her old stories from the grave: the horseman, pt 1.

[a series written a million years ago by a total goth.
unearthed for amusement. posted in parts.
a ridiculed man desperate to find evidence
of the soul embarks on a murderous journey.]



Mr. Harry Houdini,

I’m a passionate admirer of your breathtaking public performances. Your intellect and stage talent astound me. I’m as well quite intrigued with your hobbies in investigating psychical phenomena and exposing fraudulent claims of mediumship, which so thrillingly leans into the honesty of the clandestine claims of the paranormal.

For many years, I have faithfully attended those showings of yours of which I’ve been able, and I’ve thirstily devoured each and every article I come upon that may exclusively feature you, or perhaps one of your fine colleagues who as well examine the sincerity of the subject of séances. I am captivated by how impenetrable your mind is to soothsay, how logical a mind you possess, and I can only look forward with a personal desire to one day be as shrewd and reasonable you.

I am a man of poetry and lore, a dreamer they say with a head full of fluff and beliefs in those things that no evidence has yet proven to be real. I believe in the human soul. I believe it perhaps does indeed have a seat in the body. My life has not been a pleasant one and I have seen the darker sides of men, and in knowing cruelty and discomfort, I believe its opposite must exist. Some resolution. Some meaning.

The world needs people like you and I to ask such shattering questions, wanting the littered pieces of the glistening answers. It takes a filament of fearlessness and a venturesome man to actively seek their own resolution or the demise of what before sufficed as an explanation. We, you and I, we believe but are skeptical. We do not know, in fact like Socrates, we know that we know not. Yet we know so far, there is no solid answer. Just a few phantom fingerprints on a window, a clue.

And thus, we proceed with a palpitating heart, as a widower to the casket of her dead lover in disbelief that they are truly gone; here lies the face or the hoax, of the truth that we seek.

The truth, which I shall set out to find my own answer to. Just as you have.

I want to thank you, Mr. Houdini, for searching with me.

I will not stop until I have found.

For science,



written by: samantha lucero circa early 2000’s ©
image: the man who laughs, giphy.com.

6 thoughts on “her old stories from the grave: the horseman, pt 1.

  1. This should be interesting. The prose is Lovecraftian (Lovecrafty? 🙂 ) in a good way. It’s a convincingly real voice for the character also. Looking forward to more.

  2. I’ve always thought that younger artists, younger minds dare leaps to farther landings or deeper abyss’ that us older,um, wiser? wordsmiths wouldn’t dare. the 1st albums are frequently the best, the early books may be cruder but they’re ruder, the early poems, innocent seeming but screaming

    can’t wait for what’s to follow/ thanx, gray

    1. very true. it can make me cringe to read my older notes, but they’re much purer.
      it was before wanting/needing to be perfect always peeked over my shoulder.
      this has many parts, and i’ll be shoving them all into one post sometime soon. thanks for reading.


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