Echoes from the Loam

Fan Feardom, where your stories come to life. Vol 1 features Emily, Jakob and @appalachianboobust 

In the quiet corners of British folklore, there’s a figure who doesn’t chase, doesn’t speak, and doesn’t bleed. He simply appears and wears what's left of you when you're gone.

In the windswept Orkney Islands, where the sea claws at the land and the lochs run deep, there is a legend older than the kirk stones and darker than the winter tide.

They say the will o’ wisp is no mere trick of the light, but a soul-hunter born of old grief and bog-bound bargains. It drifts between worlds, luring the lost with flickers of warmth, each flame a life claimed. Nell followed the eighth light into the mire, her name now spoken only in hush. But the wisp is still hungry. It seeks its ninth. And when the mist rises and the lanterns fail, you must not...

They say the mirror in Room 13 was never meant to be there. It wasn’t hung—it arrived. A tall, freestanding thing with a frame like scorched bone and glass that never quite reflects true. Those who look into it see their death. Not once, but again and again, until the image roots itself deep. Until the mirror begins to watch back. It doesn’t show what might be—it shows what will be. And once it’s...

When the Wild Hunt descends upon a frostbitten village, its riders demand blood and a soul. Eira, bound by ancestral duty, steps forward—not as prey, but as gift. Her willing surrender halts the slaughter, but the Hunt does not release its claim. Instead, it reshapes her. Cloaked in ash and antler, Eira becomes one of them—a spectral rider bound to the wind, forever chasing the echoes of her forme...

In the shadows, they do not interfere —they observe. The Werewatchers, a sect cloaked in silence and memory, chronicle each transformation with ink and bone. They do not interfere. They wait. When a new werewolf turns, the Watchers are already there, recording the shift, binding the name, and leaving a sigil no one else sees. Those marked are left to live, until the time comes. Then the Watchers r...

Bean Nighe Morven knew the legends. She knew the rules. And she thought she’d outwitted the Washer Woman.   But fate doesn’t bargain.   When Morven breaks the Bean Nighe’s ritual, she believes she’s escaped the death foretold in the blood-soaked linens. But the river keeps its promises—and the washer never leaves her work unfinished.   You can cheat the tale. But not the ending.  

Black Annis Children vanish. Claw marks in the bark. Blood-stained soil beneath the trees.   Detective Mara Mcphearson doesn’t believe in monsters—until the case drags her deep into the woods, where something ancient waits.   A tale of ritual, obsession, and the hunt for a hag who wears the faces of the lost.   Some legends don’t sleep. They feed.

He came for the light, the angles, the shadows, the perfect shot. But the chapel had been waiting.   When a photographer ventures into a long-abandoned chapel, his lens begins to capture more than decay: ritual marks, moments frozen in time and something watching from the silence.   A tale of possession and the price of seeing too much.   Some places were never meant to be remembered.    

A brief introduction into my realm, who i am and where this journey goes.