treehuggery:

midwestern vampires who smoke clove cigs in church parking lots and try to ignore their hunger pains as they watch students from the college in the next town over stumbling out of local bar, alcohol in their bloodstream

midwestern demons with yellow eyes and bloody teeth walking along deserted highways in the early hours of the morning, their pupils reflecting the headlights of cars with passengers who feel fear grip their hearts as they pass by

midwestern witches who wear muddy boots and garage sale rings and who always carry salt in their bags, who drink river water and pour circles of whiskey on the underbrush and feel hundreds of hands on their skin

midwestern ghosts who dwell in the basements of abandonned farmhouses and rip old wallpaper from the decaying walls with misty fingers and trancelike eyes