Scrapyard Diaries


“You could find one anywhere; it might be a three ring notebook in the trunk of a long abandoned car, a manila envelope full of loose-leaf paper hidden in the floorboards of a house or, as in the case of this one, a composition book being held by a dead man. People in my line of business call them ‘Scrapyard Diaries’ and they’re the next best thing to having your life swallowed up by horrors that should not be. Usually when you settle down to read one of these you find yourself going through what comes down to little more than a long-winded, supernaturally-tinged suicide note but occasionally you get ahold of someone’s self-made Necromonicon, the pages thick with blasphemy and glitter…” -Brian Foster

“The desert heat pressed down on us, making every footstep a misery. We kept glancing up in the hope of seeing a town or a gas station beginning to resolve itself in the distance but all we saw was the asphalt of the interstate cutting a straight line to the wavering horizon. I was glad to have someone to walk with on this Hellish trip but I rarely spoke, the man I walked with was the regional sales manager for a software company named Spaulding and he talked enough for the both of us…” -the  Journal of the Devil’s Interval (Waffle House Edition)

“The blade is in my hand, a well used boning knife with a serrated edge. I’ve been preparing for almost half a year, studying medical journals and tracing the path the knife must take. This isn’t the kind of thing you can practice easily but I think I’ve developed a foolproof technique. One clean cut will sever both my carotid arteries- just so long as I don’t lose my nerve or fumble the job. The last thing I want to do is survive and have to explain what I have done…” –the unmailed letter of Roxburth VonSweeney

“This is a broken world. Broken to it’s very nucleus. There may be other universes that function properly but ours seems to be beyond repair.Our gods are broken as well; blind and shrieking they radiate half-heard, barely understood commandments from the Great Below.” -From the right handed diary of Wilma Lee