I've got a real thing for horror and i'm not fazed that easily but Wytches gave me the screaming heebie-jeebies.
I read it in two sittings.
...
In the dark.
...
Big mistake.
Big.
I was very unwilling to leave my bed after each sitting and basically burritoed myself - more than usual - in bed whilst trying to block out the really fucking persistent thought of a single claw-like fingernail hungrily tracing the expanse of my head.
It's lucky not much prevents me from sleeping.
Armageddon could rain down and i'd still be unconscious.
But bleurrraaarghhh i'm still getting random shivers from the damn thing.
Comic ptsd?
The struggle is real.
I blame Anjelica Huston and a crippling childhood fear of everything.
Where's Plop when i need him?
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