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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 💀

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."

I finally had the guts to do something with my endless notebooks full of horror writing and ideas... but since everyone in my life doesn't want to hear about it anymore, or even read what I write, I finally did a thing.. I took my writings and picked a cosmic entity I enjoyed writing lore around. And I built a world around him. And through this world is an interconnected storyline across multiple characters and locations... and the first place I picked was texarkana, TX. Which I drove through once, and it gave me the creeps... so I put all of this into a video project (because people don't read), and I enjoyed the process. And now you can enjoy a piece of my world if you want to. And I appreciate you for doing so. Creating is hard.

https://youtu.be/GpbMFOc4XnI?is=9cw9rG7AsTW0_xna

Hi, I made a horror anthology with 5 short stories and I am trying to share it to everyone. It is on Wattpad and it is for free.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/417000517-the-beast

Did you know that Death delights to hide in crowds? It loves the warmth of bodies pressed against one another. It loves weaving and wiggling amongst seas of sweaty skin, working its way to the single entranceway or to the foot of the stage. And then, what it loves most is to give someone a small, precise shove. It loves how the bodies fall like dominoes and the startled cries that escape as they topple amongst each other. It loves to bask in the air freshly pressed out of collapsed lungs and listen as vocal cords rattle. Death loves, loves, loves the weight of youth laid upon itself.

Did you even know that Death could love? Or did you think of Death as automated only by a sense of duty? That it came like an unfeeling virus to the bedside of frail creatures of wrinkled skin and brittle bone, of new mothers and unborn babies? The sterility of machines, scalpels and bright lights will never eradicate a sickness that exists for the sake of love. It is for love that Death continues to wash itself in our filth. And oh, how it hungers for the consummation of this love. To feel us from the inside out. To be met by Death at the crossroads is to be tasted forever, remembered forever, and loved forever.

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.