Nightmare Nook

Nightmare Nook

The wind wailed like a dying beast — wet, briny, salt-soaked shrieks that sliced through the slate-grey air like rusted knives. 

The shattered remnants of a highway sign clanged hollow, metallic, and shrill, flapping violently against a rusting pole. Each gust carried with it the sharp tang of vinegar-drenched pier fries, mingled with the damp musk of decaying kelp and salt-scorched seaweed curling up from a distant icy shore. 

In the cerulean twilight, long past the hour when even the zombies had ceased moaning and began instead to shiver in place like forgotten, frost-covered mannequins, the Pink Necromancer approached a building none of them remembered passing before.

A small shop stood ahead like a trap disguised as sanctuary. A black cat sat on the rime-slicked front steps, her emerald-glowing eyes unblinking, fixed solely on Quaraun. A trio of faintly electric-blue, eel-like creatures swam lazily through the air behind her, leaving wisps of flickering light in their wake.

“There it is again,” Quaraun said, voice soft and brittle as cracked porcelain.

“There is what?” BoomFuzzy the Unicorn asked, one steel-grey dreadlock slapping his face in the wind.

“The black cat.”

“Ah! Yer imaginary friend.”

“It is not imaginary.”

“No one but you ever sees it.”

“I am a necromancer.”

BoomFuzzy raised a violet brow. 

“Meanin’ it be a ghost? If that were the case, Love, why do I not see it? I am a Lich after all. Bein’ a type o’ ghostie meself, I should be able tae see other ghosts.”

Quaraun glanced nervously at the cat again. Her glowing eyes blinked once. Slowly. The blue eels undulated through the snow-filled air above her, humming quietly in an otherworldly crackle that only Quaraun seemed to notice.

“I do not like this place,” Quaraun said, and his long frost-dusted, rabbity ears twitched, setting his delicate silver chains tinkling like icicles strung from dread. “There is a darkness. A dreadness. A wrongness. A loathsome, loathsome dread. Dread and loathsome. Loathsome and dread.”

“It’s just a wee cabin, Sugar Plum,” said the little shaggy, lilac-coloured Unicorn, though even he kept his hoof toes back from the slippery, shadow-stained threshold. “Tis just a run doon wee thingie, aye? Naught tae get yers arse hairs in a kink o’er.”

“I dunno, man,” GhoulSpawn muttered, nervously rotating a partially thawed, sticky, sugar-encrusted Moxie can in his snow covered hands. “This place has like, serious metaphysical flux, dude. Heavy New Orleans Voodoo vibes. I think the building exists simultaneously in three timelines and maybe like, also inside a rotting sandwich. That’s… that’s not a metaphor.”

The structure crouched like a wounded beast — twisted and slumped, its wooden slats rotted and knotted with creeping frost-moss and trailing sinewy barnacle-stained vines. The windows were boarded with digital shutters that flickered glitching sigils in ultramarine static, written in long-forgotten tongues that twitched and pulsed like living calligraphy.

A faded sign swung above the lintel on ice-rusted chains, creaking with each gust of salt-sleet wind:

Nightmare Nook: Curios, Curses & Comforters

“What in the name o’ Beelzebub’s bunghole is a comforter?” BoomFuzzy said, peering up at the flapping signage as he mist-flickered out of his Unicorn form and into his Humanoid Faerie form — a short, broad-shouldered, black-skinned man clad in flowing black silk robes and a regal purple plaid wool tartan, his steel-grey dreadlocks brushing against his long fluffy violet tail.

“Blankets,” Quaraun said. “Knitted. To comfort you.”

Quaraun glanced again at the black cat. She hadn’t moved. The electric blue eels spun lazy spirals above her, making soft chittering noises like gears ticking inside jellyfish.

“Sounds like somethin’ yer gran knits when she’s been at the vodka.”

“Blankets,” GhoulSpawn offered. “Yeah. He’s right. It’s blankets. But in a curio shop like this? Possibly haunted blankets. Maybe with teeth.”

“I despise haunted bedding,” Quaraun sniffed, adjusting the folds of his fuchsia-pink tussar silk robes as if to armour himself against the idea. “Especially the sentient sort. They tangle one’s tentacles.”

Despite their mutual misgivings, curiosity itched more than frostbite.

So in they went.

The black cat followed them, her eyes glowing emerald green, tail twitching like a whisper from another world. Her glowing stare never left Quaraun. Behind her, three electric-blue, eel-shaped, translucent, space-swimming beings wriggled through the air, drifting in and out of cracks in reality, humming static tunes that only Quaraun’s squishy jellyfish mind could parse.

Inside, the warmth was thick, cloying, stagnant — unnatural. Sickly sweet. Like being hugged by a rotting marshmallow with mother issues. Every breath tasted like it had passed through the lungs of a long-dead bayou priestess.

Rows of shelves creaked under the weight of dusty jars, glimmering baubles, pickled eyes, and knitted socks that softly growled when passed too close, their wool damp and steaming slightly in the sour heat.

Handwoven pink silk rugs, dulled with ash and dried ichor, sprawled across the warped floorboards. Heavy dusty rose velvet curtains smothered the windows and walls, framing blue-glass crystal skulls that flickered with violet faerie-lights. A squat pink velvet chesterfield, stained with something dark and flaky, lurked beneath a shrine of St. Margarette, Lady of Death, draped in black beads, tangled hair clippings, and candy-pink kelp knots.

Quaraun stepped gingerly, his dusty rose silk slippers silent on the floor. His pink tussar silk robes shimmered faintly in the Faerie light, brushing the edges of the blood-flecked rug like wind over water. The mauve velvet sash at his waist fluttered in an unseen draft, as his long silver hair, streaked with sparkling pink ribbons, caught every movement of the heavy air. His icy white-blue eyes, pink-pupilled and rimmed in long, wet silver lashes, flicked anxiously to the counter.

There, perched like a phantom, the black cat sat — her tail curled neatly, her green eyes gleaming. 

Only Quaraun saw her. 

Only Quaraun noticed the way the air vibrated whenever she blinked.

“Quaint,” said Quaraun, nose wrinkling at the wool-clogged air. His voice was flat, precise, like a glitchy automaton drowning in rosewater. “This is not silk. It is wool. I prefer silk. But this is soft wool. Very soft. Soft as the wool I weave.”

The shopkeeper emerged from behind a mildewed, rotting, salt-streaked, twilight-shadowed heap of cursed tea cozies. A creature made of faded velvet, ghost-blue silk patches, and rose-pink tulle, its button eyes clouded like pearls soaked in swamp water, and its pincushion fingers rustling like mummified crabs.

It smiled.

The smile split too wide, stretching across a stitched seam lined with lilac thread and teeth made of bone beads.

Too stitched.

It was… a doll?

Quaraun was uncertain.

He had never seen anything like it before. Had he? He tried to remember. Quaraun’s squishy JellyFish mind, thought many wet, squirming, slippery, squishy thoughts, but he could not remember such a creature. 

He glanced at the black cat.

Her eyes flared like two green sunflares, and the space around her shimmered like heat waves in a snowstorm. The eels were gone.

The elderly Elf contemplated the necromancy involved in animating a doll in this manner, and concluded that there were no necromancers capable of doing such a thing, largely because he was the only necromancer on the planet, and therefor this must be something else. 

Something NOT necromancy. 

But what? 

It certainly looked like necromancy.

“Welcome to Nightmare Nook,” it said, its voice wet and crackling, like air escaping a long-drowned windpipe. 

The sound jarred Quaraun out of his thoughts. 

“Would you like a free sample of our new Emotionally Possessed Throw Rug? It’s on sale. With teeth.”

Quaraun flinched. His ears twitched. His fuchsia robes rustled like frightened jellyfish. He turned his head slightly, gaze drawn once more to the unmoving black cat and the scent of fried vinegar.

“No thank you,” Quaraun said, carefully formal. “I already possess emotions, and my floors are — ”

“Covered in blood,” BoomFuzzy interrupted, voice muffled by the tartan scarf wrapped tight around his face.

The regal, violet-robed Lich, his black silk coat cinched at the waist with a purple wool belt, leaned against a display case filled with mossy crab claws and absinthe tinctures, his steel-grey dreadlocks falling in coils down his back. His fluffy purple tail twitched once in irritation.

“…covered in tasteful blood,” Quaraun corrected coldly.

He glanced — again — at the black cat. 

She still watched. 

She always watched. 

Was she judging? 

Hunting? 

Listening?

Why could no one else see her?

Why did she haunt him?

Why was she here?

“Humans interrupted us. We was havin’ ourselves a right old — ”

“We do not need to tell strangers everything that goes on in our private lives.”

“I’ll take it!” GhoulSpawn chirped. The lanky, orange-caftan-wrapped, green-velvet-coated Demon already had both arms elbow-deep in a snarling, biting, sugar-crusted, pink-and-black throw rug. The fabric had needle teeth and a tendency to scream when touched. He tried to cram it into one of the dozens of cavernous inner pockets of his coat — each pocket embroidered with candy-striped stars and tiny stitched eyes.

The rug fought back. It snapped, snarled, and bit his elbow. Threads of ghost silk wrapped around his wrist and hissed.

“Why is it acting like this?”

“Totally normal,” the patchwork, rose-pink-and-ghost-blue doll creature assured him, its voice like wind moaning through frozen gourd pipes, brittle and watery with something ancient. 

Its stitched-on grin widened just a bit more, revealing crooked porcelain teeth nestled in plush velvet gums. The shop’s ceiling creaked with the strain of invisible weight.

“I got a bad feelin’, boys,” BoomFuzzy muttered, tugging at Quaraun’s pale-pink feather boa, his steel-grey dreadlocks brushing against his black silk coat as he turned. His silver irises, murky like sea ice under moonlight, narrowed behind his salt-smeared copper steampunk goggles. “It feels like this place eats souls an’ shits out vintage lawn gnomes.”

Quaraun did not reply. He was staring at the obsidian-furred, shadow-breathing cat which now sat atop a cracked wooden shelf labelled:

“CLEARANCE: NIGHT TERRORS.”

The cat’s emerald eyes glowed like radioactive pearls, her gaze locked on Quaraun with eerie intent. Behind her, two electric-blue, ghost-slick, eel-shaped entities spiralled lazily through the air, dripping flakes of stardust and reality static as they swam through the dimensional fractures only Quaraun’s squishy jellyfish mind could perceive.

“Oh no,” Quaraun whispered, his voice a shiver of fear caught in velvet frost.

He glanced again at the cat. 

She blinked slowly. The air behind her rippled like water beneath ice.

“What is it, Love?” BoomFuzzy asked, his tone gentle but wary, his royal purple plaid tartan cloak twitching behind him like a banner of warning.

“That.” Quaraun pointed a trembling gold gloved prosthetic finger at the dusty jar.

“What?”

“That is my handwriting.”

He reached out, trembling. A dusty jar sat alone on the shelf, glowing faintly pink. The label: Quaraun’s Childhood Nightmares — distilled, decanted, and available in limited edition glitter bombs.

BoomFuzzy stepped forward. 

“Who the bloody frozen pisshole’s been bottlin’ yer bloody trauma like it’s bloody bathwater?”

“Me,” Quaraun said faintly. 

“You?”

“It appears…I opened this shop. And then I forgot. Forgot and fled. Fled and forgot.”

“And then someone looted yer forgotten trauma,” GhoulSpawn said. “Which means someone’s selling your fear.”

From the shadows, the shopkeeper smiled wider.

“It is a most popular item,” it said. “Collectors adore it.”

The building trembled. 

Shelves shook. 

The comforters began to chant eldritch lullabies in reverse. A pair of glowing blue space eels peaked out from underneath, then slithered to sit with the black cat, all three of them sitting at Quaraun’s feet staring up at him.

“Right,” BoomFuzzy said, grabbing Quaraun’s wrist. “That’s enough trauma souvenir shoppin’ for one evenin’. We’re goin’. Now.”

They turned to the door. 

It was gone.

“Dude,” GhoulSpawn said, clutching the snarling throw rug. “I think the building ate the exit.”

“Mimic house,” Quaraun whispered. 

BoomFuzzy snarled and flicked on his wand. A projection of a glowing green highland cow danced on the wall. The building screamed. 

GhoulSpawn yanked a second, larger rug from his coat, threw it on the floor, and yelled: “Portal pad! Ride or die, dudes!”

“I would prefer not to die nor ride,” Quaraun shouted, leaping onto the rug.

The throw rug belched eldritch static.

With a sonic thwoomp, the trio vanished, reappearing thirty feet outside in the snowbank beside a rusting gas station sign that read: Last Petrol for 300 Miles — Zombie-Free Since Tuesday.

Nightmare Nook disappeared. Just blinked out of existence.

Or perhaps it was never there at all.

Or maybe, it was still there, but in another dimension?

“It was there,” Quaraun said, brushing rug lint from his sleeves. “It was real. Real and there. There and real. And the cat was there again. And the eels. They are real. I know they are real. I saw them.”

“Aye, an’ ye need tae stop bottlin’ yer nightmares,” BoomFuzzy growled. “Nothin’ good comes o’ distillin’ yerself into artisanal wee traumas.”

Quaraun nodded solemnly. 

“I shall make note of that. In ink. In blood. In silk-bound journals. Bound in silk. Silk in bound.”

GhoulSpawn giggled, still holding the living rug. 

“Yo, the tag on this thing says it gives +3 Warmth and +2 Snuggle Resistance. Totally worth it.”

Today’s story was brought to you by the letter N. More stories starting with N can be found here:

The Pink Necromancer Index: Part N
An Alphabetical Index of my 1k+ Drabbles, Poems, Kishōtenketsu, & Other Short Fiction on Medium

The Pink Necromancer, Moon Elf silk weaver & merchant: Quaraun on Noodle Beach. His master chef Phooka turned Lich husband: BoomFuzzy with his 1968 VW Bus Beach Noodle Food Truck. And their on again/off again mad scientist Sheep Demon lover: GhoulSpawn with his 1974 AMC Gremlin time machine. Time Travel setting swings back and forth between 40th century Maine after a comet hit the moon decimating the planet, and the 1970s, Maine. Quaraun in the main character, he and BoomFuzzy are a married gay couple. GhoulSpawn is their shared live-in lover. Art by Wendy Christine Allen.

BoomFuzzy

Quaraun

Faeries vs Elves (In The Quaraun Series) A Pink Necromancer World Lore Post

The Pink Necromancer: The Adventures of Quaraun The Insane aka The Twighlight Manor Series

🌸🦄🌸 Furry Yaoi Fiction about Elves and Faeries and Satyrs and Demons and Unicorns and Technomancer Wizards and Liches living in a Lighthouse and surviving as Travelling Merchants and Food Truck Chefs in Cyberpunk Dystopian 40th Century Maine, and Zombie Apocalypse and Time Travel but it’s Slice of Life Vignettes of Mundane Daily Lives of The UnSeelie Court’s Royal Family trying to survive after a comet hit the moon and turned the Earth into a CyberPunk Ice-Age. 🌸🦄🌸

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