What fresh hell this is.

Good morning.
You may be seated.


Buying your own name is an odd experience.

Why should I have to purchase it?
It’s mine, isn’t it?

But the world is a strange place, and sometimes, you find yourself doing some weird shit.

The domain registry informed me that my name was available. That was odd, too. Identities are a hard market. You’re lucky if you can find one, especially your own.

I bought my name, someone somewhere else slapped a dot com at the end of it and said I could have my own place on the internet. It’s like buying a condo. Suddenly, there’s all this space. What the hell do you do with it? You can paint the walls. You can hang pictures. You could put a futon in the kitchen. Sleep in the bathtub. Make a fort out of pizza boxes. No one can stop you. It’s your place. Anyone who doesn’t like it can get their own digs.

So I bring you my first actual website.

005 My name, dot com.
I call it “The Church of Horrid Things.”

It seems right.

It also requires some explanation.



When you write horror, you are describing battles between good and evil. For a genre that gets shit on a lot, horror deals with giant concepts. Archetypes. Mythologies. The stuff belief systems are made of. I think that, whether they admit it or not, horror writers are fascinated with religion.

McCammon’s Swan Song.
King’s The Stand.
John the Baptizer’s Book of Revelation.

You see where I’m headed.

I look at what I create, because I have to, and sometimes, I don’t know where the stories come from. I can’t remember writing them. I sure as hell can’t remember what inspired them. Dream fragments, mostly. But I can see that weird religious edge to most of the tales, that hint at something bigger, something outside the parameters of the stories, informing them. I don’t mean that to sound pretentious, but growing up in (and rebelling against) a strict Christian church, with about a decade long dive into Pentecostalism and then getting frustrated with all of it and studying some alternative religions, that stuff has to leak in somewhere.

The Church of Horrid Things.

I think it’s funny. That’s where my head is at.

Churches are museums. As exhibits, they hold these gigantic ideas, older than any of us. Angels and monsters, the best and worst of humanity, supernatural delights and pleasures beyond imagination! Every week, people sit in uncomfortable chairs or pews to watch a man stand behind a pulpit and tell them stories. Good and evil. There are times when good wins, but sometimes evil does triumph. The battle keeps going. The best preachers realize that they are also curators of these concepts, these thoughts that have both constructed and destroyed societies.

And if you’re here, it’s because the stories I tell, the exhibits in my unholy chapel, appeal to you. Good. I’m glad. Welcome to the fold. There are some new sermons coming. I think you’ll be unsettled, but I have a feeling you’ll enjoy that.


I talk too much.


All I meant to say was, “Hey. I have a website now. I think it’s cool. Maybe you will, too.”

But there are some horrid things here. They climb up onto the altar. They hang from the batik tapestries. They slice the prayer flags and demand your attention. It is right that they be here, in this church, for they are in every church. Embrace them or watch your back.


Arise, now, and be blessed.
Go, and sin some more.

What fresh hell this is.

One thought on “What fresh hell this is.

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