Willem Indigo
Bio
I spend substantial efforts diving into the unexplainable, the strange, and the bewilderingly blasphamous from a wry me, but it's a cold chaotic universe behind these eyes and at times, far beyond. I am Willem Indigo: where you wanna go?
Stories (113)
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Only the Wicked Slumber Here
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. If there was a driveway leading through the trees to rundown shelter, even autumn couldn’t disparage the overgrowth swallowing the land in sharp, sturdy branches and decades of leaves. It’s said every now and again a vagrant would squat for a night, with the towns surrounding the lakes and rivers known for rogue campers and hitchhikers, but the local law stopped cleaning up after the place in the late eighties. If last known sightings were between mile markers twenty-three and twenty-four on the scenic highway 49, they didn’t bother following up. The residents spread throughout the Uwharries had no less than an acre distance from the property and were the few people in the forest area worried about double-checking their door locks and armories at night. Knocking on the door and sprinting for your life had become a high schooler’s obnoxious source of bragging rights; however, since Bass mouth Jack’s vanishing after peeking through the cracked door, it had been six years since teens have gone the distance. When the distorted high-pitched snarls frightened a motorist stopping for a piss under the stars, he noticed the candle eight days later, flickering yet unphased. It was the only thing in the report ever known by the authorities about that abandoned vehicle.
By Willem Indigo4 years ago in Horror
Inversion
What sound-minded people reported from the Manhatten shoreline is astonishing. However, as the military trucked my colleagues and me towards the anomaly in the back of a deuce and a half, I found myself trying to start a conversation, any conversation outside of our fields of study. As they dropped us off, barely staying long enough to let us unload our equipment, we watched the falling objects during the eighteen-mile boat ride to Long Island, waiting for the notions that made this more than just a frightful exploration mission. From the fog above, dark objects fell with no apparent pattern, but we barely caught the video of the ascension of a few things disappearing in such a way the Captain demanded double on the spot. If we couldn’t get the federal government to accompany us on THE research endeavor of Physics rewriting horror, this man would have to go down braver than any of us. Breaking through the dense fog that formed as the anomaly came to be, we realized our team may have been foolish. Our education spurred curiosities shedding light on human fears and would now be responsible for reporting on a dimension nightmare. Long Island now had a graciously settled twin mirrored island above, an inversion event but was the screaming of undoubtedly confused citizens, dropping, rising, or victims of some kind of rift exchange.
By Willem Indigo4 years ago in Fiction
First Date
Many who know of me and the niche of study my journalistic integrity endures wildly brings me into the faces of many broken, twisted, unstable, intriguing, or plain freakish oddities in human form. I remain crude to remain social leveling with their off-centered biases, upsetting others in my field who can’t take the risky behavior that radiates poor outcomes with every question I pose. These Rock stars, eccentric Nascar drivers, or agoraphobic architects winning awards but call to say they’re in a DMT coma and can’t pick it up until the Titan’s orbit reverses the tides. These tasks I’ve taken to bring to light the strange, the unknowable, the fringes, ugly cursed stepchild have been to broaden the horizons of the dark and fanciful that exist inches from your daily lives. Not all of it pans out to anything more than some coo-coos with talent no one needs, according to readers of my last few stories, but the wait is over. It’s been three years since my time wrestling with the unfathomable antics of The Whiskey Hotel during their Witchy Bombardment European tour, and now I’ve finally got in contact with another bonified anomaly. She’s known as Detective Alice Scarlett.
By Willem Indigo4 years ago in Fiction
In the Ring
Drunken punch choke-out sex is not for the faint of heart. She may want you to choke her, but you have to retain the low enough self-esteem to not only let her beat you like a rowdy slave but also to still finish when she does, just cause; like it makes a fucking difference. You go to work the next morning bloody, with scars and bruises, ignoring the rumors birthed from sheer speculation alone, and do your daily routine like a good worker bee. Explaining that the so-called love of your life finds it fun to inflict pain on you tends to draw a lot of unwanted attention. You tolerate her for a few reasons. One, because Sonya can score the best opioids from “work,” so pain is nothing more than an afterthought, but more importantly, she keeps you from feeling alone. Something that tends to cause you to overreact even as a lonely kid.
By Willem Indigo4 years ago in Filthy
Cult of Ded Moon
Cult of Ded Moon There weren’t always dragons in the valley. However, romanticizing the good old days doesn't solve the infestation problem for the occupants of Ded Moon. Despite being nestled between two mountain regions, vast lush fields surrounded the city, rising from plateau to plateau amongst the mountainside, and the tip was all anyone could see. Tourists of Crazy Peak can look down at the canyon below to witness the unexplainable lights and seismic activity, referring to the vacant fog as ‘All Fears from the Nothingness. Recent fire breath accompanied by roars with visible sound waves deafening those in a three-mile radius happened quarterly, yet attempts to suss out the source forever fall short. Venturers rarely come back from a half a day’s hike down without several weeks missing upon their return; they described the city as peaceful with modern amenities and even a few cell towers at opposite ends of the canyon that the state of Montana approved if never sanction. According to the state’s representatives, Crazy Mountain, the most eastwards of the Rocky Mountain area, there’s nothing to acknowledge about the dark spot so void-like that satellites have never picked the lights witnesses to claims lie below. It’s a position the governor must share with which ever sitting president is dodging the questions or shifting the conversation away no matter the context. This has led to a hundred and twenty-three disappearances throughout the last eight presidents as the anomalies are effectively charted by brave private citizens while very poorly vetted.
By Willem Indigo4 years ago in Fiction
