A New Project for 2026
1001 Cosmic Horror Writing Prompts by Edgar Hem
2026 is the year I’m going to get back to writing, at least a little! My day job is extremely hectic and can often render my brain useless for creative endeavors, but I’m determined to at least try to put my writing chops to the test again and put out additional tales for both A Forest Darkly and Unseen, my Appalachain Folk Horror serieses. In addition, I just got the great book 1001 Cosmic Horror Writing Prompts by Edgar Hem, and I’ll attempt to use those to share a short work with you based on the prompt. Let’s start!
Prompt #1: As shadows lengthen under a blood-red sky, a forgotten memory claws its way back into your mind, twisting reality into nightmarish shapes. In the attic of an old house, a dusty mirror reflects not only your face but alternate realities where unseen eyes watch with malevolent intent. Each night, as the stars align in unholy patterns, internal doubts and fears manifest externally, blurring the line between what is real and what lies beyond human comprehension.
Sir Edvard Schrief was a man of contradiction. On one hand he was the spoiled and indolent heir to a very large fortune of his father’s making, and on the other he was a dedicated craftsman. He was known among others in his circle as a man of particular genius when it came to woodwork. His father, knowing nothing of crafting, saw this as a hobby, though Edvard himself knew it to be his one true calling. Some disagreement was had when Edvard stated such to his parents, and he was promptly sent off to the shipyard to learn his father’s trade in preparation for taking over the company one day.
Such learning was what brought Edvard on this particular night to the home of Thomas Burmingham, his father’s solicitor. Upon the dawn, Edvard and Thomas would set out on a journey north to visit his father’s other holdings so that Edvard could learn what he must about them.
Edvard lay in the narrow twin bed provided to him by his father’s oldest friend and listened to the crash of the ocean outside the window. It should not bother him, this sound, for he had lived alongside the sea for the whole of his life, but on this night it seemed rather morose and howling and he lay awake thinking of what the sea might have to howl about.
Thomas’ house was much like the man; narrow and long, three floors of square rooms and square windows. It sat on a tall cliff overlooking the sea and was a drab gray of weathered shiplap. Thomas had no wife and such was evident in the decor, for he kept nothing save what was useful.
Bored and still wondering about the sea, Edvard stood up and put on his slippers, picking up a candle and shuffling toward the door. Thomas slept on the first floor, explaining that he was too old to go up and down the stairs, and so Edvard felt no concern that his wandering might wake his host.
Edvard went to the door at the end of the hall and opened it, shivering when a breeze whipped past. It smelled of sea air and Edvard wondered if a window was open above. Thomas has said that the top floor was nothing more than an attic of sorts, holding items that belonged to his parents and rarely traversed by anyone these days. To Edvard, it was a way to perhaps wile away the time til dawn, poking about the long-lost treasures that might be hiding therein.
The stairs were narrow and they creaked, the candle flickering as the wind whipped past again. The howl of the sea was louder here, and Edvard supposed the height of the cliff and their precarious perch upon it might cause such a noise. He saw stacks upon stacks of items covered in sailcloth in the large room at the top of the stairs, and he put the candle down upon a small table and looked around with interest. He saw the one small window was indeed cracked a bit, and he went to it, shutting it down tightly against that chilly breeze. A flicker caught his attention and he turned, realizing it was the light of the candle reflected in the corner of a mirror that had lost it’s sailcloth cover.
Edvard examined the mirror curiously. It was indeed a marvel. The frame was not gilt as he might have expected, but carved wood. He leaned closer to see the carvings and frowned when he saw they were not cherubs or flowers but instead snakes, twined upon themselves all around the rim of the mirror. As a man of some expertise in woodwork, he knew that detail of this sort would have taken years, if not decades, to achieve. He trailed a finger along the edge, wondering what kind of wood could produce such a glimmering ebony surface. It was beautiful, if not somehow also off-putting.
Edvard looked down at the glass and noted that his reflection seemed elongated this close, and he backed away, marveling at the clarity of his own visage. The mirror was clearly old, but it was clearer than most his mother purchased recently. Edvard frowned when he saw his image ripple, considering it to be a trick of the light. He leaned in, and noted that his face was … not his face.
Oh the dark eyebrows and the wide, brown eyes were his own. The aqualine nose and the slightly thin and crooked mouth were his as well. But the essence of the image staring back at him was not Sir Edvard Schrief. There as a glint of madness in the stare, a cruel twist to the lips that quirked slightly at him. Edvard was too fascinated to be afraid, at least at first. He trailed a wondering finger over the visage in the mirror, enchanted by the idea that this is what he might have looked like if he was more like his father. Colder. Harder.
Suddenly the window sash slammed open, the wind screaming through the room and the roar made Edvard jump in fright. He threw a hand over his hammering heart and when he looked back to the mirror he blinked in shock at what he saw.
Gone was the image of a man at all, and before him lay a landscape he could barely recognize. The city, for certain, he knew the clocktower and the winding main street upon which he used to ride his carriage, but it was razed to the ground. Burned beyond saving, with flames still flickering in spots. The ground had opened up, oozing red lava spewing from the cracks. He gasped, falling to his backside, unable to scramble away from the scene as he wished to do. From the darkness around the city, an all-encompassing black cloud, he saw movement. He tried not to see, but only saw more. Eyes. Great, red, glowing eyes. Staring back at him from there. From.. here? A here that might come? A here that had once been….
A scream tore from Edvard’s throat as a knowing came upon him such that he had never felt. A certainty of fact that was as clear to his mind as his own name, his own mother’s name. The darkness knew him. It was him. The city razed to the ground was his doing. The death. The destruction. The pain. All the sorrow that flowed through him now belonged to those he had wronged in that other place. That other time. That … other him.
Madness was foreign to Edvard, but he felt himself descending into it as the realization struck. No world was safe. No time. No version of Edvard Schrief was safe from the darkness that was coming for him. It would twist him. Consume him. Drive him to commit heinous acts that no one could describe or imagine. Edvard rushed to the window, and threw himself out.
The sound of Edvard’s body hitting the ground just outside his window woke Thomas from sleep. He put on his boots and his dressing gown and lit a candle before going to the stairs. He climbed up 2 flights to the top, and replaced the sailcloth cover over the mirror before closing the window with a sigh.
“It is done,” he said to the dark and empty room. “I hope you are now well satisfied.”
The end.
This was good. I’m glad you’re back.