Georgia Pakadakis, also known as the Midnight Bandit. is a nefarious plotter from whom we had all best keep well away. Under cover of darkness, she relies on her raccoon-DNA stealth to sneak her sigils into local art establishments, restaurants, and gift shops.

The next morning, the shopkeepers are sure they remember arranging for a display of works by a cheerful and talented young artist, and smile appreciatively at what appear to be brightly rendered fantastical creatures. The sigils work their magic as surely as they hide their true nature, and wild mushrooms sprout behind the cash register. Should one be tempted to take one of these sigils home as a decorative diversion, beware and be warned, for raccoon magic is afoot.

Soon you will believe that what you possess is the work of a lovely and personable artist with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts, prestigious awards, and impeccable social charms and graces. You will turn to your spouse or your mother and you will say, “see the lovely mermaid?” To which he or she may respond in bafflement “I see naught but chicken scratchings!” 

Though we are proud to share her works, Georgia’s paintings and prints are not presently available through the archives. If you are interested in any of these works, you can contact her through her website at GeorgiaPapakadis.com

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Myke Amend grew up in a sleepy little town called Cincinnati, Ohio, a place not far from Earth, nestled at the outer edge of the Milky Way galaxy.

Since long before his anticipated arrival, he has spent many aeons painting, drawing, engraving, and dreaming the death of mankind and the end of all life was we know it —and dreaming the days gone by (He also designs handbills and aethernet ’sites’ for the evil corporate faces of the mysterious Elder gods).

In a time heavily influenced by hotel heiresses, boy bands, game shows, reality TV, and people who wrestle each other for spheroids, he has been influenced greatly by Earth ages present and past — longing for a return to those days where human society turned its ugly head towards more meaningful things such as science and invention, exploration, literature, and the arts.

Out of this comes a love for anachronistic art mediums, styles, and concepts—mixing them with modern materials, themes, or subject matter, and twisting them into horrid, the surreal, or the bizarre for reasons most humans are incapable of fathoming, even in their most horrid nightmares.

His style reflects a love for strange fiction and tales of the weird, ancient futuristic relics from a Victorian era aside our own.

Myke is believed to reside in the future and the past, somewhere on the Northern American content, lurking within the mists or swimming in the surrounding shadows, as the driving force behind approaching storms, or in the darkest corners of our mortal minds.

We are unsure of how or why these artifacts, painted, carved, or forged by Myke Amend, have fallen into our hands, but we are proud the share them here.

below: “The Wait” (painting) and “Hope: the Light at the End” (painting)

All of these artworks are available through the Miskatonic Archive Electric Store.
Many are also available at www.mykeamend.com

above: “Heptameron” (digital painting) and “Awake” (engraving)

All images within this post are copyright © 2008 Myke Amend, and used with permission by this site.

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(1926) H. P. Lovecraft as Published October 1927 in “Weird Tales”

You needn’t think I’m crazy, Eliot- plenty of others have queerer prejudices than this. Why don’t you laugh at Oliver’s grandfather, who won’t ride in a motor? If I don’t like that damned subway, it’s my own business; and we got here more quickly anyhow in the taxi. We’d have had to walk up the hill from Park Street if we’d taken the car.

I know I’m more nervous than I was when you saw me last year, but you don’t need to hold a clinic over it. There’s plenty of reason, God knows, and I fancy I’m lucky to be sane at all. Why the third degree? You didn’t use to be so inquisitive.

Well, if you must hear it, I don’t know why you shouldn’t. Maybe you ought to, anyhow, for you kept writing me like a grieved parent when you heard I’d begun to cut the Art Club and keep away from Pickman. Now that he’s disappeared I go round to the club once in a while, but my nerves aren’t what they were.

No, I don’t know what’s become of Pickman, and I don’t like to guess. You might have surmised I had some inside information when I dropped him- and that’s why I don’t want to think where he’s gone. Let the police find what they can- it won’t be much, judging from the fact that they don’t know yet of the old North End place he hired under the name of Peters.

I’m not sure that I could find it again myself- not that I’d ever try, even in broad daylight!

Yes, I do know, or am afraid I know, why he maintained it. I’m coming to that. And I think you’ll understand before I’m through why I don’t tell the police. They would ask me to guide them, but I couldn’t go back there even if I knew the way. There was something there- and now I can’t use the subway or (and you may as well have your laugh at this, too) go down into cellars any more. (more…)

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