27th February 1867 – The Arrival of The Mysterious Drifter.
The storm bore down on Demomire like an ancient curse, the sky a brooding tapestry of churning grays and blacks. Thomas Dawson stood at the
The Demomire Architect
Welcome to Demomire, a captivating web novel series set in a fictional town in the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. Dive into an extraordinary blend of gothic horror and the weird wild west, enriched with the intense drama of a soap opera. What sets Demomire apart is its unique narrative approach—there is no single narrator. Instead, the story unfolds through a vivid tapestry of characters’ letters, journal entries, incidents and snippets of overheard conversations, offering a multifaceted perspective on the unfolding events, immersing you in the mysterious realms of Mystwood Valley and the township of Demomire.
Our journey begins with “Demomire – 1867,” where, in the post-Civil War era, the secluded township of Demomire is on the brink of joining the Union. This pivotal moment in history unveils the town’s enigmatic past and its unforeseen significance. Delve deeper into Demomire’s lore with “The Witches Of Mystwood Valley,” a captivating prequel set in 1691. This tale reimagines America’s history, depicting a band of witches founding a colony in the New World, under the directive of the Council of the Grand Covens Of Europe. Mystwood Valley, the setting for our tales, holds the secrets of Demomire’s origins. Lastly, “The Tale of Cartaphilus” offers another intriguing layer to our unfolding story, with mysteries awaiting to be revealed.
Join us in exploring the world of Demomire, where each story is a piece of a larger puzzle, inviting you to piece together the hidden truths and untold tales of this enigmatic township.
Nestled in a crook of Mystwood Valley lies Demomire, a town steeped in shadows and whispered secrets, where the tendrils of the old world intertwine with the rugged edges of the frontier. The town lies between the stoic Eastern Sentinels and the mist-shrouded peaks of the Mountain of Mist’s. Demomire is a town where the echoes of the pickaxe in the goldmine mingle with the whispered secrets of a bygone era, a melting pot of untamed wilderness, gothic buildings, deep-rooted secrets, and supernatural whispers. In Demomire, Gothic spires and wild frontier grit are entwined beneath the valley’s watchful eye.
The heart of the valley beats with a curious rhythm, shaped by the natural wealth that once seemed as endless as the wide, starry skies. Gold and gems once nestled like droplets of rain in the soil, spawning sprawling plantations and grand mansions for those early souls who dared to dream amidst the wilderness.
Yet not all that gleams in Demomire’s daylight withstands the night; the once proud plantations now stand as whispering monuments of misfortune and abandonment. Overlooking the town, Blackwood Manor stands as a sentinel, its architecture is a fusion of styles, a grand and extravagant edifice that seems to have been constructed with no regard for the laws of physics or engineering. Towers spiral upward toward the heavens, while turrets jut out at odd angles, casting long and eerie shadows. Its master, the enigmatic Baron Silvanus Blackwood, remains a figure of intrigue and speculation. Across the valley, the Abbey of the Whispering Shadows looms, a monastery shrouded in mist and secrecy, where silent figures move with purpose, guarding their own mysteries.
At the valley’s heart, the historical library stands as a bastion of knowledge—a place where curious scholars whisper amongst the musk of ancient parchment, connecting the past with whispers of clandestine, otherworldly affairs.
Saloons thrum with life—The Lusty Corral with its boisterous warmth and The Crimson Chalice, a darker establishment where the wine is as red as the sins whispered over tables. Both hold the pulse of Demomire, one musical note and raucous laugh at a time.
Amidst the vibrancy of the town’s commerce, spearheaded by the diligent Stadwicks in their General Store, and the buoyancy of busy docks, there lies an omnipresent undercurrent, a sense that something more lies beneath the surface of daylight dealings and pleasantries—a magic realism that binds every soul to Demomire.
At the edge of town, where civilization kneels before the wild, stands the converted windmill of Nathan Finch—tinkerer, inventor, and resident genius. Through his smoke-laden bequest, Natey delves into the mechanics of the unseen, a symphony of gears
and gizmos singing a hymn to the unseen forces he yearns to reveal.
Beyond the veneer of normalcy provided by the hospital, the general store, and the anticipation of a new theatre, darker enterprises thrive; a brothel’s silk-draped windows, a blacksmith’s crimson forge, the unanswered prayers whispered in the rough-hewn pews of the makeshift church.
In the solitude of the wilderness, a charismatic enigma named Jacob weaves his sermons of freedom and love, his congregation the disenchanted, hungry for his mystic words. His presence is both an inspiration and a disquiet, a touchstone for souls seeking purpose in a land that defies the ordinary.
And always, the land whispers its siren call to those who venture into the Mines, where many a man has bartered his soul for a glint of treasure, only to become one with the earth he so voraciously excavated.
Be it the brooding structures, the tales of riches, or the spirited townsfolk, Demomire lures the adventurous, the brave, and the curious to its enigmatic heart. Demomire functions as a living organism, its economy sustained by the riches drawn from the earth, the toil of its folk, and the curious who come seeking the rumoured unexplainable. It breathes the stories of every soul that sets foot upon its soil, each adding to the tapestry of its lore—a tapestry woven of truth and myth in equal measure
Demomire is more than its cobblestone paths, more than the stories of paranormal encounters and the colourful characters that walk its streets—it is a living, breathing embodiment of the supernatural frontier. It is a place for seekers and dreamers, for those who hear the siren’s call of the unknown. Are you among them?
Each week a new part of the Story of Demomire is released, the story is told through Letters, Journal Entries, Incidents, and a variety of other items.
So, I implore you—brace for the sinew of Gothic Horror, the whisper of secrets through the canopy, and the tapestry of lives interwoven with magic realism. Venture to Demomire, and watch the universe unfold in all its shadowed glory. Welcome to the dance of the Wild West, where every step tells a story, and every story begs to be told.
Steel wheels screeched against iron rails as the locomotive sliced through the hazy dawn. Steam plumed from its chimney, a leviathan of industry snaking towards Port Marlowe. Inside, passengers settled into the rhythm of the journey, their chatter and laughter mingling with the clatter of the train.
A man in a pinstripe suit, Emerson Crane by name, flicked through a newspaper, his eyes skimming over tales of far-off lands. Across from him, a woman with raven hair and eyes sharp as flint, Eliza Thorn, cradled a book in her lap but watched the other passengers over the top edge. Young couples whispered sweet nothings, and a preacher murmured passages to an elderly lady clinging to her rosary.
The tranquility shattered when masked men burst from between the carriages, guns brandished with grim determination. Their leader, a towering figure known as Flynn Richert, stood at the forefront with a revolver in each hand.
“Nobody move!” Flynn Richert’s voice boomed through the carriage. “This here’s a robbery!”
As you wander through the mist-shrouded streets of our town, you’ll meet characters as diverse and mysterious as the landscape itself. From the stoic gunslingers harboring dark pasts to the enigmatic figures whose fortunes are intertwined with the supernatural, each resident has a story that beckons to be told. There are those who wield power in the shadows, their motives as cryptic as the ancient forces that whisper through the valley. And there are those who fight to unearth the truth, their resolve shining like a beacon in the darkness.
But beware, traveler, for in Demomire, appearances can be deceiving, and the line between friend and foe is as thin as the veil between the living and the dead. Each click will unveil the depths of a character’s soul, their desires, fears, and the secrets they dare not speak aloud. Will you unravel the mysteries that bind them? Will you brave the tales of love, betrayal, and redemption that echo through the halls of this cursed town?
Dare to meet the residents of Demomire, and immerse yourself in their stories. Each portrait is a doorway, and behind each lies a realm of tales untold, waiting for the next curious soul to step through. The journey is yours to begin.
Snow blanketed the cobbled streets of Paris, the sky a leaden sheet that threatened more. In the alleyways, whispers carried like fog, clinging to the shadows.
Mireille clutched an ancient tome to her chest as she navigated through the labyrinth of the market square. Her eyes darted between the faces in the crowd, searching for any sign of friend or foe. At her side, an older man, Mathis, moved with purpose, his fingers hidden within the folds of his cloak where he kept a small collection of protective amulets.
“The comet,” Mathis breathed, barely audible over the din of bartering voices and clinking coins. “It’s our sign.”
Mireille nodded. “The forests of Bohemia will whisper with our gathering.”
In Rome, under the cover of dusk, Giancarlo hurried through narrow streets towards an inconspicuous house that had a lovely rose garden out the front. He knocked thrice, paused, then twice more—a silent code among those who studied the stars and dared delve into ancient texts.
Dive into the mystical world of The Witches Of Mystwood Valley, the original settlers of Demomire. Here an intricate web of tales and destinies intertwine. Click on the images below to unveil the hidden depths of each character, their histories, and the secrets they bear.
The storm bore down on Demomire like an ancient curse, the sky a brooding tapestry of churning grays and blacks. Thomas Dawson stood at the
It’s been a little while, but I’m excited to say that Demomire is back with some more of the story. This project is a passion project,
A letter written by Flynn Richert found in the Crack of a Wall at the Abbey of the Whispering Shadows. I sit here in the
My Dearest Brother, I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I imagine you’re still roaming the great forests of our
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