Dark fantasy humor

par Bill Tiepelman

Midnight Clutch

The Transaction It started with a bet—because it always does. A bar too loud for conscience and too dim for decency, a stranger in a velvet hood, and a wager scribbled on a napkin: “If you win, you get what I caught. If you lose, I take your voice.” She laughed then, because she always did. “What the hell does that mean?” she’d asked, swirling her drink, blood-red and twice as toxic. The stranger didn’t answer. He just held out a deck of cards that smelled faintly of sulfur and old leather. She cut the deck, felt a zap under her fingertips, like licking a battery—but she was half-lit, halfway gone, and too proud to pull back. Three hands later, she won. Technically. She expected a bag of weird drugs. Maybe a wriggling thing in a jar. What she got was… warm. Alive. And looking at her like it already hated her guts. “You’re kidding,” she said, staring at the demon no bigger than a housecat, curled in the stranger’s black-gloved palm like a spoiled reptile. Its skin was wet, slick with blood or something trying to be it, and its teeth were small but too many. Its eyes were older than rules. It blinked—slow and smug. “He’s yours now,” the stranger said, voice like gravel in honey. “Don't name him. Don’t feed him after midnight. Don’t masturbate while he’s watching.” She choked on her drink. “Wait, what?” But the stranger was already fading into shadow, melting into the cigarette smoke and regret that passed for air in that place. All that was left was the creature in her lap, blinking its oily eyes and dragging a claw down her thigh like it was mapping her for later consumption. She didn’t name it. She called it “Dude.” “You better not piss on anything important,” she muttered, already regretting everything but the free drinks. The thing purred. Which was worse than any snarl. By sunrise, her apartment smelled like scorched leather and strange flowers. “Dude” had taken up residence in her lingerie drawer, hissed at her vibrator, and made three of her plants wilt just by looking at them. She watched him perch in her hand like some Satanic chihuahua, wings twitching, tail wrapped tight around her middle finger. That’s when she noticed: her thumb nail—bare just yesterday—was now painted crimson and sharp. Like it had grown that way. She stared at it. Then at the demon. “Dude,” she said, voice low and unsure, “are you doing... nail art?” He smiled. It was all teeth and bad news. And that’s when the scratching started. From inside the walls. The Claw That Feeds By the third night, Dude had claimed dominance over the television, her bedroom, and—possibly—her soul. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him: curled up like a grotesque fetus in the glow of the lamp, wings twitching, muttering in a language made entirely of consonants and war crimes. He smelled like brimstone, black licorice, and regret. Her cat had moved out. Her neighbors started leaving butcher paper on her doorstep. No one had explained why. Worse, the nail thing had escalated. All ten fingers now gleamed with blood-red lacquer, sharp enough to open envelopes or jugulars. She’d broken a mug just holding it. Her touch left scorch marks. A guy on Tinder said he was into “witchy girls” and ended up sobbing in a fetal position after she touched his thigh. “Dude,” she hissed, watching the little bastard lick something off her phone charger, “I need my life back.” He burped. It smelled like ozone and roasted anxiety. She Googled “how to reverse demonic contract” and ended up on a blog run by a guy named Craig who lived in a bunker and sold artisanal salt circles. She bought two, just in case. They did nothing. Dude pissed in one and it screamed. The scratching in the walls had turned into whispering. Sometimes it said her name. Sometimes it just recited Yelp reviews in a dead language. Once it tried to sell her life insurance. She tried holy water. Dude drank it like wine, then offered her a sip. She blacked out and woke up on her bathroom floor with her mirror cracked and her teeth cleaner than they’d ever been. Her breath smelled like cinnamon and sin. “I don’t remember giving consent to any of this,” she muttered. Dude winked. It was awful. By week two, her landlord knocked. “There’ve been complaints,” he said, squinting past her at the flickering hallway behind her. “Someone said you’re running a cult or a TikTok house.” She blinked. “I work in HR.” Behind her, Dude appeared in the shadows, eating a Pop-Tart and making intense eye contact with the landlord. The man turned white, left a notice, and moved to Colorado the next day. At some point—she’s not sure when—her reflection started moving slower than she did. It smiled sometimes. When she wasn’t. Then came the night of the knock. Not on the door—on the window. Seventh floor. No balcony. She opened it. Because of course she did. The velvet-hooded stranger was there again, hovering just outside, suspended by logic-defying darkness. His gloved hand was extended, the red nails glinting in the moonlight. “You’ve kept him well,” he said, voice like a slow drag over gravel. “And now the second half of the deal.” “There was a second half?” she asked, already regretting every drink she’d ever accepted from strangers. “He chose you. That means... promotion.” Behind her, Dude fluttered up, perched on her shoulder like the worst shoulder devil in a sitcom gone to hell. He whispered something in her ear that made her eyes roll back and her feet lift off the ground. The room trembled. The walls began bleeding down the drywall like melting crayon. Her toenails turned crimson. Her Wi-Fi signal improved. Her laughter—dry, cracked, and unstoppable—filled the air like static. When the world stopped shaking, she stood taller, eyes rimmed in black fire, her body laced in dark silk that hadn’t been there before. “Well,” she said, smirking at her clawed hand, “at least the nails are killer.” The stranger nodded. “Welcome to management.” And just like that, she vanished into shadow, taking Dude, the Pop-Tart crumbs, and the lingering smell of sin with her. The apartment was empty when the cleaning crew arrived. Except for a single note scrawled on the mirror: “Midnight Clutch: Hold tight, or be held.”     🩶 Take It Home — Midnight Clutch Lives On If you’ve fallen for the twisted charm of “Midnight Clutch,” you can now summon the darkness into your space. Bring this demonic vision to life with Canvas Prints, cast it across your lair with an epic Tapestry, or carry your sins in style with a Tote Bag. Want to snuggle the madness? Yeah, we’ve got a Throw Pillow for that. Clutch it. Display it. Offer it to your weirdest friend. Just don’t feed it after midnight.

par Bill Tiepelman

Aged Like Fine Wine and Dark Magic

The problem with being an immortal fae wasn’t the magic, the wings, or even the centuries of unpaid taxes. No, the real issue was the hangovers. The kind that lasted decades. Madra of the Withered Vale had once been a sprightly little thing, flitting through the moonlit woods, enchanting mushrooms, cursing ex-boyfriends, and generally making a nuisance of herself. That was a long time ago. Now, she was what the younger fae rudely referred to as “vintage,” and she had no patience for their nonsense. She took a long, deliberate sip from her goblet of Deepwood Red, a cursed wine so potent it had ended kingdoms. The glass was chipped, but so was she. “You’re staring again,” she muttered. There was, of course, no one around. Except for a particularly nosy squirrel perched nearby, watching her with its beady little eyes. It had been doing this for weeks. “I swear, if you don’t scram, I’ll turn you into an acorn. Permanently.” The squirrel chittered something obscene and darted up a tree. Good. She had enough problems without dealing with judgmental rodents. The Golden Age of Poor Decisions Once upon a time (which, in fae terms, meant somewhere between fifty years and five hundred, she had stopped counting), Madra had been at the center of every enchanted revelry. She had danced on tables, cast spells of questionable legality, and made absolutely terrible choices involving attractive strangers who later turned out to be cursed frogs. Or worse—princes. Then one fateful evening, she had challenged the wrong elf to a drinking contest. Elves, being the smug little tree-huggers they were, rarely drank anything stronger than honeyed mead. But this one had been different. He had a wicked grin, a suspiciously high alcohol tolerance, and the kind of bone structure that suggested he’d never known true hardship. “I bet I can drink you under the table,” she had declared. “I bet you can’t,” he had replied. Madra had won. And lost. Because the elf, in a spectacularly petty move, had cast a drunken curse upon her before passing out in a puddle of his own hubris. She would never, ever be able to get properly drunk again. “May your tolerance be eternal,” he had slurred. “May your liver be unbreakable.” And that was that. Decades of drinking and nothing. She could chug a bottle of fae whiskey without so much as a dizzy spell. All the joy, all the chaos, all the questionable decision-making? Gone. And now she sat here, on her usual branch, drinking out of pure spite. Visitors are the Worst She was midway through her fourth glass of sulk-wine when she heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Not the light, careful steps of an animal or the sneaky little scurrying of goblins trying to steal her socks. No, this was a person. She groaned. Loudly. “If you’re here to ask for a love potion, the answer is no,” she called out. “If you’re here to complain about a love potion, the answer is still no. And if you’re here to steal my wine, I’ll turn your kneecaps into mushrooms.” There was a pause. Then a voice, deep and annoyingly smooth, called back. “I assure you, I have no interest in your wine.” “Then you’re an idiot.” The owner of the voice stepped into view. Tall. Dark hair. The kind of smirk that suggested he either had a death wish or was a professional seducer. “Madra of the Withered Vale,” he said, with the kind of dramatic flair that made her want to throw her goblet at his head. “I have come to seek your wisdom.” Madra sighed and took another sip. “Oh, stars help me.” She had a feeling this was about to be one of those days.     Some People Just Don’t Listen Madra stared at the mysterious visitor over the rim of her goblet, debating whether she was sober enough to deal with this nonsense. Unfortunately, thanks to the elf’s curse, she was always sober enough. “Listen, Pretty Boy,” she said, swirling her wine in a way that suggested she was this close to throwing it at him. “I don’t do ‘wisdom.’ I do sarcasm, mild threats, and occasionally, revenge-fueled spellcraft. If you’re looking for a wise old fae to give you a heartwarming prophecy, try the next forest over.” “You wound me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest like some kind of tragic bard. “Not yet, but I’m seriously considering it.” He chuckled, entirely too at ease for a man standing in front of a clearly irritated fae with questionable morals. “I need your help.” “Oh, for the love of the Moon.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. What exactly do you want?” He stepped closer, and Madra immediately pointed a clawed finger at him. “If you’re about to ask for a love spell, I swear—” “No love spells,” he said, holding up his hands. “I need something much more serious. There’s a dragon.” She sighed so hard it rattled the leaves. “There’s always a dragon.” Why is it Always a Dragon? Madra took a long, slow sip of her wine, staring at him over the rim of her goblet. “Let me guess. You need a magic sword. A fireproof cloak. A blessing from an ancient fae so you can fulfill some ridiculous prophecy about slaying the beast and reclaiming your lost honor.” He blinked. “...No.” “Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” He shifted on his feet. “I need to steal something from the dragon.” She snorted. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t just want to get yourself killed—you want to do it in the most spectacularly bad way possible.” “Exactly.” “I like you.” She took another sip. “You’re an idiot.” “Thank you.” Madra sighed and finally set down her goblet. “Alright, fine. I’ll help. But not because I care. It’s just been a while since I’ve watched someone make absolutely terrible decisions, and frankly, I miss it.” Bad Plans and Worse Ideas “First things first,” she said, sliding off the branch with surprising grace for someone who looked like she’d been through at least three wars and a questionable marriage. “What, exactly, are you trying to steal?” He hesitated. “Oh, no.” She pointed a gnarled finger at him. “If you say ‘the dragon’s heart’ or some other romantic nonsense, I am leaving.” “It’s… uh… a bottle.” She narrowed her eyes. “A bottle of what?” He cleared his throat. “A very old, very magical bottle of enchanted liquor.” Madra went completely still. “You mean to tell me,” she said, voice dangerously low, “that there exists a drink strong enough to be locked away in a dragon’s hoard, and I have been suffering through this for centuries?” She waved at herself, meaning the curse, her sobriety, and possibly her entire life. “...Yes?” Madra’s wings twitched. “Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “New plan. We’re stealing that bottle, and you are my new favorite human.” He grinned. “So, you’ll help?” She grabbed her staff, took a final sip of wine, and flashed a wicked, too-sharp smile. “Darling, I’ll do more than help. I’ll make sure we don’t just survive this—we’ll make it look good.” And with that, Madra of the Withered Vale set off to do what she did best. Cause absolute, spectacular chaos.     Take a Piece of the Magic Home Did Madra’s snarky wisdom and thirst for chaos resonate with you? Perhaps you, too, appreciate a fine wine, a terrible decision, or the idea of an ancient fae who’s just so over it. If so, you can bring a little of her enchanted, slightly tipsy magic into your own world! 🏰 Enchant Your Walls with a Tapestry – Let Madra’s unimpressed gaze remind you daily that life is short, but wine is forever. 🌲 A Rustic Wood Print for Your Lair – The perfect addition to any home, office, or mysterious forest dwelling. 🧩 A Puzzle for the Cursed and the Cunning – Because assembling a thousand tiny pieces is still easier than dealing with adventurers before coffee. 💌 A Greeting Card for Fellow Mischief Makers – Share Madra’s unimpressed expression with friends and let them know you care—just, you know, in a fae kind of way. Whether you're decorating your walls, sending a snarky note, or testing your patience with a puzzle, these magical creations are the perfect way to celebrate fae mischief and questionable life choices. Shop the collection now and bring a little enchanted attitude into your world. Just... don’t challenge an elf to a drinking contest. Trust us.