Friday, October 2, 2015



To celebrate, Seventh Church Ministries will be releasing a very spooky Halloween-themed zine this month! That's right, Sam Heimer's Legend Of Sleepy Hollow, based on the story by Washington Irving! It will feature 10 illustrations, a print by Michelle Dugan based on Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes and two cut out paper masks, by myself and Sam! It MAY also contain dirt from Washington Irving's grave.... 

Here's a sample page of Sam's amazingly creepy work!

These zines will go on sale Friday October 16th, 11AM EST and will be limited to 50. If you missed out on Unclean Spirits, do NOT snooze on this one!

Friday, September 25, 2015


Jeanne D'Angelo's Unclean Spirits zine sold out in less than three hours!

I wanted to thank everyone that helped spread the word and mostly, I wanted to thank Jeanne for filling this book with absolutely stunning paintings! She is talented beyond belief!

One quick note, 'da pope-a's in Philadelphia this weekend and causing a ruckus. So, I may hold off on shipping these until the end of next week, just to give the city (but mostly the post office) a chance to recover. There are literally locked mailboxes and military personnel on every corner downtown.

LASTLY, if you missed Unclean Spirits DON'T MISS OUT ON OUR NEXT SPECIAL HALLOWEEN RELEASE! Sam Heimer's The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow which will come with a Something Wicked This Way Comes inspired print by Michelle Duggan!! Here's the front and back interior pages as a sample!



Monday, September 21, 2015


"Of course it is hard for me now to say how much I saw at that time, because my impressions were corrected by subsequent observation. First of all impressions was its enormous size; the girth of its body was some fourscore feet, its length perhaps two hundred. Its sides rose and fell with its laboured breathing. I perceived that its gigantic, flabby body lay along the ground, and that its skin was of a corrugated white, dappling into blackness along the backbone. But of its feet we saw nothing. I think also that we saw then the profile at least of the almost brainless head, with its fat-encumbered neck, its slobbering omnivorous mouth, its little nostrils, and tight shut eyes. (For the mooncalf invariably shuts its eyes in the presence of the sun.) We had a glimpse of a vast red pit as it opened its mouth to bleat and bellow again; we had a breath from the pit, and then the monster heeled over like a ship, dragged forward along the ground, creasing all its leathery skin, rolled again, and so wallowed past us, smashing a path amidst the scrub, and was speedily hidden from our eyes by the dense interlacings beyond."
 H.G. Wells, The First Men In the Moon

Friday, September 18, 2015

Happy Birthday H.G. Wells!

This coming Monday is H.G.Wells' birthday and I'll be celebrating again, with a new monster drawing! This time from his fantastic outerspace epic The First Men In the Moon!

Friday, August 7, 2015


"They gaped at it. That was all they could do: stare past the horrible bacchanal of dismemberment to the statue itself, as it began to move."

"The blood that had trickled down the front of the idol boiled and steamed, and the head that had been placed atop the neck began to swell. The sockets widened until the nasion popped, revealing a single eye, monstrous and three-lobed. The mouth melted and drooped, sabre-like fangs sprouting from the gums while a livid tongue unrolled down to the statue's chest."

"With a clang, the idol cracked down the middle and each half fell to the side. What was coiled beneath was far too large to have been housed in the shell from which it erupted."

"As the forked tail uncoiled, the head elongated and tapered to match that lower appendage. Membranous wings spread out from its back as its arms stretched forth. A spray of acidic slime spattered the cavorters as they writhed in ecstasy or pain, it was impossible to tell which. What was left where the statue had once stood now resembled an enormous winged worm, with a face and arms."

"Wilenski could not look away from it. He stared into its great eye, and as he did so he felt as if something was being planted in the base of his skull. Then he felt it twitch."
Michael Bukowski & Jason McKittrick, The Bronze God Awakens
Edited by Orrin Grey

Thursday, August 6, 2015


"McConnel and Wilenski peered over the ledge as a pandemoniac scene unfolded before them. A dozen men and women cavorted naked around a fire before a six foot high bronze statue on an equally tall stone base. The statue depicted a man with his arms out, palms up, as if in waiting. The sculptors had taken great care in depicting the statue's Scythian attire, even carving the intricate patterns of the tunic and boots in relief. A bow hung over its shoulder and a quiver at its side. The statue's features were perfect, except in one detail; where there should have been a head, there was none."

"The men and women seemed out of place, and not merely because they were trespassing on an active excavation site. Their features were Caucasian, their skin so white it had a bluish translucent hue."
"In the flickering light of the pyre the two archaeologists were able to make out the grotesque features of the worshipers in their revelry. What they had originally taken to be sensational rumors were proved true; the cultists had tried to emulate their headless god as best they could. To varying degrees they had removed parts of their heads. For some it was as simple as a shaved head, while others had taken off ears and noses. A select few had removed teeth."

"Two of the figures approached the statue, each of them pulling a severed human head from a worn and bloody sack. As one, they placed their grisly prizes in each of the statue's upturned hands. When they had finished, a woman whose face was covered with a long and gauzy scarf--the only piece of clothing among the throng--approached the back of the statue. As she climbed the pedestal, she removed the covering from her face. Her head was shaved, her ears and nose gone, and so were her eyes. This, however, was not the worst part. She had somehow removed her own lower jaw. A raw hole pulsed open and closed where not even a tongue dangled. She crawled up the back of the statue, moving unerringly in spite of her blindness, and placed a third severed head atop the statue's neck."

"Wilenski stifled a wretch and turned his head, but try as he might, McConnel could not look away. And so he saw the head atop the statue's neck open its gleaming eyes, 
and look back at him."
Michael Bukowski & Jason McKittrick, The Bronze God Awakens
Edited by Orrin Grey

Wednesday, August 5, 2015


"You've had about enough. It’s all so tiresome — the late nights at work, the growing silences between you, the old passions grown cold. Even more than the loneliness all of that engenders, what bothers you is the dull predictability of the whole sorry mess. He’s made you into a cliche, and that’s something you can’t abide."

   " He’s sitting there eating his goddamned breakfast without a single word to you, without a grunt of acknowledgement, and you’re scrubbing the pan you used to fry his eggs, watching the dirty water spiral its way into the drain. He’s masticating his food with his mouth open like a feral child. It’s the little things that break you in the end. "

    “'This isn’t going to work anymore,' you say. You feel the rampant power of the statement, and the fear it drags behind.

    'What do you mean?'

    “'This whole thing. Us.' You can’t bear to look at him while you say it. Easier to watch the spiraling water, the black hole that sucks it all in.

  "He stops gobbling his food. 'I don’t understand.'”
“'I don’t know you anymore. I look at you and it’s like someone else staring back at me. All we ever do anymore is talk past each other. What happened to the man I married?'”

    “'I ate him.'”

    "You turn around. He has no head. In its place is a dark, swirling gyre, a buckling-inward of space. It is like looking into a black hole, you think, or down the throat of the Beast. Parts of your mind dislodge and float into it: your ability to apprehend color; your memory of your father. Something — a cold antagonism, a radiant evil — regards you from within the turning chaos."

    “'I slipped into his eye ate his brain from the inside out. Now I wear him like a suit. He’s a little snug, but I’m nothing if not adaptable. I am the harbinger of the waking of the abyssal maw. I’ve built a mound of blood-greased bones in the basement and in a week’s time I will light it afire, using the marrow of your own children and the rendered flesh of the Collinses down the block. This will act as one of the Black Lanterns which will summon Azathoth, the eater of worlds. There are many others. I’m surprised you haven’t smelled it! It’s pretty rank.'”

    "You can only shake your head."

    “'What I’m saying is, I need another week.'”

    "You find a way around your dismay, enough to use your voice again. 'Oh my God. Did you even hear me? I’m telling you I want a divorce.'”

    "He sighs, and sits back down. You turn away from him. He starts slurping up his food again. It feels as though nothing has changed. You turn off the water, dry the pan, and get on with your day. "
Nathan Ballingrud, What We Talk About When We Talk About Nyarlathotep
Written Exclusively For an Illustro Obscurum Collaboration