav, High School Chemistry Teacher, spills Chloridic acid over his eyes in front of the class, shouting that he cannot stand the presence of that big eye in the sky which beholds him at night, and will not let him sleep. Delav is interned in the Sunnydale Mental Hospital, where he confesses to his psychiatrist Dr. Mortensen that he keeps seeing the eye staring at him inside his head, what is more, a horrible mouth has started taking form under it, and although it has remained closed so far, he is terrified it might start talking. Strong medication is insufficient to attenuate these hallucinations, and Delav commits suicide one night, while a particularly intense storm rages outside the hospital.

Les Cayes, Haiti, 12-8-200X- National Police carried out a night raid against an underground voodoo cult after the discovery of several dozens of corpses unearthed from the Les Cayes cemetery in a beach five miles east of the town. Papa Lengue, head priest of this cult is interrogated several times about the ghastly discovery but denies any involvement, alleging that a confederation of forces different and darker than voodoo are taking form in the sky, and that an eye opens there at night, visible for those that can see, soon for everyone. According to him it is this unblinking eye that made the dead climb from their graves and walk to the beach, where they danced until the morning. This testimony is ratified by Herve Du Garre, the guard of the cemetery and his family, who declare that on the night of the events, ‘not even the cold hand of the grave could keep the dead from attending a date with their new master’.

Paris, 6-07-200X- Dr. Sergei Vrinovich causes a strong controversy in the XXV Neo-theosophical conference with the presentation of a paper called ‘A new eye opens- The 10th Planet and the need for a new Theosophy’, where he argues that existing theosophical lore based on old notions of nature and spirituality need to be reconsidered as the effusions emanating from a 10th ‘undiscovered planet’ of the solar system become stronger. According to Vrinovich, as the new era of the 10th Planet dawns, it might become necessary to accept the need for a new set of morals which embrace the primacy of certain dark forces bound to imbalance the pattern of spiritual energies of the cosmos.

Most of the scholars present at the conference declined to have a look at the reams of evidence I was carrying with me. Prof. Thaddeus was an exception, during the farewell drinks he took me to a corner of the Hotel’s lounge and told me about certain findings of his researches on comparative anthropology and esoterism regarding the existence of a hidden planet in our solar system, where strong forces able to affect humanity dwell. Ever since then he and I have kept a constant correspondence regarding new discoveries and reported on this topic, which I have dutifully told you about in past posts.

However, our communications were suddenly interrupted a couple of weeks ago. I have tried to reach the Professor via e-mail and telephone to no avail. Since the Rhode Island State police have declined to heed my requests to pay his house in the northern forests of the state a visit to make sure he is fine (I think my reputation as a bit of a nuisance for the forces of Law and Order precedes me!), I have decided to head up there myself.

So yes, I am packed and ready to go, don’t expect updates for the next few days…

Take care everyone and remember to keep your eyes wide open and looking at the sky!

(Posted by Mulder was a Patsy 00.45 AM 05-12-200X 12 comments)

Eduard Artemiev- Station

On the tunes:

Will has insisted on the utter frightfulness of Philip Glass’ soundtrack to Candyman, and he was right. Literally Wicked.

Child-killing death masks and hypno-ritualistic totem-stones replace Michael Myers for the 3rd installment, “Season Of The Witch”, of John Carpenter’s Halloween series. Its one of the doomiest films ever made, ending in the nastiest possible way with the score expertly lending to the dull terror.

If Andrei Tarkovsky slid inside our dreams to steal beautiful images then Eduard Artemiev must have slid inside Tarkovski’s to make the soundtracks for Solaris and Stalker, what a breathtaking soiree with the cosmic ghosts this is.