dark humor

by Bill Tiepelman

Ethereal Outlaws: Whispers of the Apocalypse

The wind carried the ash of a thousand ruined dreams, swirling it into the midnight sky like a reluctant offering to the gods. The Wasteland didn’t whisper—it growled, its hunger unending. Standing at its edge, Veyra adjusted the strap of her patched denim overalls, her sharp silver hair catching the dim glow of embers scattered in the wind. Beside her, Rook leaned on his makeshift staff, carved from a rusted pipe and god-knows-what-else, his hooded face a testament to decades of poor decisions and worse hygiene. “You gonna keep posing, princess, or are we actually gonna move?” Rook grumbled, scratching his scraggly beard. His voice was gravelly, the kind of tone that made you wonder if he'd gargled razor blades for fun. Veyra arched a perfect eyebrow, her smirk both lethal and condescending. “I’m sorry, are you offering leadership advice? Didn’t you lose our entire stash of rations last week because you thought bartering with a mutant who had three mouths was a good idea?” “First of all,” Rook retorted, straightening up and glaring at her, “that was tactical diplomacy. Second, I didn’t know he’d eat the damn bullets too. How was I supposed to know he was… what’s the word? Hangry?” “Tactical diplomacy,” Veyra repeated with a laugh that could cut glass. “Riiiight. Just like you ‘tactically’ passed out drunk while we were being chased by raiders.” Rook waved a dismissive hand, his collection of tribal bracelets jingling noisily. “Whatever, princess. You’re lucky I’m around, or you’d be a pile of bones somewhere, probably accessorized by vultures.” “Lucky?” Veyra scoffed, her hands on her hips. “Your sense of ‘luck’ is why I’ve got one boot held together by duct tape and faith. And speaking of faith, we’ve been walking in circles for three hours. If you don’t figure out where the hell this mysterious signal you’re following is coming from, I’m leaving your sorry ass here.” The Signal Two days ago, Rook’s scavenged radio—held together with copper wire, spit, and optimism—had picked up something unusual. A broadcast. Crisp, clear, and human. It wasn’t the usual garbled nonsense of old world ads or static-filled screams. This was a voice, soft but commanding: “Sanctuary lies in the Whispering Tower. Seek it, if you dare.” Veyra, naturally, had rolled her eyes at the idea of chasing some cryptic message. But Rook, ever the reckless dreamer, had insisted. “Sanctuary!” he’d said, grinning through yellowed teeth. “That means showers! Food! Beds that don’t have… whatever that smell is!” “You mean hope, right?” Veyra had replied, her tone drier than the Wasteland sand. “No way that ends badly.” Now, here they were, trekking toward some mythical tower, dodging feral mutants, and trying not to kill each other in the process. The suspense thickened with every passing hour, the Wasteland eerily devoid of the usual screams and gunfire. The Whispering Tower When they finally stumbled upon the tower, it was both magnificent and horrifying. A jagged spire of twisted metal and broken glass, it pierced the clouds like a malevolent beacon. Shadows writhed around its base, moving in unnatural patterns that made Veyra’s skin crawl. “Well,” she muttered, her voice tinged with sarcasm, “this doesn’t look like the beginning of a death trap at all.” “Relax, princess,” Rook said, flashing a grin. “I’ve seen worse. Remember that bunker where the rats tried to unionize?” “I remember the part where you screamed like a toddler when they swarmed your boots,” Veyra replied with a smirk. “Let’s go, brave leader.” The pair entered cautiously, their weapons drawn. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of rust and decay. Flickering lights overhead cast eerie shadows, and faint whispers echoed through the halls, as if the building itself were alive. “You hear that?” Veyra whispered, her hand tightening on her dagger. “If by ‘that,’ you mean my stomach growling, then yeah,” Rook replied. “I’m starving.” “No, you idiot,” Veyra hissed. “The whispers. They’re everywhere.” “Probably just the wind,” Rook said, though his hand gripped his staff a little tighter. “Or, y’know, ghosts. Definitely not anything dangerous.” They pressed forward, the whispers growing louder. Veyra’s sass was replaced by a wary silence, and even Rook seemed unnerved. Finally, they reached a massive chamber filled with glowing machinery. In the center stood a figure draped in tattered robes, their face obscured by a golden mask. The Truth Unveiled “Welcome,” the figure intoned, their voice a haunting melody. “You have traveled far, seekers.” “Uh, yeah,” Rook said, scratching his head. “We’re here for… uh, sanctuary? Is that still on the menu, or did we miss happy hour?” “Sanctuary is earned, not given,” the figure replied. “To survive the Wasteland is to prove your worth. But to thrive…” The figure gestured to the glowing machinery. “…is to make a choice.” Veyra frowned. “What kind of choice?” “A choice to transcend,” the figure said, stepping aside to reveal a sleek pod-like structure. “Step inside, and you will become something greater. Stronger. Immortal.” Rook snorted. “Yeah, no thanks. Last time I stepped inside something mysterious, I ended up with a rash that took three months to go away.” Veyra shot him a look. “You’re disgusting.” “What?” Rook said with a shrug. “It was a weird hot spring, okay?” The figure’s voice cut through their banter. “Mockery will not save you. The Wasteland consumes all who remain mortal. Choose wisely.” Veyra stared at the pod, then at Rook. “What do you think?” “I think it’s a trap,” Rook said. “But hey, if you wanna climb in and become some kind of robo-goddess, I’ll totally worship you. For a price.” “You’re such a charmer,” Veyra muttered. “Let’s leave. I don’t trust this.” The Escape As they turned to leave, the whispers became a deafening roar. Shadows rose from the ground, twisting into monstrous forms. “You cannot leave!” the figure shouted, their melodic voice now a distorted screech. “You must choose!” “I choose run!” Rook yelled, grabbing Veyra’s arm and bolting for the exit. “You call this running? You’re slower than a drunk mutant!” Veyra snapped, dragging him along as shadows clawed at their heels. They burst out of the tower, the shadow creatures disintegrating in the sunlight. Gasping for breath, Rook collapsed onto the ground. “See? Told you we’d make it.” Veyra glared at him, her hair wild and her eyes blazing. “If you ever drag me into something like this again, I’m going to personally feed you to the vultures.” Rook grinned. “Aw, you’d miss me. Admit it.” “Miss you? Ha! I’d throw a party.” As the two bickered, the tower loomed behind them, its whispers fading into silence. Whatever secrets it held would remain undiscovered—for now. But one thing was certain: the Wasteland wasn’t done with them yet.     This artwork, titled Ethereal Outlaws: Whispers of the Apocalypse, is now available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Bring this captivating piece of post-apocalyptic mystery and fire into your space or project!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Vampire Moth: Fluttering Fangs

Chapter One: Hollow's End The story started like any other urban legend: whispered in dimly lit bars, passed around campfires, and dismissed as drunken ramblings. But in Hollow’s End, everyone knew something lurked in the shadows, even if no one wanted to admit it. The tales weren’t just stories—they were warnings. You didn't stay out after dark, and you sure as hell didn’t open your windows, no matter how stuffy the summer night air felt. They said the Vampire Moth had been around for centuries. Legends claimed it had arrived on a ship from the Old World, clinging to the tattered sails, drawn by the scent of sailors’ blood. Some said it was the result of a curse—a monarch who angered the gods and was condemned to forever feed on life but never live. But if you asked the local hunters, they’d just tell you it was an overgrown moth with a taste for blood. The truth, as always, was somewhere in between. Hollow’s End wasn’t always a town drowning in rumors. There was a time, long before I was born, when it thrived—orchards bursting with apples, kids playing in the streets, and neighbors who smiled and waved. But that was before the disappearances. They started slow, a child here, a vagrant there, but after a while, it became impossible to ignore. By the time I was old enough to understand, the town had become a shell of its former self. People moved away. The orchards rotted. No one smiled anymore. And the only thing that filled the streets at night was the wind, carrying with it the scent of decay and fear. My parents were one of the few that stayed. Call it stubbornness or stupidity, but they weren't the kind to run. Maybe they thought the stories were just that—stories. I mean, who really believes in a giant blood-drinking moth? Monsters weren’t real. Or so I thought. Until the night it came for me. Chapter Two: The Encounter I was never one for superstitions. I'd heard the warnings all my life, the whispered advice to never open your windows after sunset. But on that particularly sticky August evening, I just didn’t care. The air inside my room was suffocating, and I figured the odds of getting snatched by some mythical moth were about as high as winning the lottery. So, I cracked the window. The breeze that swept in was a relief, cool and calming. For a while, I just lay there, letting the air wash over me. I was half-asleep when I heard it—a soft fluttering, barely audible, like the distant sound of paper wings. At first, I thought it was nothing. Maybe a bird or a bat. But the noise grew louder. Then came the smell—a thick, coppery scent, like fresh blood hanging in the air. My skin prickled. I sat up, heart pounding, my gaze scanning the room. That’s when I saw it. It wasn’t just a moth. No, this thing was monstrous. Its wings spanned nearly the length of my bed, dripping with a dark red substance that oozed off the edges and splattered onto the floor. The wings were translucent in places, revealing veins that pulsed with every beat. Its body was grotesque, bloated and pulsating, with an unnatural sheen like wet leather stretched over a skeleton too big for its frame. And its eyes—those glowing, ember-red eyes—locked onto me. I froze, unsure if I should scream or run, but my body refused to move. The moth hovered there for a moment, its wings beating slow, hypnotic rhythms. Then it moved toward me, a predatory grace in every shift of its wings. I could see its fangs now, sharp and glistening with whatever life it had stolen from its last victim. In my paralyzing panic, I muttered, “Nice wings. You doing a blood drive or something?” Because dark humor is all I had left. The moth paused, as if it understood me. For a moment, I could swear it smiled. Then it struck. Chapter Three: The Feed The fangs sank into my shoulder, and though I had expected sharp pain, it was oddly delicate. The moth's bite was precise, almost clinical, as if it knew exactly where to sink its fangs to cause the least damage but still drain me dry. The sensation wasn’t pain—it was worse. It was like my very essence was being siphoned, the life draining from me one drop at a time. I could feel the warmth leaving my body, replaced with an unnatural cold that seeped into my bones. My vision blurred as the moth’s wings wrapped around me, enveloping me in a cocoon of darkness and decay. The scent of blood and rot filled my lungs, making it hard to breathe. My heart raced, then slowed, the beats becoming weaker with each passing second. Just when I thought it would drain me completely, the creature stopped. Its wings unfurled, and it hovered above me, its eyes still fixed on mine. For a moment, I thought it might finish the job. But instead, it did something far worse. It laughed. Not a sound I would expect from an insect—no, it was almost human, a soft, raspy chuckle that sent chills down my spine. It floated back, as if admiring its work, and then, with a final flutter of its blood-soaked wings, it flew off into the night, leaving me gasping for air and half-dead on my bed. Chapter Four: Aftermath When I woke the next morning, the marks on my shoulder were still there—two perfect puncture wounds. But they weren’t what scared me. What scared me was the feeling that something had been taken from me. I was still alive, sure, but I wasn’t whole. The moth had left me with more than just scars. It had taken a part of my soul, a piece of me I would never get back. I tried to explain it to people, but no one believed me. Not at first. Not until more bodies started turning up, drained, hollowed out like empty husks. The town was in a panic. The sheriff organized search parties, and people started boarding up their windows, but it didn’t matter. The moth wasn’t some wild animal you could hunt. It was smarter than that. And it was hungry. Chapter Five: The Joke’s on You Now, whenever someone in Hollow’s End cracks a joke about the Vampire Moth, I just smile and pull down my shirt collar. “Laugh all you want,” I say, revealing the twin puncture marks, “but the real joke’s on you when it decides you’re next.” Because here’s the thing they don’t tell you in the legends. The Vampire Moth doesn’t just kill you. It leaves a piece of itself behind, a little parting gift. I can feel it growing inside me, every day, bit by bit. The hunger. The need. It’s only a matter of time before I turn into something else—something that craves the taste of blood just as much as it did. So, if you’re ever in Hollow’s End, keep your windows closed, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll make it through the night. But if you hear a soft fluttering sound and smell something sweet and coppery in the air, well… let’s just say you should start writing your will.