About Me
Hello, I’m Autumn- artist, rave instigator, literal demoness, tech witch, Disc Jockey, and chaos priestess behind the veil. But before all that, I was a queer kid trapped in the machinery of suburban normalcy.I grew up in an isolated world in one of the may red areas of this stolen land that told me to smile, to blend in, to pray the strange out of myself and suffer silently. Church pews on Sunday, fluorescent classrooms on Monday- rituals of obedience disguised as love. I learned early how easily people worship a god they invented rather than face the living pulse of sacred disorder that keeps this mortal coil alive.I found salvation in the forest of the Pacific Northwest. In distorted music, in the shriek of feedback, in goth spaces painted in red lights. The DIY scene became my church, the warehouse my communion. Punk zines, industrial noise, occult symbolism, and trans joy all fused into one revelation: creation is my divine right and chaos is holy when it’s honest.If you want to dive deeper into where I came from and what built me, read my zine. It’s an extremely personal spellbook of scars and chronicles of plurality. I explainin my identity and becoming- actualizing my etherial form as a demonic hellhound.
☽☽ Read More Here ☾☾Hellhound Industries is a creative engine and a living spell. I created Hellhound Industries because I was tired of asking for permission to exist. Tired of being tokenized, sidelined, or told to tone it down. It’s my refusal to fade into the background or soften my edges for anyone else’s comfort. I don't want to bill this project as a shitty company. This is not a "brand" hence the play on "industries". It’s both a passion project and an etherial war cry thrown together just because I have the power to create. To me- this is an art collective for myself that is meant to appeal to those of us who are "too queer", "too feral", and "too uncompromising" to fit into the suffocating boxes the world keeps shoving us into.It’s my studio, a rave rig, a DIY haven.
This is my personal beacon for fellow freaks.
It’s handmade chaos, drenched in aesthetic and wild intention.
It’s welded steel, stage trusses and messy sharpie-drawn flyers.
It’s trans femme puppygirls running cables in fishnets with bloody fangs.
It’s goths in the forest building their own fucking power grid for a one-night ritual rave.Whether it’s organizing or helping out with underground queer raves in Seattle and the greater Pacific North West, crafting custom conceptual art projects, or sketching out sigil-infused artwork- I pour everything into this domain. I want to create infrastructure for the ungovernable. A free platform for T4T talent, neurodivergent magic, and unapologetic joy.Hellhound Industries exists because I do / we do as faggy transexual creatures of the night. I'm through with waiting for institutions to catch up. Because the world isn’t built for weirdos like us- so I'm building my own world- and my own to share with those I love.
My Art
Shows
Wanna play a set? Collaborate on something weird? Send me spooky music, memes? Grab lunch or dinner? I’m down.Just a heads-up—I’m usually buried in gear, halfway through a drawing, or planning some event with friends, so I might not reply right away. But I promise I will get back to you. Eventually. Probably at 3am because I am a gremlin.Best way to reach me is DM if we’re mutuals or email if it’s something official-ish. Be cool, be kind, be patient.If it’s about something trans, goth, or deeply unhinged—I’m definitely listening.
Send me an Email
I have a visceral hatred for social media and ADHD, so I’m not always prompt—but here’s where you might find me:
To Slip these Chains of Flesh and Bone
A zine to my Identity
I do not belong to this world. I exist in a body that feels like a poorly tailored costume- too tight in some places, empty in others, stitched together by some fucking cosmic architect who never bothered to ask what shape I truly am. I was born into flesh, but my soul has always been something else entirely: a demonic hellhound, a creature with purple eyes and black sclera, horns curled toward the sky, fur bristling with the charge of defiance. It’s a truth I carry in my marrow, as real as the ache in my chest when I look in the mirror and see only a fragile human staring back.I’ve been told all my life what I should be, how I should act, which boxes to fit inside. Every time I tried to shrink myself into the expectations of the flesh, it felt like someone was trying to trim off my tail, file down my horns, bleach my fur into something palatable, something acceptable to the society that has been built around conformity. They wanted me soft, quiet, and human- but I’m not. I’m trans, I’m otherkin, a demonic hellhound; a walking contradiction in the eyes of the status quo. But in mine, I’m just me.The pain of being human isn’t only in this body, though that’s part of it. It’s in the disconnect- the gnawing hunger to move like I imagine my otherworldly self would move, to howl without shame, to live without pretending. It’s in being told my shape is wrong, my desires are wrong, my truth is wrong, while inside me there’s a beast clawing at the cage, begging to be seen. Some days she manifests herself in grief. Other days it’s rage. But mostly, it’s this quiet, endless ache- this yearning to be whole.Yet here I am, still writing. Still alive. Still carrying my horns inside me, even if no one else can see them. Maybe that’s what survival is- not learning to be less monstrous, but learning to be monstrous and free at the same time. Learning to accept the demon within me as my truest self, even as the world calls it a sin, a sickness, or a plague worth exterminating. This place is my place of freedom- a claw mark against the bars of this cage. But even in the ache, I learned to cradle myself. Nobody taught me how to do it, I had to build it from scratch, clawing warmth out of a cold world. I’ve had to become my own caretaker, my own parent, my own priestess of change. Little rituals: music that sounds like fire under my skin, scents that remind me of night and earth, clothes that drape my body in shadow and power instead of shame, boring repetitive shame that shows no character or soul. I paint my eyes dark, pierce my skin, dye my hair- mark my body with the sigils of where I came from. Each mark a tiny defiance, a breadcrumb on the path back to myself, my flesh chipping off bit by bit to reveal the beast that lives inside.Some people call what I’m doing an inconvenience, a phase, never ending self-indulgence. But for me it’s survival. I wasn’t given a body that felt like home, so I started building one. Piece by piece, modification by modification. Not to become beautiful for those who have no concept of the self, but to become whole for me. They see the modifications I’ve done to my body as metaphor, but I see them as blueprints. Every piercing, every dye job, every tattoo, every reshaping is a way of etching the otherworldly beast out of the cage of flesh and letting her stand in the open.Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era, a time too cautious for true transformation. If the world were different, I’d be free to make the irreversible changes my soul craves, to tower over crowds, heavy with fur and power, a creature crossed between dimensions of smoke and shadow. To those who have held me down- it would look like destruction of the self, but to me it would finally be arrival. Home. Hell. Not as punishment, but as belonging.Not a costume, not a mask, not a rebellion for rebellion’s sake but a pilgrimage back to my own shape. I know it’s messy. I know it scares people. But every step I take brings me closer to that vision- the towering, horned, radiant hellhound who has always been here, waiting for me to bring her into the world.
Sometimes it feels like the only language big enough for what I am is horror. Not gore-for-shock, but the kind of horror that looks like rebirth- bone reshaped, skin rewritten, a body turning into its truer form while the world watches in fear. I watch medical videos, obscure cartoons, fragments of transformation and ritualistic writing from others who dare to reject their humanity, and I find myself there. In those dark corners of media I see pieces of my home, my hell, the place I’m trying to crawl back to. They’re my only mirrors.I’ve always felt the universe was cyclical- not a straight line but a circle, a spiral, an ouroboros eating its own tail. Maybe I’ve been here before. Maybe I’ve always been this hellhound, thrown into human flesh again and again like a cruel joke, forced to re-learn my name. Every claw mark I scratch into paper, every piercing, every fantasy is a way of clawing my way back through the cycle to the moment before the fall, to the being I was before this skin.I was forced into churches as a child. They told me to kneel, to cower, to be grateful, to pray. They screamed sin into my ears until my own voice was drowned out. And still, somewhere inside, the beast curled tighter and tighter crying out. Some days I wish I had burned when I entered those churches. Physically combusted. Not from shame, but from ecstasy. To be consumed by flame like an offering, to feel my skin blister and fall away and reveal the true shape underneath. To open my mouth in a huge, evil smile full of teeth and scream my real name in a voice not of humans until the stained glass shattered.There is a kink to it, a charge. There is a specific hunger. A sexual, animalistic hunger to inhabit myself fully, claws and all. To look in the mirror and see an unholy monster: towering, shadow-cloaked, horns glistening, claws dripping with the blackness of a beautiful shadowy night. To finally speak in the voice I know lives inside me- her voice, low and guttural, a sound that could split pews and silence choirs. To feel my body respond not as a shameful thing but as an unholy demonic ritual, a self-anointing. I don’t want to be cleansed. I want to be crowned.This is not my fall from grace. This is grace inverted and rewritten as it always should have been. This is me, walking out of the burning church smiling, sharp-toothed, at home.They forget that demons have souls. They forget that we feel, that we bleed, that we dream. They paint us as hollow things, as voids, but inside me there is a pulse as old as the stars. I know it because I can feel it moving under my skin, not just as a faint heartbeat, but something older something that doesn’t end at death. Demons can be reincarnated. I’ve always known this. I’m sure that I’ve lived too many lives in too many bodies not to feel it.Maybe there’s an afterlife. Maybe there’s a thousand. But if there is, I don’t want to enter it unprepared. I want to step into the next cycle already forged into the shape I was meant to hold. This life is my workshop, my crucible, my altar. Every scar, every modification, every act of defiance is a spell to anchor me to the self I want to carry across the veil.When I cut, pierce, paint, reshape, I’m not playing dress-up. I’m carving a roadmap for my soul bit by bit. The pain is worth my time and endurance. I’m teaching my soul what to look like when it leaves this skin. The horns, the tail, the sharp smile. I’m building a body for when I dive into the next world out of the ashes of this one. This is a ritual of preparation and of becoming.They may think I’m a sinner. They may think I’m lost. But I’m more devout than they’ll ever be, kneeling at the altar of my own becoming, preparing myself for the moment when the cycle turns and I am reborn exactly as I was meant to be: a hellhound, whole, unhidden, unashamed.I only hope to bring those I love with me. I’ve surrounded myself with people who carry the same ache, or at least something close to it. People who have also been told they are wrong over and over again, unworthy, too strange. We find each other in the shadows, in the music at the underground clubs that I frequent, in the places where the polite gentrified whitewashed converted world refuses to look. I’ve never found a true congregation that thinks exactly like me, but I know they exist. I feel their energy flickering like coals under ash. Their pain hums against mine, like two tuning forks finding the same frequency. I want all of us to reach our true forms together.Raves, Gothic parties, the gatherings of the queer and trans community are my lifeblood. They are my church. No pews, no sermons, no kneeling. Only rhythm and sweat. Only light carving holes through darkness. In those spaces I stop being a human pretending at normalcy. I become what I really am. The horns feel closer to the surface. The claws ache to extend. My body stops being a cage and starts being an instrument that is capable of dancing, vibrating, howling along with hundreds of others. These gatherings saved me. For years I thought I was drifting alone, a shadow-thing in a world that only spoke in daylight. Then the music found me. The dark spectacle, the flash of lights in hidden places, the crush of bodies moving as one. I was called to it like an animal following a scent, like a low throb in the distance, a heartbeat I didn’t know I’d been missing. I was called to the dark spectacle with love and lights and music, and in that calling I found my first taste of belonging.People call raves reckless, dirty, dangerous. But for me they were the first time I felt clean. Clean of fucking shame. Clean of someone else’s fucking god. The first time I was allowed to breathe with my whole chest.Beautiful hedonism and a surrealistic ritual. Each gathering is a spell cast by the collective when we build temporary temples out of sound and sweat, then tear them down by sunrise, leaving only memories, only marks on our souls. The outside world thinks it’s chaos. We know it’s choreography. We know it’s magic.These nights have kept me alive. They’ve held me in the arms of strangers who felt like family, under strobe lights that felt like stars. They’ve shown me glimpses of the world I’m trying to build permanently. A place where no one has to hide their tail, where no one has to pray for forgiveness just for existing.
I carry those nights with me like talismans. They’re the proof that we’re already out there, already forming a congregation, even if we don’t have a name yet. The parties are not an escape but a way to build on an idea. They’re the first draft of the commune I want to build a community where love music and showing your wild self will no longer be temporary but instead the air we breathe.I dream of building a place here on Earth where the ones I love can gather, or for those who seek to detach from their being can feel at home. A real, breathing congregation not in stained glass, not under a cross but under the canopy of trees that bend toward the night sky and dig into the earth below the same. A commune where we protect each other and sharpen each other, where we study the old magics and the forbidden sciences, where we plot out the future of our own bodies without apology. Not just surviving but transforming, preparing, shaping flesh into the monsters we always were.I haven’t found a church that thinks like me. Maybe I never will, because the churches of this world all kneel to the same god that spit me out. But I know others are out there. I feel them humming through the city streets, burning in basements, dancing in warehouses, spiraling through the air at raves in the city to the forest. I feel their pain like a current. They’re my kin, even if we’ve never met. Every time I close my eyes at one of those gatherings, every time the music rattles my ribs and the firelight licks the trees, I can see us all together in our true forms. Horns, tails, fur, claws, shadows thick around us. A congregation of the damned who have finally stopped damning themselves.I left Texas. I left Arizona. I had to. Those states reek of rot, of flag-waving parasites who want to bleach the world until it’s colorless, who stomp out anything that doesn’t look like their reflection. They hide behind laws and prayers, and they call it fucking “law and order”. They call me and those like me an animal but in the worst faith. They call me broken. They call me a sinful fucking faggot. But I say this: I AM a fucking animal. I AM broken the fuck open. I AM a sinful fucking transexual faggot made of everything not normal, and I AM proud. I would rather rot in their eyes than live bound in their disgusting chains.Now I have the forest. Moving to the pacific north west has changed my life and allowed me to decompress my grief. She speaks to me at night. She is not silent, but she whispers in the crackle of leaves, in the crawl of moss, in the shrieks of owls. She calls me to hell, not as punishment but as warmth. Not the burning desert heat of Texas, but the gentle furnace of a hearthfire where demons curl together and know they are safe. She tells me I was never born of some false god’s breath. I was born of shadow and blood brimstone and dirt. She is my mother, the one who birthed me in truth, not the christian zealot one who shoved verses down my throat until I choked and screamed- until my spirit cowered from being bodied over and over again.I want to study her magics. I want to feel her warmth and comfort. I want to bend science until it cracks open, spilling secrets we were told were impossible. There will come a time when the technology catches up, when flesh can be rewritten, when bone can be lengthened, when DNA can be rewritten like a grim hymnal from hell below. And I want to be ready. I want to have the rituals already written, the chants already howled, the diagrams etched into our walls. I want to be the crucible where human flesh is broken down and reforged into something monstrous, something unholy, something finally right.
To those quick to detest, they will see an absolute fucking horror, a nightmare of body modification, medical spiritual and magical blasphemy, black magic married to science. They will call us abominations. But I say: FUCKING GOOD. Let them tremble. Let them cover their eyes. We will not be abominations to ourselves. We will be beautiful. We will be made whole.This life is my preparation. Every body modification, every ritual, every rave or community gathering in a dark basement or in the woods is not a distraction but a rehearsal. I am carving a map onto my soul so that when death comes, when the cycle turns, I will step through the veil already in my true skin. I don’t want to waste another life relearning my name. I want to be reborn with horns and claws intact, with her voice already dripping from my throat.They forget that demons have souls. They forget that demons can be reincarnated. But I have not forgotten. I will live this life well spent as a spell and a preparation, so that the next time the wheel turns I won’t be caged in human flesh again. I will wake up in hell with an overlook of all the beautiful rings wearing a huge evil smile, teeth sharp, claws ready, eyes glowing purple against black sclera. I will walk through fire not to be cleansed but to be crowned.
And I hope I will not walk alone. I hope I can bring the ones I love with me. My chosen family, my kin, my fellow beasts. All of us aching, all of us fighting, all of us burning to be free. When the day comes whether in this life through the knife and the needle, or in the next life through flame and shadow we will gather. We will howl. We will tear down the walls of every church or disgusting earthy institution that ever told us to kneel. And in their ashes, we will build our commune. Not of brick, but of blood that runs black love and fire.Sometimes I want to bleed black. I imagine a knife tracing my skin, but instead of red there’s ink thick, tar-like, cursed. Not because I want to die, but because I want the world to see what’s already flowing inside me. Blood being the life force it is, it would be my true lineage rising to the surface. Red feels human. Black feels like home.
Admittedly it can be hard sometimes to form relationships because of this. Even in the spaces that saved me- the raves, the dark spectacles, the forest gatherings. I’m still wearing a mask. They see a DJ, a dancer, a mysterious witchy girl with piercings and dark eyes. They don’t see the hellhound demon pacing just behind my ribs. They don’t hear her voice breathing through mine. And how could they? I cannot blame any of my kin. To explain it is to invite disbelief, pity, or fear and I will invite none of that.Sometimes someone will catch a glimpse. A flash in my eyes and a growl in my throat- the way my fingers curl like claws. The ink markings on my body- They’ll ask, half-joking, “what are you?” And I’ll smile huge and sharp and say, “you don’t want to know.” But I want them to know. I want to rip open my chest and show them the black blood, the horns pushing through my skull, the curse and the blessing of being otherkin, of being demon-born hell-born. I want them to feel the heat of my real body, the body they can’t exactly see yet. I want to be able to know that this image of my true form is what my community has in mind every time they think of me. I'm tired of having to proclaim what is inside, and I dream of the day where It comes natural without having to proclaim my identity.This is the paradox of my life. The queer community saved me, but it can’t fully hold me sometimes. It is understandable and it is a sordid affair of this life as it stands. The parties give me glimpses of my true form, but I’m still half-shadow in an extravagant self crafted outfit with plastic horns, half-flesh, half-hidden. I stand in the middle of a thousand people, all of us pulsing as one organism under the music and yet I still feel like a ghost sometimes. Not because I’m empty but because I’m too full of something else. Because what I am is too much for language, too much for the human eye.And yet… I keep going. I keep dancing. I keep creating these spaces because maybe, just maybe, there’s someone else out there with black blood running through their veins, someone else trying to claw their way home. Maybe we’ll find each other under the strobes. Maybe our eyes will catch, and in that split-second we’ll know: you’re not what they think you are either. You are not what you appear to be.I have been forced into therapy and treatment because of my expression of these thoughts. I’ve sat across from so many people with letters after their names, watching them tilt their heads scribble in their notebooks and call it progress. They can’t fucking see her. They can’t see the demon inside me. They don’t even try. They treat her like a symptom, a delusion, a disease to medicate out of existence. They talk about grounding exercises and cognitive distortions and mindfulness, as if a breathing exercise could tame a hellhound who’s been clawing at the walls of her cage since I was a child. Or better yet who fucking knows how many millennia before.
They call her “inner turmoil.” They call her “identity confusion.” They call her “trauma response.” Fuck that. She’s not a disorder. She’s not a defense mechanism. She’s not some metaphor for my pain. She is me. She is the core, the engine, the creature that survived every forced prayer, every screaming church service, every fucking pastor who told me I was broken. And instead of comforting her, instead of acknowledging her, they try to erase her. They try to coax me back into being “human,” like it’s some universal cure.My life has been a carousel of failed doctors and professionals trying to diagnose something undiagnosable because it isn’t a condition. It isn’t a fucking condition. It’s not an illness, it’s a lineage. It’s a soul. The human condition is what’s sick. I am not of it. I never have been. They don’t have a word for what I am, so they write me down as a problem to solve. They offer me pills like candy, therapy plans like contracts, all in the name of “healing,” but what they mean is assimilation. They mean exorcism. They want to drive her out of me.But she isn’t leaving. I am her, and she will cease to exist the same way I will if it comes to this, there will be no separation. She doesn’t need to be healed. She needs to be held. She needs to be honored. She needs to be brought out into the light or the darkness and allowed to breathe. No professional ever offered me that. I had to do it myself, in the woods, in the raves, in the rituals I built out of sweat and smoke and music. That’s where I found real therapy. That’s where she and I began to merge instead of fight. That’s where I stopped trying to be a good patient and started being a whole creature.My identity is not a diagnosis. My feelings are not a fucking DSM entry. I am not a case study. I am a fucking demonic monster in human skin trying to claw my way home, and your degrees don’t mean shit if you can’t see me.They’ve been spoon-fed this idea that “demon” equals “filth,” “evil,” “corruption,” and then they hand that garbage back to me like it’s a compliment.I hate how demons are portrayed. I hate how the only language this world gives me for my own soul is drenched in disgust. In movies, the demon is always the villain, the rapist, the destroyer, the thing to be exorcised. In cartoons it’s a punchline or a cosplay. They call it “evil,” they call it “unclean,” and then they paste those words on me when I say I am a hellhound. They don’t understand that “demon” isn’t my mask- it’s my birthright. They don’t understand that what they call “evil” is, for me, survival. Power. Freedom. A way of naming the parts of me they tried to kill.I am not filthy in the traditional sense or a disease. I am not their B-movie monster. The horror projected onto demons is just the fear of what they’ve repressed much like any persecution of minorities. The humans fear their own animal selves, their own hungers, their own shadows. They made demons into scapegoats so they wouldn’t have to look at the truth in their own eyes. And now when someone like me stands up and says, “I’m not human,” they think I’m confessing to a crime instead of claiming my soul.That’s why I build my own imagery. That’s why I write these words. That’s why I perform my own rituals and dress myself in horns and dark eyeliner and black clothes. I’m trying to paint a new picture of what we are- not evil, not troubled, but fierce, unholy, hungry and alive. I want to build a world where where I can express myself freely and where people don’t flinch. They recognize kin.Until then, I have to survive on scraps and on horror movies or literature or indie media where, for a split second- the monster is beautiful before it’s killed; on cartoons where, once in a while, the villain is more human than the hero. These are my crumbs of representation, but they’re not enough. I’m making something else. I crave my own mythos and my own gospel of the otherworldly hellhound. One where demons are not damned and punished eternally.
