Mother Leeds, a local New Jersey witch, had 12 children and, after finding she was pregnant for the 13th time, cursed the child in frustration. After a long and painful labour on a stormy night, Mother Leeds bore her 13th child. The nurses around the bed were horrified to discover that the baby had a goat’s head, bat wings, and a forked tail. Letting out a blood-curdling screech, it killed the midwife before flying up the chimney and heading into the pines. This is the legend of the Jersey Devil, a beast which still reportedly haunts the forests of New Jersey.
@aru-the-death-god and I been talking about the Babadook being gay and we started a little list of monsters, creatures, and supernatural beings from movies, stories, myths, etc. and how they are LGBT!
This is what we got so far…feel free to add if we missed any! (EDITS: I threw in some edits and added new members!)
Babadook = gay
The Bye bye man = bi
Blair witch = lesbian
Mothman = gay/trans/non binary
Samara = asexual
Freddy Krueger = pansexual (dating Jason)
Jason = trans/gay (dating Freddy)
Cthulhu = pansexual
The wolfman(all werewolves actually) = gay
Godzilla = gay/genderfluid
King Kong = bi
Frankenstein’s monster = gender fluid
Bride of Frankenstein = trans
Minotaur = gay
Medusa (and all gorgons) = pan
All Harpies = lesbians
Dracula (and all vampires) = bisexual
The Invisible man = polysexual
The gill man (the creature from the black lagoon) = Demisexual
The banshee = pansexual
Chupacabra = gay
Shiva = lesbian
Ifrit = gay
The sirens = asexual/gay
Slender man = gay (probably into BDSM)
t h e g o r g o n swere three powerful, winged daemons named medusa, stheno, and euryale.
while descriptions of gorgons vary across greek literature, the term commonly refers to any of three sisters who had hair made of living, venomous snakes, as well as a horrifying visage that turned those who beheld her to stone.
of the three sisters, only medusa was mortal, and so it was her head which king polydectes of seriphos commanded the young hero perseus to fetch.
They bought the puppy for Christmas. The fire that warmed it was almost like its mother’s fur, the blankets it rested on so close to its sibling’s touch. Small fingers caressed its body. The food was exciting, rich, strong on its tongue. The puppy decided that it would love these ones forever.
They threw it out on Easter. Snow covered the streets. The road was grey, the sky was grey, its nose felt grey and scentless. It had wanted to become strong for them, had done everything to grow quickly. Its fur was thin still, its paws too big for itself and too small for the world. It howled for hours. Nobody returned.
The woman that found it was different. Her hands weren’t small. Her house was tiny and the scents whispered spices across the puppy’s tongue, twisted its ears inside out and back again. She gave it food, and while the puppy ate, her old veiny fingers wove patterns over its head, and she mumbled words it didn’t recognise in a language that sounded like wind and water and the fire’s wrath.
The puppy stayed.
It wasn’t a puppy anymore.
It ate, it ran, it drank the scents and locked up the magic that the woman poured over its fur when the storm roared outside the windows.
October came. The puppy wasn’t a puppy wasn’t a dog anymore. New snow had fallen.
The woman took one look at it and went to the door, opening it wide. “Run and take from them what you want,” she said, smile black and white from teeth and those that were missing. “But after that, you are mine, and the strength I gave you will be faithful to me, and my fire will warm you for as long as your fur returns to my doorstep.”
The hell hound bared its teeth, crossed the threshold, and lifted its heavy head. The scent had never faded from its memory.
They met their puppy again on a dark October night.
And only the small fingers still reached out to it the same as before, and spoke its name in an awed whisper of “there you are”; the large hands that had pushed it aside and filled it with the cold were now, finally, cold.
Gryffindor: Anything gripping and Nonsense; at least it shouldn’t get boring. Gryffindors are only enthusiastic about books with a fluent story; otherwise they’d stop reading in the middle of the book. About the half of the Gryffindors actually read a lot of books; the others aren’t really passionate about reading.
Slytherin: Nonsense and Horror. Just like the Gryffindors, they hate stories that flatten down in the middle. Slytherins usually read a lot and share their muggle books (after the war against Voldemort, they got more tolerable with muggles and mudbloods), so they’re all reading the same books and nobody’s alone in their fandom.
Ravenclaw: The most of the Ravenclaws are fond of either dramas and non-fiction or real stories. They don’t really like made-up, surreal stories and fiction, except old tales and myths; they also read and write a lot of poems. Only a few purebloods read muggle books because the Ravenclaws usually like to buy the books themselves.
Hufflepuff: They’re having a soft spot for Comedy and schmaltzy Romance. The Ravenclaws find it pretty tasteless of the Hufflepuffs for liking kitschy books, but they actually just read them for fun. Hufflepuffs never really take novels they read in their spare time serious; that’s why they avoid creepy or serious texts. They basically read for amusement.
☀ you are unable to feel without feeling with all of your being. gray area doesn’t exist for you and this fact is probably a hindrance for you in your life. the people/things you love consume you
☀ you’re infatuated with the morbid. the taboo and the unknown are of great interest to you, and you probably find legends, horror, and myths exciting.
☀ it’s impossible for people to lie to you. you couldn’t explain it if somebody asked, but if a person isn’t being truthful, you know instantly
☀ you like to have an air of secrecy about you. even if part of you wants to, you refuse to disclose everything about you and prefer people to view you as “mysterious”
☀ you have a strong sense of premonition, and you KNOW when something is going to go bad. you can probably think of more than one time you’ve ignored that feeling in your gut, and things have gone horribly wrong
☀ you never find yourself not obsessed with something or someone, and if you do, you’re very bored and anxious until you find something new. you need to throw yourself into something in order to feel fulfilled
I have devoured Persephone, the pomegranates, and death
myself. Stolen the myth and carved it open for myself. Ripped
it and twisted it and spit it back out until the only thing left
is a story about a girl-goddess, and myself.
Maybe I’m being too selfish; maybe I’m being too vain. Maybe
the myth doesn’t belong to me, maybe Persephone had nothing to do
with a girl from a nuclear world about to split in two. I taste pomegranates
sweeter than she did; I taste death sweeter than she did.
But still, I eat the myth and let it pour down my lungs, crawl inside my stomach,
linger in my bones. The taste of Persephone in my mouth, the powerless to
empowered, the morals disintegrating upon my lips. Children respect what
can eat them; I respect what I can eat. She belongs to me, now.
She fell, she was pushed, she climbed down looking for adventure. She fell
in love, she fell in faith, she fell in hate. She picked six seeds and shoved them
down her throat, she was forced, she was starving. She had a choice, she had
no choice, it doesn’t matter, everything matters.
She is a story, a painting, a poem. I am real and human and breathing and she lives
inside me because I want her to. Because I want to run my fingers into the ribs
of her messed-up moralizing mockery of a tale and pull out the intestines and
squeeze them until something real bleeds from them.
This isn’t a poem about Persephone. She doesn’t exist, and I do, and I ate her.
I ate her whole, till Demeter stopped screaming and Hades stopped scheming,
and the only thing left is me, and the taste. Me and myself. She exists within me,
however I want her to. This myth belongs to me.
She chooses the pomegranates now, because I want her to. And so did I.
La Bruja de Monterrey (The witch of Monterrey) is a supposed humanoid creature that regularly flies over the mountains of North Eastern Mexico. Witness reports of a witch flying on a broom dated back to the 90s, but footage of this creepy figure was finally captured in recent years.
The Wendigo is a violent spirit of Native American lore.They seem to make their nests in dark, damp places, usually caves and abandoned mineshafts. They sometimes keep their victims alive for days before feeding as they prefer their food to be alive. They have been known to live in colder climates such as northern Canada. They have strong connections winter, the cold, starvation, cannibalism and greed.
A Wendigo can turn other people into Wendigos but they have to posses them. The person will start looking for food despite the fact they have weeks of it, once they break down and consume human flesh they undergo the transformation of a Wendigo.
There is one way to destroy the Wendigo. Burn it alive. Make sure to aim for the heart or else the Wendigo’s soul would still be there and would find another body to take over.