Uilleam Whitedale | Updates

The One She Turns To

Uilleam Whitedale — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The one who had decades and the means to come for her and never did,

Whom she dissed in public for his selfish, childish purchases.

The one who pursues possession and wealth for its own sake,

Another who dresses like a total clown, trapped at the age of 12,

Plenty of money, no taste to speak of.

Publicly self-aggrandizing, egotistical, narcissistic,

Just like all the other ones.

The one who feigns charity but ensures it’s made public to reap the glory,

With the same sign of sun, some manner of solipsism,

Seeking oneself in lieu of a real partner,

The one she likely cheated with, meaning he has no respect for vows and proved it,

No more care for honesty than she has.

Face like a deranged idiot, the psychosis manifested in the flesh.

Who she turns to, thinks a close friend .. for no real reason,

Just some demented past fantasy, always clinging to a past that did nothing for her.

This is who she runs to, hideous decisions multiplying daily,

Assured he will make her change everything about herself—her face, her breasts,

Because he won’t see her as really worth him.

But that is why she wants him, to pay for her to be someone else,

Anyone but herself.

The man who gave the passing of her sire a cavalier thumbs up.

What she calls a close friend.

Utter insanity, total self-destruction, fake friendship built upon sordid secrets,

Still no love, only convenience,

Doormat once again.

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Walpurgis Words

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 9 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Dark Veil Society is proud to announce the formation of Walpurgis Words, a non-profit aimed at cultivating childhood literacy. Help us bring reading to kids and young adults.

https://walpurgiswords.org/ Walpurgis Words

You can donate to this worthy cause below:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-youth-literacy-with-walpurgis-words/cl/o?attribution_id=sl:9c8f94b9-19cc-4ae6-bc28-a4ec491e2d3f&lang=en_US&ts=1772975903&utm_campaign=today-tab&utm_content=amp17_tb-amp20_t2&utm_medium=customer&utm_source=copy_link

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Funk Skull Brothers

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 2 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Funk Skull Brother tees (Whitedale Horror and Hartmouth Horrors) available on the DVS site.

darkveilsociety.com

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Shifting Meanings

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 2 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Remember how you claimed that this was an open carrot three,

And lied about it later in your vain dishonesty?

Now it still has meaning, though its significance has shifted,

Now it means something else, a mark of time,

And there’s nothing good left within it.

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Free for You

Uilleam Whitedale — Sun, 1 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It’s Ebook Week on Smashwords! Get one or all of my horror and dystopian work right now … FOR FREE. This will be the last time I will be offering freebies. So head on by this week—March 1-7.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/UilleamWhitedale

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New Review for BLACK HORN VENGEFUL

Uilleam Whitedale — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

https://leehallwriter.com/2026/02/27/black-horn-vengeful-by-uilleam-whitedale-review/

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Crushed by Spite

Uilleam Whitedale — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I should have walked out the door of the room that day,

Uttered not another word, not given even the remotest benefit of the doubt.

She had set me up again,

A cruel way to crush me, instead of being honest,

And she’d still expected that I would fawn over her,

Continuing to pull my strings.

She’d crushed me before,

Nagging me for a confession of my feelings,

Only to stab me with them.

She had not deserved my fascination.

But I believed her profession of friendship,

Too thick-headed, too enamored of a kind heart I’d invented.

She’d always meant to crush me,

And I gave her every opportunity.

She was not a scarred soul seeking love,

But a selfish heart full of disdain,

Without a care for anyone who did not advantage her,

An ego believing herself worth the stars,

The stars being vain, immoral cads with fancy cars,

Puppeteers in search of a puppet to string along.

There had been no call for the cruelty.

She simply enjoyed the drama, mimicking what had been done to her.

And I ceased to be.

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Bottle at Sea

Uilleam Whitedale — Thu, 26 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

His head would not stomp pounding,

The beat stolen from his heart that would never be healed.

The lies were permanent.

There was no reaching the soul that made them,

No earthly power that could break that obstinacy,

No caring in that heart.

He’d loved and lost himself.

He wished he could seal himself into a bottle

And cast himself into the sea,

Hopefully to be found by one with care for mystery,

And honesty, loyalty, … eventually,

Or to just drown.

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Grody Old Hands

Uilleam Whitedale — Tue, 24 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Being valued was not your bag,

Having someone who saw you as human not your thing,

Instead you desire old grody hands,

With dirty money and a proffered ring.

With those grody old hands upon you,

You tell yourself it’s how it should be,

But it’s only self-debasement, turning screw,

And you should have listened to me,

For I only sought to save you,

From repeated mistakes pushed by your crowd,

And to love you without condition, so true,

But they were far too loud.

And now you play yourself again,

Waste the remainder of your grains of sand,

On shallow motives, deviant men,

Who grab at you with grody hands.

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No Morals to Be Found

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Flirting with the immature, exes and exes of friends,

Men she knew to stay away from but did not,

With not an ounce of self-respect,

Reacting to crude whistles from those men with agendas,

Those who saw her as an easy in, a mindless toy,

Those who knew how to play her just right.

Desperate for attention from anyone already known,

Known to avoid, but incapable of doing so.

Recycled, interest only from availability.

And why else would they want her?

She never asked herself what their game was,

Basking in the sight of sadistic eyes,

Men of illness, men without morals,

Trying to secure a future by selling her body to those who already had it,

Or had wanted it eons ago and now saw an opening.

No care for anyone but herself,

Letting them play her, satiating their sick power trips,

Being a trollop.

Only an orgy of base self-interest.

No love in existence, nor the foundations for any to grow.

She condemned him for less than these men did everyday,

Deranged fantasies all that made up their minds.

Cheaters, liars, bigots, authoritarians, greedsters,

Those she turned to for “advice,” flirting her ass off.

A wonder she had any friends at all with morals like that,

But these men were not her friends, only her inner circle users.

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Your Acceptance of Evil

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Those great people you know, whom you cling to, listen to …

Friends, family, lovers … those whom you seek.

Why do they support proven rapists? Because they are that in soul.

They are rapists, in mind if not in action.

Why do they support child predators? Because the idea does not bother them.

They are child abusers, in mind if not in action.

Why do they support openly racist policies? Because that is in their hearts.

They are racists, in mind if not in action.

Why do the follow stunningly ignorant belligerence? Because they are that too.

They cling to their mirror reflection … and you cling to them.

Why do they worship the thieving and greedy? Because that is what they admire.

And they, as do you, excuse it with professions of faith that have no meaning,

Following a god in whom they do not really believe.

Your friends. You’re confidantes. Your desires.

They identify with evil … and you identify with them.

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A Stupid Heart

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Though he knew a lot of things, without knowing why, and had an ability and curiosity to learn, though he had an intuition about people and their motives that had proven prescient so many times, the reality was that, when it came to hearts, he was dumb. Dumb as a rock. As much as he loathed what people tended to do, how shallow they were, and how vindictive, he always gave them the benefit of the doubt. Even when it should have been the last straw, he folded and sought peace over conflict. Even when he had been betrayed by a childhood friend, he had forgiven. Even those who showed no remorse whatsoever … forgiven. But he was dumb in that he expected them to be the same way, for their hearts to work the same way … and they simply never did.

And now he had been proven stupid once more, believing that the unnecessary conflict most fresh in his mind was fixable, believing that her heart was like his. It wasn’t. There was no forgiveness there, no need to make things right. He had believed in her, and he had been a fool … again. He had overestimated the depth of her heart. She felt no compunction to heal anything, to admit anything, to make even the slightest gesture, or to mend a closeness once had. It meant nothing to her. She was not like him either. No one was it seemed.

But, in the end, it made no difference. Life had passed and death was close enough to taste now. She could die happy, having no qualms about what had happened or what she had done. And there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could say. It made no difference that his actions, as bad as they may have been, had been a desperate product of sincere love. She had mocked that love. She did not love him and never had. She’d never even thought of him as human, just an annoying bug, while she danced off into the night with roaches.

But they would both die one day, and then none of it would matter anymore. The worms would have them both.

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That Card

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Oh that card. Not the one sent by her later, after she’d lied to keep him trapped, that silent admission of guilt that was never followed up on, impetus either unreal and self-serving or buried after in spite. No, the card included in the pink bag. The one he’d given. She’d taken a photo of the name tag, a Valentine, and given them that to bolster her claims. But she had hidden the card that was inside, within the donation. The one that had wished her well and said goodbye. She had not shown them that. For, if she had, it would have cast a long shadow over her claims. So that she hid. And, still, she believed she was good, and she was believed out of hand, coddled by those around her, as if she were an angel. But she had engineered everything, omitting what did not support her concoction, and she never told any of them about it. They just believed. Even the one who had seen it continued to abet her, because their brand of friendship came only with nominative support, not enough care to set each other straight, to call out each other’s errors, only based in convenience.

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He Was Not an Angry Man

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

He was not an angry person. He was a lover, a hugger, a steadfast friend, a voice of counsel and, when needed, criticism. He was a person who cared about what others ignored, and it left him disillusioned, wondering how other people could live with being so oblivious to what was indirectly harming them as well, ruining their souls. So he spoke up, blaming no one in particular. But speaking only got him labeled “angry,” a dismissal, an excuse to continue what they all knew was wrong but didn’t want to admit to. If someone had shown him a consistent conscience, a steadfast belief that things could be better, if someone had shown him that people were truer underneath than what he saw them do, saw them choose as values, he would have had a reason to hope again, a reason to seek fun, a reason to laugh, to love. But digging deeper only revealed even more selfishness, and those who caroused and claimed to love were liars, using everything and everyone for themselves. They spoke words they did not mean, words meant to sway with ulterior motive. He only saw truth in the very young, but, today, by the time they were in middle school, it was gone, twisted by a world that sold them lies on a screen, just as it had previous generations, but now constantly, incessantly.

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Ebook Week

Uilleam Whitedale — Wed, 18 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

From March 1 - March 7 all of my books will be available FREE on Smashwords for Ebook week. This will likely be the last time I will offer any free promotions, so get everything while you can! Stay tuned for reminders.

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Dark-Minded Intruders

Uilleam Whitedale — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

So sad the lengths some would go to to deny what was clear, to make themselves oblivious to stark realities. She was an expert at it, wholly convinced those she’d known for decades, and those they knew, were beyond reproach, family friends, former lovers … great people. But it was not difficult for an outside observer, anyone who bothered to look, to see things, to see that the mystique was only that … an illusion … and darker motives were in overabundance. Though the projections were all of good citizens, solid characters, and great friends, the truth was not deeply hidden, but she, hiding her own darkness, did not see any of it.

There were the open bigots, spewing hatred with smiles and heretical appeals to a Christianity that bore no resemblance to that preached by the savior. There was the open greed, made blatant by opulent purchases only infantile minds would obsess over. There were those who showed every textbook sign of malignant narcissism characterized by insatiable egos that had no basis in reality, predicated upon secret inferiority complexes, and she appeared to like them best of all. They also “liked” her, seeing an easy target. There were the open perverts, who, though they did not go around uttering grotesqueries in public, were not hard to spot, simply by who they followed and interacted with, racking up scores of women. There were even the fetishists, combinations of narcissism and control issues that were openly displayed on what they shared with the public. They were everywhere, and it was no exaggeration or mislabeling. They were a product of the same environment.

These were her friends, but, unless she was secretly just like them, they were not at all about what she claimed mattered to her nor what she thought was right. But, still, she saw none of it and did not believe it when told of it, refusing to confirm it for herself. But there were other odd things … darker intruders, sick minds.

There was one who had started popping up regularly, a family friend, who seemed no threat as he was married. But it became more clear that that marriage was over. And around the same time he began to show up all around her, he’d sparked an interest in hypnotism, specifically mind control. It was unknown whether it was pursued to manipulate her or an ex, but it was not for self-help, as the group was not about self-help. And, if anyone were susceptible to that manner of manipulation … it was her … in spades. Was he telling her that he wanted to help her with trauma? He was not qualified. Or were his motives more nefarious? You see, the hypnosis itself was not the issue. It was the motive behind it, the idea of resorting to nonsensical mind control to enslave someone. That was what was disturbing, and the timing was beyond suspicious.

Though that sort of mind control was purely fiction, followed by desperate suckers, dark psychology was not, and it employed the same tactics as the narcissists she’d fallen for. But she was too trusting based only on a familiar face, and if he were gaslighting, love bombing, forced teaming, exaggerating her problems for his own benefit, gleaning information from her with misleading questions she would be inclined to correct, fearmongering, or guilting her, she would likely never notice the nefarious nature of it, just as she refused to acknowledge that the line of work so many of those she knew had chosen was a breeding ground for sociopaths.

Instead she would continue to accuse someone else of those things. He did none of them, except for maybe some guilt tripping, which he had every reason to do since she was guilty. And he was not fearmongering, only informing. But she would never believe him, and she knew that the reason why was that he was right. She knew what she had done as well as she knew why he had. He seemed to be the only one who had ever shot straight with her, refusing to sugar coat anything or placate her mental fictions, but she did not respect that. She respected guises, baiting, and insincere ass kissing. And she would trust a degenerate who targeted her and used her grief to manipulate her, or an authoritarian gun nut with sado-masochistic tendencies arising from a disturbed mind, or the “nice guy” who thought he could hypnotize her into doing whatever he wanted or used it as an excuse to get close before she would ever trust the man who had sincerely cared for her.

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One False Step

Uilleam Whitedale — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Give me everything you’ve got,

Every undeserved ounce of hate,

Lay every bit of nastiness

At me feet outside my gate.

I take it all with pleasure,

For I know it’s based in self-deceit.

You can no longer harm me viciously,

With your baseless, cold conceit.

You do not deserve to live happily,

Your lies have earned nothing but strife,

But the universe will give you glee.

An ironic perversity of life.

But as you climb away from me

Remember well you’ve more to lose than I,

And one false step, one slip of vanity

Will send you plummeting from sky.

And I cannot catch you, you’ll not allow it

I’ll only watch as you descend to hell,

And I may shed one tear, but that is all,

For you did not choose well.

Selfishness was your only guide,

You were not honest, never true,

So send me all the hate you have,

For all I did was want you.

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Winning the Game

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 16 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Such a canard, you think you’re winning a demented game,

But you’ve yet to see that you’ve lost it forever.

You may have been conniving and convincing and cost him greatly,

But you’ve cost yourself the most in the end.

You think you’ve won with your silence,

With your refusal of guilt, your condescending superiority,

But you fail to see that you’ve done everything he wanted.

He knows you better than you know yourself,

And you hate him most for being right,

And yourself for rejecting the best thing for you.

But now you’ll show him, taking another deranged one,

Sell your body and your soul to a man in a blatant mask,

Another manipulating sack of shit, who will not be who you thought,

Pretending to be happy to spite him, with one you do not even know.

And that is where you have lost everything,

For that is where he wanted you to go.

You see, what you think is your escape is, in reality, your punishment,

And you have chosen it for yourself, chosen the ultimate lie,

Just to stick it to him,

Just as he said you would.

You are a fool, and a doormat for shady skeeves who play you.

And the more he warns you of it, he knows the more you will pursue it,

To spite him.

You’ve lost the game you chose to play in every way.

Oh the beauty of it.

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An Unfortunate Inability to Learn

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 16 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

She’d been told once that she suffered from a pattern of falling for manipulative and abusive men, and, as women with her syndrome always did, she had balked and hated the one who had told her. But she had never learned, though she’d been through it enough.

Good men did not suddenly appear when it was most opportune for them, and they certainly did not magically grow interest and insert themselves into a grieving process. A good man would have kept his distance for at least a year following something so traumatic. They also did not profess sudden love for someone they didn’t know anymore and hadn’t shown any interest in for a decade or more.

She also hadn’t learned that her crowd did not produce good men, with few exceptions, and that, when her friends pushed her toward one, it was a bad deal from the start. They all had the same mentality, one that she’d already rejected, though she never changed her focus. She seemed incapable of comprehending that real men had faults, and ones that seemed too good to be true were ... and were taking her for a dark ride. And she never figured out that what a man had made no difference, in fact, when he pursued certain possessions, it was a clearer sign of who he was than anything he said.

She’d also failed, again and again, to realize that her penchant for dating men far below her attractiveness level only yielded using curs, who took advantage of her low self-esteem, and would, invariably become controlling and abusive.

But, in this instance, the most stunning oversight on her part, beyond the fact that he had started making moves when she was hurting, that he hadn’t given her any space to make an objective assessment, and that he bore all the same red flags of the men in her past, was that he wasn’t wanted by any other women. Surely, a relatively intelligent woman would have noticed that and noticed that he had been incapable of finding anyone where he was, instead, targeting her from across the country and playing up old acquaintance. Men who could not get a woman could not for a salient reason—there was something wrong with them, something she would not discover until she actual got to know him, when it would already be too late. But there was something wrong with her perception, and he knew it. And he’d taken full advantage of it.

But the worst part of the entire affair was that she had immediately told him about another man, a man she, if she had been honest, would have been nothing but a memory to her, not someone she continued to watch. He was whom she actually wanted, and she admitted as much by telling everyone about him. But the seemingly anodyne snake who had inserted himself into her life, as her new daddy surrogate, was keen to take her part and make himself her protector, when a real man would have seen something wrong with her obsession. Instead, he chose to use that as well.

He was a social loser and fucking slime ball, and he wasn’t capable of hiding it. But, with her, he didn’t have to, because everything that would make an aware woman run for the hills she found to be signs of goodness. She was so lost it hurt. But she would trade her freedom away to this man, who would undoubtedly control her to the hilt once he had her, when she should have tucked tail, run, and thrown herself at the man whom she’d obsessed over for years, who also obsessed over her. She was only cheating herself and reflexively putting herself back into a bad situation.

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Creepy Bastard

Uilleam Whitedale — Mon, 16 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A diseased addiction

Having escaped —

One who was ugly,

One who was grotesque in mind,

One who worshiped possession,

One who hid behind the cross,

One who liked violence,

One who dressed like a clown,

An immature child obsessed with “family life,”

A gym addict to suit his narcissism,

A man who never should have had a wife …

A man so far beneath her.

And she turned around and found one just like him,

But even more of reject, even uglier,

Even more of a mismatch,

So far below her.

One who’d never wanted her before,

Until he could con her from afar, using her grief.

He’d stalked her for real …

Creeped her profile, but she was too dumb to see it,

Excusing a face she knew.

And he was already controlling her.

She told him of her problems,

Of the one who really owned her mind,

The one she could not let go.

And he used that too, playing hero,

And she bought it out of spite for the other,

Decided to ruin herself again in anger.

A fucking dork in white pants,

Hiding a sadistic smirk, a hidden streak.

His mask bigger than his head.

A normal person saw him coming a mile away,

Social reject, incel creep.

There was a reason women never wanted him,

Sharing a psych profile with Ted Bundy.

But she was emotionally stunted and dead set on mistakes.

She wanted to hurt the one she wanted by hurting herself,

Blinded by manipulation … again.

He told her to ignore him,

And he would always have an excuse like that for control.

She’d go to him and likely disappear.

She never learned.

She should have taken real love proffered.

A diseased addiction to the diseased.

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