Meet Me - Lucien V. Crow

Welcome, dear wanderer, to the dim-lit corridor that is my mind. My name is Lucien V. Crow, and if you’ve stumbled here, chances are something inside you itches for the eerie—the flicker of candlelight down a long-forgotten hall, the creak of a rocking chair no one remembers owning, the soft thud of footsteps in an attic long sealed. You’re among kin now.

I was born with one foot in the grave—or at least that’s how my mother used to joke when I insisted on sleeping with antique dolls or asked why the paintings blinked when no one else was looking. Horror, for me, is not a genre—it’s a language. A murmur passed from shadow to shadow. A truth too raw for daylight. It comforts me the way lullabies do children: dark, familiar, and stitched with meaning.

Over the years, I’ve become a collector—not just of stories, but of things. Old photographs, long faded and yellowing at the corners. Unnamed portraits where the eyes follow you just a second too long. Cracked oil paintings rescued from thrift stores and estate sales, all bearing that same haunted hush. I don’t just collect them. I listen to them. Every smudge and brushstroke, every silent gaze, feels like a story begging to be told... or exhumed.

As a writer, my obsessions bleed onto the page. My influences are legion. Poe, with his fevered elegance and descent into the abyss. King, the architect of modern American dread, who taught us that the terror often waits just past the mailbox. Clive Barker, whose sensual, poetic grotesqueries redefined what horror could feel like. Add to them a dash of Shirley Jackson’s brittle beauty, the existential unease of Ligotti, and the surreal nightmare-logic of Robert Aickman, and you’ll begin to see the strands that weave my particular web.

I write to disturb. To remind us that we are not alone—not in our thoughts, not in our dreams, and certainly not in the dark. My stories are mausoleums dressed as parables, each one built to hold something you didn’t know was already buried in you.

So whether you’re here to read, to listen, or simply to lurk in the corners—I welcome you. This is the first of many dispatches from the edge of the veil. There are whispers waiting.

Stay a while. The night is long, and the dead grow talkative.

– Lucien V. Crow

Storyteller. Collector. Confidant of the Unseen.