Tiny Terrors: I Found the League of Monster Slayers (They’re Real)

 Let me set the scene:

I’m cutting through a patch of cursed forest (as one does), chasing whispers about a “shattered ghost cat” haunting the bike trails near Innsmouth Academy.
(That’s a separate post. I’m still emotionally processing the meowing.)

Anyway, I duck under a fallen pine, nearly faceplant into a tripwire, and before I can say “booby trap?!” I’m surrounded. By kids. Armed to the braces with homemade weapons, monster-worn backpacks, and more attitude than I thought possible under five feet tall.

Welcome to the League of Monster Slayers.
Kingsmouth’s deadliest preteens.

At first I thought it was just some LARP group — very Stranger Things but more caffeinated. But no. These kids weren’t playing. They had codewords, lookout rotations, a working crossbow (!!!), and a binder labelled “Field Intel: Category Reds.”
I flipped it open expecting Pokémon.
I got sketches of ghouls. Real ones. Ones I’ve seen.

Their leader — a girl named Ellie with a slingshot and no patience for adults — asked me, deadpan:

“Are you infected, or just clueless?”

I replied, “Can’t I be both?”
She didn’t laugh.

These kids know more than most adults in Kingsmouth — and unlike the adults, they’re actually doing something about it.

They’ve tracked patterns, identified hotspots, even mapped out “Zones of Low Reality Integrity” (I’m stealing that term). They showed me a cave where “bad dreams come out of the walls.” I lasted five minutes in there. Ellie calls me “Softcore.”

They’re unclaimed, unaffiliated, and possibly the last line of defence between Kingsmouth and utter oblivion.

I gave them my contact info. They gave me a walkie-talkie, tuned to Channel 7.
I haven’t heard anything yet…
But I leave it on.

Because here’s the thing:
They believe the monsters are real.
And I think the monsters believe in them too.

Stay scrappy,
— Jenna 🧃
keep feeding

Dead Men Ride Again: Trespassing at Atlantic Island Park

 If you’ve never broken into a condemned theme park at midnight, I’m not saying your life is meaningless… but I am saying you haven’t lived.

Welcome to Atlantic Island Park — Kingsmouth’s answer to the question: What if Walt Disney lost a bet with the Devil?

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Quick facts:

• Abandoned in 1980-something after a string of “accidents.”

• Home to derelict rides, a mouse mascot with murder in its eyes, and something that still powers the lights at night.

• Official status: closed to the public.

• Unofficial status: wide open if you’re dumb enough, which I am.

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So I slipped through the busted fence (pro tip: use the gap near the rotting churro cart) and spent two hours creeping between haunted bumper cars, dead-eyed mascots, and the single worst Ferris wheel I’ve ever seen.
The place moans. I don’t mean creaks — I mean moans. Like wind through teeth.

First ride I approached? The Tunnel of Tales. No power, no staff, no reason for the soundtrack to be playing... and yet:

“Once upon a time, near a deep, dark forest, there lived a woodcutter with his wife and two children. Their names were Hansel and Gretel...”

Coolcoolcool.

And the lights. Oh God, the lights. No power, no reason. No lights? Think again.

I followed the tracks on foot, because I love bad decisions, and ended up in the Funhouse. Not fun. House, yes. Full of cracked mirrors and water-damaged screams. Something ran behind me, fast. Too fast for a rat.

I left. I left.

Which brings me to the real gem of the night:
The mascot storage shed.
Inside, I found costumes hanging like dead skins, and a wall covered in staff IDs — faces scratched out. One name was still visible: G. Winter.
And behind it, scrawled in red:

“THE PARK REMEMBERS.”

I didn’t stay to ask questions.

Look, I’m no stranger to spooky. I grew up on Lovecraft, creaky basements, and back-masked vinyl. But this place? It watches. It waits.

And it doesn’t want to be forgotten.

Still, 10/10 aesthetics.
Will absolutely return with more snacks and a spirit box.

Ride or die,
— Jenna 🎡
keep feeding them