Westport, a prosperous Cornish town, met its end in 1358. I wonder about the robed figure - did he summon the Doom or did he banish it back to slumber?

John Keel’s The Mothman Prophecies is a formative book not only for the High Strangeness genre, but for me as well. It’s a book that is more about a place, about that weird sense of dread that something is not right, about the strange figures you might meet alone on the road or in your own home. The Mothman is a harbinger - if you see it, your life is about to change.

I live around the corner from where Parker Brothers used to print Ouija boards in Salem, MA so I wanted to do something that honored this place as well. Given the popular history of the Ouija board, from Sunday School panics to jump-scare movies in the theaters to entities like the XOXO, I figured there was enough of a sympathetic link between the two to bind the Mothman to one in ink and wood.

Design-wise, I stuck close to the classic Fuld layout of arched letters and a row of numbers. Things had to be shifted to make room of the Mothman, of course. In addition to YES and NO, I added INVOKE and ABJURE as a way to call the Mothman and (hopefully) send it away. Of course, the Mothman would demand a price paid for its attention, so one might find their planchette drifting towards REVELATION or CALAMITY. The Sun and Moon symbols remain, the Sun’s harsh rays twisting down from above while the Moon’s beams drip and flow over those below it. In honor of Keel, the Abyss that watches back writhes in the left hand corner. The hanging tree opposite offers a final reminder of one sure escape.

Hans Holbien's Totentanz, the Dance of Death, swept Europe like some sort of plague in the 1500s. It, of course, was hiding a secret truth that the Illuminated Masters of Europe wished to keep from the common man - not all plague victims were taken by disease.

Some were taken by things not of this Earth. They showed me the process during a recent encounter and I have recreated it for you. Family legend says it that child would have been a problem anyways.

"The Hero wears no mask! Haunting the streets of Carcosa, the mysterious King in Yellow preys on those who dare to turn their eyes skyward. A true detective, the King in Yellow can suss out the failings in all of us, drawing them to the surface before cutting them out in a grizzly rite. Based on the tales by Robert W. Chambers." - from unused advertising copy for The King in Yellow comic book.

Adorn your walls with this handcarved pressing of the mythical King in Yellow #1. Some say the King was created by a flatmate of Bob Kane, one of the creators of Batman who has a reputation for "liberating" other artists work as his own (Just ask Bill Finger!). The original artist is unknown, having disappeared under mysterious circumstances before Batman's debut. 

The Crawling Chaos is an element of change, but there is one constant it brings - death and destruction. These two realities follow Nyarlathotep around like a flock of two headed carrion birds. Summoned to our reality, the Herald of the Old Gods advances with a grim certainty on its unstoppable, unfathomable mission.

Pray you are not swept up in its wake.

Give this panel as a gift to those in your life who remember and respect the Old Ways. Or, keep it for yourself in your secret shrine. Who knows, if you sleep beneath it, you too might hear the call?

In his History of the Nordic Peoples, Olaus Magnus never had much cause to think outside the cold, snow-swept North. If he had turned his attentions south to the dry and dusty desert, he would have seen Chaos creeping across the dunes. 

Nyarlethotep is unique amongst the Outer Gods in that It seems to prefer company. Most of the ancient intelligences that fevre dream at the ends of reality rarely think about us (and if they do spare us a thought, it's usually "delicious!"). The Black Pharaoh is different, though. A herald and teacher of madness, It draws a flock to it, whispering secrets that warp our very souls. 

"The second Massacre occurred two nights later when the soldiers, quartered in the homes of supposed loyal residents of Innsmouth, woke to a strange bloodshed of scale and claw. Father Dagon watches us all and sees his Children avenged evermore." - from the journal of Obed Crowninshield, discovered after the fire.

Evoking H.P. Lovecraft's 'The Shadow Over Innsmouth' and Paul Revere's own engraving of the Boston Massacre, this hand carved and hand pressed piece was made to honor the fallen and the sunken alike. It is the perfect gift for the strange one in your life, the one whose eyes have grown wide and staring, the one who knows that strangeness is always more than skin deep.

In my dreams I travel backwards and fore, loosened from the bonds of time. What power plucks at the weave of reality? None but the Opener of the Way, Yog-Sothoth the Beyond One who picks at the threads of time and space.

The images fold in on themselves - a glimpse of Olaus Magnus's A History of the Nordic Peoples (1555) invokes runes and rustic wizards. But is that the Tree of Life I see? Perhaps, perhaps. I shudder when I awake, sick with longing for what I hope I only dreamt.

Back then, they were called Ye Monsteres d'Pockette and they committed furious battle against each other in the most secluded of arenas. Humble serfs would dream of the day that they would leave behind their lowly station to attain the greatest heights of glory as Pokemon Masters. In order to do this, they had to complete a series of quests and challenges, travelling across the land, searching far and wide for the power that lay inside.

This hand carved and pressed panel honors the Old School Pokemon trainers that have come before us and inspire us to this day.

In 1538 there was a secret summit held between the ruling elite of mankind and visitors from another world. Here a deal was struck - in exchange for technology and the secrets of the universe, the Illuminati would give up a number of humans for testing. The exact number is unknown, but it has certainly grown over the centuries.

Why would such an advanced species even care what primitives such as man would want? Even now they could destroy us at a whim. Hans Holbien suspected that there were higher powers yet, some force above even the Visitors, and our immortal souls were sold out from under us.

Ever since I finished this carving, my nightly visitations ceased. Perhaps They think I'm one of Them?

Sometimes, they come back.

Did one of the fleeing figures in this piece provide the inspiration for Hans Holbien's Totentanz, the Dance of Death? I suspect so. Of course, the Illuminati got to Holbien and forced him to change the images of aliens to grim Death.

Is this how the Illuminati was born? Deep in the night, a rich and powerful woman pulled from her bed by those who made her power appear as a candle to a bonfire? Did her promise to never be so weak again doom us all to the control of shadowy puppet masters?

Probably. 

They left it out, beaten and bruised, hanging in a lonely cage. "An example must be made!" the abbot shouted. "An example must be made!" his congregation replied. 

They left it ash, rubble and smoke, survivors calling to the sky. "An example must be made," the commander intoned. "An example must be made," its crew replied.

She returned the Visitor on Midsummer’s Morning, its song of grief swiftly ended by sharp iron’s cold touch.

VOLO CREDERE - "I Want to Believe"

James Cavendish III did not put much stock in things he could not hold, things he could not see with his own eyes. The parish priest rankled at this, of course, but as the Cavendish family owned most of the land thereabouts all he could do was pray that somehow, someway the Lord Cavendish would be made a believer.

A pity he was not more specific in his prayers.

"We sent Jacoby out in the carriage to fetch Doctor Krumm and the doctor came quickly. The creature had been subdued in the cellar but by the time the doctor arrived, it had recovered from its altercation with Bartlett and was beginning to test its chains. Doctor Krumm tended to the gardener's wounds first - Bartlett's arm was lacerated and the wounds festered at an alarming rate - so the creature was fully awake by the time the doctor donned his protective garb and made the descent into the castle's depths.

I followed several paces behind, a pike from the armory at hand and two men-at-arms close behind. We observed the doctor approach the creature. It began a hellish keening that made us wonder if we should have called for Father John instead. The doctor approached, torch held high and the creature ceased its devilish cry. Slowly, the pale thing reached forward and extended a single, misshapen hand.

Its finger began to glow and I could stand it no more. I left Doctor Krumm to his work. No matter how much he cut, he could not solve the mystery of the creature's glowing finger."

-- Sir Alfred of Hartlepool to King James I

While pouring through Andrea Alciato's Emblemata (1584), I felt the fugue come over me once more. On the page, a man stood alone pointing at some aerial phenomena. But what? Something was obscured here so I ran to my carving bench and began to dig out the truth of the matter.

Here is the result. This print details a medieval man standing on the outskirts of a fortified town. Above, something more than a comet blazes past in the night sky. Chariot of the Gods? Ancient Alien? Simple Ergot poisoning? I stare at the image to try and suss out the truth - it hangs next to my window, calling attention to the infinite night sky.

“Why do we always stay at places with skulls on the signs?” the wizard sighed into her cup.

“Can you think of a respectable hotel would allow a party of four heavily armed, blood stained wanderers to stay the night after a long day of slaughtering?” asked the fighter.

“Point taken.” The wizard looked to the cleric for help, but he studiously avoided her gaze.

“Also,” the thief piped up, her face covered in red sauce, “There’s hotwwwiiiiiinngggggsss!!!!!”

Under the Pyramids in a distant land there are treasures to be uncovered. Guided by the whispering brass head, Knight Templar Anouilh sought out the riches of the treasure hoards, but found there no gold, no riches, just the dread knowledge that his place in the universe was that of a speck, a forgotten flea clinging to the hide of creatures beyond it.

Anouilh returned from Egypt broken and mad. Locked away in the Chapterhouse for the rest of his days, he spent his time carving what he saw and arguing with that terrible, terrible brass head that brought him there.

It seems like every year, Yuletide comes earlier and earlier to the town of Kingsport. Of course, you are aware of Kingsport's Yuletide Festival? H.P. Lovecraft wrote about it in his story "The Festival" in 1923, but the narrator in that story didn't have a great time of it. Tourists, am I right? Maybe that's why the Elders are advertising so early this year.

Olaus Magnus, in his History of the Nordic Peoples (1555), thought he was so superior, so smart. He laughed at the Geats, calling them superstitious, backwards, afraid of of thunder and lightning! 

I contend that they were right, that horrible things lurk in the deep dark woods of their homeland. The Black Goat Herself dwells there in a den made of man's folly. Here Shub-Niggurath emerges from the woods to repel encroaching humanity. The Geats stand bravely, foolishly, for how can man stand against the gods?