Monster Fighters is a universe that consists of six phases that I created when I was four. It’s an-ever expanding galaxy of horrors beyond comprehension and cursed dynasties. But The Dragon makes up a giant part of that darkness… perhaps all of it.

Ich bin Mark Marxsand, ein neuer und noch unbekannter Horrorautor der Gen X mit einer lebenslangen Schwäche für dunkle Geschichten, verdrehte Geister und Dinge, die nachts spuken.

Ich liebe alten Horror, die Art, die sich langsam unter deine Haut schleicht und sich weigert zu gehen. Aber ich genieße auch das schnelle, blutige, brutale Zeug. Manchmal will man ein schleichendes Gefühl der Angst. Manchmal will man einfach nur absolutes Gemetzel.

Wirf ein bisschen schwarzen Humor, ein kleines bisschen Mystery und ab und zu einen Hauch Science-Fiction dazu, und du bist ziemlich in meiner Komfortzone.

Ich schreibe Geschichten, in denen das normale Leben eine böse Wendung nimmt, die Dunkelheit nie weit weg ist und Happy Ends... nun, sagen wir einfach, sie sind nicht garantiert.

Wenn du auf Horror stehst, der nicht immer nett spielt, teilen wir wahrscheinlich den gleichen fragwürdigen Geschmack bei der Unterhaltung.

Sag ruhig Hallo! Was bevorzugst du: langsam brennenden psychologischen Terror oder Vollgas-Horror, der blutgetränkt ist?

Bleib düster,

Mark Marxsand 💀

Help me Survive. Every 24 hours you can vote for free.

I’m working on a psychological horror novel set in an old psychiatric hospital called *St. Marian Institute*.
A young psychologist arrives for his internship, expecting a normal job. But then he finds a room on old blueprints that doesn’t exist anymore, his own medical file with dates from the future, and patients who seem to know things they couldn’t possibly know.
I’m going for a slow, unsettling atmosphere rather than ghosts or jumpscares, with the main mystery being whether something is really wrong with the institute or if the protagonist is slowly losing his grip on reality.
Does this sound interesting, or a bit too familiar? I’d genuinely appreciate some honest opinions.
And what would creep you out more: the hospital hiding something, or the possibility that you can’t trust your own mind?

The agony peaked, a blinding, white-hot spike that drove deep into my thoracic spine, seizing the core of my chest and twisting until my back arched off the mattress like a broken bow.

For five years, I had told them. Five years of MRIs, CT scans, and endless tubes of blood. I had lost count of the massive steroid injections they had jammed into my lower back, blind to my cries, insisting the cortisone would eventually kick in. It's my mid-back, I had begged, like a fist grabbing my spine and wringing it out.

But they only looked at my lumbar, charting my exhaustion, handing me prescriptions I refused to touch anymore, and shrugging. "You're in pain because you're in pain," that last arrogant doctor had told me with a sterile, patronizing smile. I had muttered Thanks, Dr. Obvious under my breath, walked out, and given up. I was forty-eight, medically broken, and completely abandoned by science.

Until tonight.

I had refused to take any of the medications they had prescribed for the last few weeks, entirely done with their useless chemical band-aids.

And right on cue, the thoracic pain hit, worse than it ever had in the last five years.

The guttural sound ripping from my throat didn't sound like me; it was a jagged, inhuman howl that tore the lining of my lungs. Every single rib felt like it was breaking, buckling inward before bursting outward with a sickening crunch. The skin across my back split open, hot and wet, as something massive and heavy forced its way out from between my shoulder blades. I braced for the final, lethal shock of it—but instead, a sudden, heavy stillness washed over me. The torment that had anchored my entire existence for half a decade simply vanished, replaced by a cold, pulsing hum of pure, unadulterated strength.

I opened my eyes. The familiar dark of my bedroom was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity tinted in a deep, vibrant crimson.

When I tried to shift, the mattress felt like a bed of jagged rocks beneath me. I sat up, and a pair of massive, pitch-black leathery wings unfolded instinctively, brushing the ceiling with a heavy, ominous rustle. I gasped, reaching a hand out to touch the sleek, armored span, only to freeze. My skin was a dark, bruised blood-red. My arms were elongated, corded with dense, heavy muscle.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stumbled. My new, longer limbs didn't quite obey the old rules of gravity, but there was no weakness in them. No ache. No arthritis.

I lunged toward the mirror on the wall, bracing my claws against the frame, and stared. The tired, fragile woman was gone. In her place stood a towering, terrifying demon, eyes glowing like dying embers against crimson skin.

A slow, sharp smile curved my new jaw, revealing a row of lethal points. I always said I wanted to be more, I thought, a strange, intoxicating warmth flooding my chest. I wanted to feel something beyond my own pain.

I turned, extending my wings, admiring the terrifying symmetry of the monster I had become. I had promised those unhelpful, dismissive doctors that I would give them an update if my condition ever changed. I thought this definitely qualified as a change in status.

A low, feral laugh rumbled deep in my chest, vibrating through the quiet room.

"Now, now," I whispered to the empty air, the crimson vision narrowing with perfect, deadly focus. "Which one of these doctors should I visit first?"

I smiled wider, the realization settling in with absolute perfection.

"I think the choice, is Obvious."