Speak of the Devil :
There was a nun who was on her way to midnight mass one night. She was driving down a lonely country road. It was very dark outside and she was worried as it was getting late. She kissed the rosary beads around her neck and said a prayer. She glanced at her car radio’s clock and saw that it was exactly 12:00 PM. When she looked back at the road, she saw a tall, dark figure standing there with his thumb sticking out.
She was about to drive past, but she thought she could use some company, so she pulled over to the side of the road. The man walked over to her car and opened the door. He was very tall and thin and his face was pale white. He wore a huge overcoat and a big b!ack hat.
“Do you want a ride?” she asked.
He looked down upon her and smiled. “Why, sure. Where are you going?”
“I’m heading to church for midnight mass,” she said. “Are you going that way?”
“Thereabouts,” he said as her got into the back seat of the car. “Thanks for stopping. Usually, no one stops for hitchhikers this late at night.”
The nun smiled and drove on down the road. On the way, she told the man all about her life and her faith. He listened and laughed once in a while.
As the church came into view, he leaned forward and asked her to stop.
“Are you sure?” said the nun. “I could take you a little farther.”
As he got out, he replied, “No, I’ll be good right here. I’ll walk. Actually, I have some one coming for me. Right near this spot. ” Are you sure?” she asked, as she had seemed to like his company. “No, but thank you, Claris, for the ride.” He smiled at her and then walked down the road. Then, she wondered. I never told him my name. She got out of her car and looked down at the tracks he left, and screamed. Where his footprints were, there was hoof prints. She drove into Busby, arrived at the church, and told the priest about what had happened. She showed him her car and in the back seat, there was a devil’s sign. The next morning, she was found dead in her car. Right where she had dropped the hitch-hiker off.

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Holder of Light :
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, close your eyes and ask to visit someone who calls himself “The Holder of Lightâ€�. You will be guided to a single door leading to a long winding hallway. You will be told to open your eyes. The hallway will be complete darkness, narrow enough only for you to feel the walls and navigate yourself forward.
If at any moment along the way the lights should come on, shut your eyes immediately and quickly make your way back to the door you came in. If your eyes stay open for more than a second, what you see will force you to instinctively tear them out.
If the lights stay off however, you will make your way to the end of the hall and another door. If there is a light from under the door leave immediately, what you came for is not there. If there is no light from under the door, carefully turn the handle and enter.
The room will be completely dark, aside from the lone candle in the center. What little light it brings reveals an outline of a cloak hovered over it. The man underneath the cloak is completely still. If you say anything, the man will tear out your eyes and devour your soul, and you will be forced to take his place under the cloak for the rest of eternity. There is only one question that the man will respond to, “What can protect us from them?�
If you proceed to ask this question, a piercing scream will ring out from the candle and a series of lights will illuminate the room, revealing the images of the most horrifying thoughts, fantasies and memories from all consciousness throughout history. Most people cannot handle this event, and will go insane or die instantly. However, if you should somehow manage to survive this, the man in the center of the room will rise slowly and put his hands to your head. You will be forced to look at his face. His face appears young, with the exception of two large cavities where his eyes once where. At this point you must not look away or you will be forever forgotten in time. He will then open your hand and place a small, round object into your right hand. You will be left feeling no pain, but the horrifying images will be burned into your memory for all eternity.
The eye you hold in your hand is object 5 of 538. The awakening has begun; they must not be brought together.

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Keeper Of Eternity :
Over the past millennium, science and medicine has advanced so far as to put miracles in the hands of men. Many of the diseases that were fatal merely five hundred years ago now have cures or at least treatments thanks to the brilliant minds of man. That being so, there’s still one fatal infirmity humanity has yet to overcome, and that’s mortality.
For those devoted enough, however, there is yet a way. Located just off the East Coast of North America somewhere is a shrine dating as far back as the earliest recorded civilizations. Lost to the ages now, there is but one path to this shrine, and it still sends its call, as if daring the hardiest of man to make that perilous voyage.
If you find yourself in Savannah, GA someday and think you’d like to play your hand at immortality, simply hop in your car and continue east out of town along E President Street and continue along it until it turns into Islands Expressway. If the forces deem you worthy, or if they’re simply in the mood to watch in amusement as you throw your life away, the sky will darken with rainclouds–even if it was clear and blue only moments before–and the forest about you will seem to glow. Keep your eyes peeled and you should see a turn-off into the woods a few minutes after this happens.
Now if you’re carrying a map you’ll probably notice this path is not indicated anywhere on it, but pay that no heed. Continue along the tight and densely overgrown path at a slow pace, for if you go off the road here, you’ll have no hope of ever finding your way out of this forest, and no tow-truck will ever find the turn-off to come retrieve you. Simply follow the path before you–for while there are many bends, there are no turn-offs from this one. The trees will only grow denser as you progress, until the limbs scrape like fingers along the top of your vehicle (you should probably note that it would be a very bad idea to undergo this journey in a convertible).
Eventually, after approximately forty-five minutes to an hour of driving, you should come to a dead end, where the trees tighten about you like a noose around a doomed man’s neck. If you have a GPS system in your car it will proclaim that you’re about fifteen miles into the Atlantic Ocean. Do not attempt to reverse at this point, for you’ll find that the path is no longer there. Check your watch, or your phone, or your car’s read-out for the time, for regardless of the time of day not a single ray of light will spill through these densely packed trees. If it is dark out, or if it will be dark out within the next few hours do not open your door, and do not turn off your headlights. You may turn off your car every so often to save gas, but you’ll want to crank it up again periodically to keep your battery from dying. If you let down your guard in this forest at night, you’re as good as dead.
If you were wise enough to start this trip early enough, and it’s still light out, you may exit the car at this point. You’ll notice the trees around you leaning in your direction, as if peering down at you curiously. In a loud assertive voice proclaim, “I am here to claim my fate, and none here shall stand in my way.”
You’ll hear a sound behind you. When you turn to look you’ll notice a small path that hadn’t been there before. Do not hesitate, do not question it, simply walk purposefully forward and start down the path before you’re trapped in that clearing indefinitely. The path may wind drastically, depending on which way you were facing when it was created, simply continue walking and do not look back, no matter how loud the rustling gets behind you.
You’ll soon find yourself ankle-deep in a swamp, and you may find the sound of frogs croaking a soothing change from the forest’s lively rustling. It would be most wise at this point to find the longest thickest branch you can, for the marshes of Georgia can hide the nastiest creatures in only a foot of water, so you’ll need to feel your way along like a blind man.
Only about 10 yards from the forest-line the land drops off into the ocean, and unless the forces are feeling particularly cruel you should be able to see the log poking up out of the water right away. If not, you’ll need to search, and it may take a while but once you’re near it there’s no mistaking it. Walk until you feel the ground break away beneath you, then get into the water. When you’re touching the log, you’ll want to take in the largest lungful of breath you can manage, then dive under and swim to the bottom as quickly as you can. It will be a long swim but do not turn around, even if you think you’re about to faint. Swim as fast as you can and keep going down, keeping a hand on the log until you come out the other side.
You’ll resurface in a pond in the middle of a dark forest much similar to the one you just exited, only just at the edge of the pond will be an ancient building of indeterminable origin. Go inside. Fires will be lit, marking your path to the shrine of the Keeper. A large statue, the likeness of the Keeper, will stand at the far wall and at his feet will be an empty bowl. Address the Keeper in a loud, confident voice, saying “I’ve come very far, and all I ask for is something to drink.”
His response will be a single, very personal question, and he will speak it directly into your mind, so listen carefully. When he has asked his question, do not take too long to answer, and answer only in the truth. BE VERY PRECISE WITH YOUR ANSWER. He will know if you’re trying to hide something. Once you have answered him completely, the bowl at his feet will fill with a strange liquid. This liquid will reflect the entire rainbow’s spectrum of colors, and it will bear no scent. You must drink this liquid, or you will never leave the forest alive. Depending on whether or not the Keeper liked your answer and deems you worthy, the liquid may be plain tap water, or a lethal poison. If it is the latter, you will only know once the symptoms begin to take hold. If it is the former, you will be free to leave.
The forest will part before you, showing you the exit, much like the years will part before you, leaving you alone to endure the eons. You will see your family and loved ones die, and you will see wars begin and end, but you will never die. You will see the sun explode and the earth burned to a cinder, but you will never die. You will know the true meaning of eternal life.
Credited to Chris Phoenix.

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Incense :
I heard stories of this ritual happening throughout the Internet and decided to try it for myself since the tasks are not hard to do and the payout is worth the trouble. The materials to complete this task will cost around 10-15 dollars, which can be earned from working any sort of job. I’ll save the reward for the end because the sacrifice will go along with it, and telling you now might deject you from attempting this ritual, but I assure you that it is well worth it. Failure to either complete this ritual or doing a step wrong will not harbor any sort of consequence short of losing 10-15 dollars of regular money depending on how far you get through the process. The only time limit is that the shop will only be open between 9 at night and 6 in the morning.
The first thing you will want to do is find the small incense shop that will sell you the materials. The shop will be present in any sort of city, or so I’m told. As of now, the cities that definitely have the stores are Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Chicago, Miami, Seattle, Washington D.C., San Antonio, and Salt Lake City. If you find one in your city and it’s not listed above, you may retell this story and include your city, but only if you want to, if not, whatever. The shop will not be attached to any other store and will be located in the outskirts of the city. It will not have any sort of neon sign and will not advertise at all. You can tell if you’ve found the correct place if it has one of three marking near the entrance. It’ll either have a) a red door with a gold eye painted on it b) A small wooden plank with an eagle on it with a golden eye painted onto said eagle or c) a welcome mat with the eagle mentioned above painted on it. The eagle means nothing, but the eye is supposed to signify a calm mind. When you’ve found the place, merely enter the shop. There is no special knock, password, or any other fancy shenanigans. It was pretty nice actually, considering the fancy antics that you have to do with most of the other rituals.
Upon entering the shop, you’ll notice the faint smell of aroma. There will be no music playing, though you may hear other costumers in the shop. It you do hear other costumers, leave the shop and come back the next day. You’ll approach the counter and ring the bell. An intimidating black man will come out of the black room and ask you what you want. You’ll tell him that you want three distinct kinds of incense in a commanding voice and lay a five-dollar bill on the table. You must specifically ask for “Satya Sai Baba Nag Champa Agarbatti”, “Satya Super Hit”, and “Sri Sai Flora”. He’ll go into the back room and retrieve the incense. When he returns, he’ll take your five dollar bill and ask if that’d be all for you. You’ll tell him no and slap another five dollars on the table. You’ll then ask for an incense box to go along with your incense. He’ll go into the back room once again and retrieve a normal wooden incense box, which will be about two feet long, and have holes cut into the top. There may be a pattern near the bottom of the box, but that is unimportant. Inspect the box. If it is in perfect condition, place it back on the table and ask for another one, but take your five-dollar bill back and slap a ten down. He’ll take your ten and take the box back into the back room. He’ll come back out with another box. This box will have a broken hinge, but will still open and close. You are to tell the man that this box is perfect, collect your things, and leave immediately. There have been records that the man will give you the broken box first and you’d end up saving $5, but it didn’t for me, just fork over the other five and don’t complain (I’m serious…DON’T COMPLAIN).
You may fix the hinge if you want, but it won’t be important. What you’ll then do is drive back home and set your incense up in a dark quiet place. You are to burn one stick of incense from whichever box you chose, but it must only be ONE. Not one from each, ONE. What this does is calm you down for the next step. When the ONE incense stick is done burning, (I’m stressing the ONE rule because those that have burned two or more did not complete the ritual correctly and were out their 10-15 bucks) you are to inspect the box. On the side of the box there will be a small sliver of wood that swings out, revealing a secret compartment of the box. There will be an extra packet of incense sticks in that compartment. These sticks will be black and have a red handle, you are to burn one of these next. Don’t worry about having to burn two; one will get the job done. While you are burning one of these incense sticks, you’ll notice that the smell is anything but appetizing. It smells like rotting meat to me. You are to close your eyes and bear through the smell. When the stick is done burning, which might take 5 minutes, you are to open your eyes. You’ll find yourself back in the shop, but in the back room. The man will meet you here sitting in whatever chair, or position, you were sitting in. He’ll show you one of two things. The first is a small glass of liquid. This liquid is an elixir that allows your mind to never feel stress again. Your judgment will never be clouded, you will never be angry, and you will always feel kindness coming from everyone. Your fight or flight sense will still be present, but it will be quicker. You will feel calm and blissful for as long as you live. The other will be a small book. This book will hold the secrets to everything. It will have the answers to why humans are here, the afterlife and every other controversy will be immediately revealed to you upon reading the contents of the book. You will literally know everything. After picking the item you want, you are to close your eyes again and wait ten seconds. You will open your eyes again in your living space with the faint smell of incense lingering in the atmosphere, but whichever item you chose will still be in your hand.
Here’s the catch.
If you chose the elixir: Everything you encounter will feel like it’s lasting twice as long as before. Your mind will not feel anger, but it will feel boredom. Your hour and a half classes will feel like 3. 60 minutes will now take 2 hours. The upside, as mentioned above, will always be that you have inner peace, but activities that you find boringly unbearable will feel like they last forever. It’s somewhat contradicting, if you think about it, but it will only be those activities that you find boring. Anything you find painful or even enjoyable will feel like ecstasy. One thing you should remember, however, is that the normal rules of physics still apply. So while the flame may feel like a massage in your mind, you’ll still end up with 2nd or third degree burns if left unattended.
If you chose the book: You’ll know EVERYTHING, but will forever be unable to tell anyone. Anyone else will see the book as nothing more than a blank template and you’ll find yourself unable to speak if you try verbally telling anyone of the books content. You’ll know who killed Kennedy, but you alone. You’ll know if we really landed on the moon, but will be unable to type it out on your computer. You’ll know if your best friends girlfriend really cheated on him and whether or not she really did contract Herpes in the process or not, but will be at a loss of words when the conversation comes up…
I chose the book, if it’s any consolation. It’s intriguing to know all of these facts. I know which religion to pick, how to live my life and even who killed Kennedy. It sucks that I can’t tell you though. You’d shit brix if I told you, but whenever I try, my fingers burn at the touch of the keys. I should know; I’ve tried it twice within the last 10 minutes. I can’t even give you subtle hints. I know why, but telling you THAT would also reveal secrets of the book. And that girlfriend reference came from a true story. My best friend won’t even talk to me since I froze when he asked me about his girlfriend. When I tried to tell him, my throat ran dry and I had to run for water, but my throat just dried right back up again when I tried to tell him the truth again. I lied to him and said no…but then he found out the truth and thinks that I was the one that cheated with her. I tell him otherwise, but he doesn’t believe me… I’m thinking I should’ve chosen the elixir.
Credited to lolol.

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Trick Or Treat :
Don’t bother trying to find it. You won’t find anything about the name of the town or what happened here. This manuscript will be found long after the events that transpired in this place, but I hope against everything else that you’re someone in a position of power. I pray to God himself that you can prevent this from ever happening again, but I don’t want to give you too much credit. Like me, you are only human, after all. They are not. They’ve been around for a very, very long time.
Fat chance, really. You probably don’t want that responsibility, and even if you did take it upon your shoulders to track them down, you can’t single-handedly stop the children. Their manipulators are not “on the grid.” Whoever engineered this is in control of the world on a very disturbing level.
This is what I want you to do. Read these pages, if they’re still legible, and take what you will from them. Don’t go on a wild goose chase, and realize that when you find this book that it will not be in the place where I left it. They’ll move it somewhere else, to deceive you. I’ve left my mark on a tree there. Only then, when you see my name, will you know, “this is the place.” You may have even heard of it in the history books, but be assured, any rumors on Wikipedia or Google pages that you pull up will be guess-work at best. None of them are even close to the truth. When you find the place, there may already be another town just like it. That’s what I’m trying to stop. If we’re not successful, then just realize, above all things, that evil exists. I’m not talking about bad people, or tragic accidents. I’m talking real, intelligent, ancient evil. It is calculated, and it is always one step ahead of you. Should you decide to take my place and become the paragon to prevent the corruption of the hearts and minds of children, I thank you in advance.
I told you that I’m human. I lied. I used to be, before All Hallow’s Eve on that fateful night. I’ve been alive since then, far longer than any human being, and the reason is because I love children. I’ve always loved them in their purity and their innocence. That’s why I was taken in by their ruse. That’s why I’ve finally decided to put all this down, centuries later. I won’t be here much longer, and someone has to take up the burden.
I’ve waited….. until I saw them return. They’ll be back this year. They’re planning the same thing again, and I can’t stop them. Again, I can’t expect that much from you, but I’m only giving you all this so you’ll believe me. I have to be believable. If you think I’m crazy, you’ll throw this in a garbage can, and more people will disappear. It’s time to tell you what happened. I’m rambling.
Back then, All Hallow’s Eve was the time for evil’s ascension. You’ve all forgotten. If you left your house on that night in the old country, you were a devil worshipper. “Halloween” was not the term we used. We fled to the shores of this country because we were persecuted for our lifestyle choices. We worshipped nature, the changing of the seasons, the solstice of spring, autumn, winter, and summer. In the purest sense of the word, we were druids. Our names and accents were English, but we were servants of the earth.
We were some of the first to celebrate it as a holiday. The natives here were puzzled by our behavior, but also frightened by it, and so they left us alone. They misunderstood. We were not the ones to be afraid of. At the time, I was relieved. They’d attacked us in our settlements, time and time again, but as it drew closer to the end of October, they stayed away. Maybe in their own noble bonds with the earth and soil, they knew something terrible was on the horizon.
They were right. John Hunter’s little boy wanted to be a native, with a bow and arrow and a real headdress. Little Mary Taylor made a dress that was crafted after the local schoolhouse teacher’s prettiest outfit. She idolized her educator, of course. They all had their get-ups; they were the first trick-or-treaters in what was to become the United States of America, one hundred and fifty years later. We sent them out to frollick about the settlement, collecting apples and tarts and other sweet things in to their burlap goody bags. They were no Snickers or Milky Ways, and yet, the magic of this “holiday” held no less sway over them than it does the youth of our current time. They dress up as the Joker, the Power Rangers, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. These children were their predecessors.
I sent my daughter with Mary and John Hunter junior. Despite our mistrust and wariness of the Anglican church and the monarchs that presided over it, my little girl was dressed as the queen of England. I refused to crush her fantasy world, and so I simply indulged her. We heard promises to return after sundown, to say yes ma’am and no sir, and not to linger too long if they were invited inside the households of our community.
We didn’t realize that the house on the edge of the settlement existed until we saw the children go inside. There were no lanterns or sources of light in the windows, no fire or harvest dolls on the outside of the dwelling. As we sat in the middle of the town hall, imbibing in the pleasures of distilled moonshine (none of you will ever make it as potent as we did in those days) amongst our brethren, we watched our young ones gravitate across the middle of our town, to the foreboding household that had seemingly been constructed overnight. When we gazed upon it, it seemed as though the place were “shimmering.” It pained my vision to look upon the building, as if my senses were being forced and propelled in another direction. Such a thing is difficult to put in to words, but I seemed to be the only one who realized that our kids were all heading to the same place. When I questioned John Hunter as if something were odd about their actions, he stared at me as if I were insane.
“What do you mean?” He asked. “There’s no house there. They’re going to play by the stockades.”
The sun had set by that point, but as I said before, none of them were concerned. The natives hadn’t shown up for weeks. I decided to walk to the phantom dwelling that only I and the children could see, to peer inside and see who these new settlers were, and why it called to the youths as if it were a black hole in a sea of stars.
I tried to stand outside, to look through the window, but when I saw what was happening, it was too late. I breached the doorway with my buck-knife drawn, but there was nothing about the things inside that I could harm with a weapon.
There’s something deep inside of us, something embedded within the human spirit, that’s perfectly aware when we encounter something truly terrible. Fear, horror, evil, revulsion…. it all hits you in a spastic wave, like a fierce exploding bullet that shatters the innermost parts of your soul with a relentless and powerful fury. I saw it in that moment, standing in that darkened doorway. They weren’t people, and they weren’t spirits. They were halfway there, lingering over the unconscious bodies of my daughter and her peers in their hooded black robes of half-existence. There was one, in particular, who made me feel as though my eyes would pop like ripened cherries when I stared at it. It was the leader, the source of that tug, that pull….. and it was slowly fading, disappearing like a gaseous black cloud of death, through my little girl’s nostrils and mouth. She was gasping for air, as if every breath after the one that preceded it were filled with acid…. as if she were hungry for real, fresh air in her small lungs. With every breath, the figure faded deeper in to her, along with the rest of them.
I wish I could say that I was a hero, and that I hacked them all to bits; I wish I could say that I saved the day and made Halloween a night when the worst thing that children have to worry about is poisoned candy. It didn’t happen. There was one of them left, floating toward me on elongated, blackened tendrils of shimmering nothingness. By all real means of my imagination, it shouldn’t have BEEN there, but it was, and soon, it was going inside of me. The last thing I saw were their little feet, scurrying out of the phantom-house and in to the town. I FELT that something terrible was about to happen. I had no idea. Everything went black, and then, I was outside of myself. I was conscious, but observing my feet, my hands, doing things beyond my own scope of physical control.
They led me and our children in to our meeting hall, where, of course, the kids were embraced by the open, loving arms of their parents. I witnessed the betrayal, the brutal moments in which the truth instilled by the love for family and offspring would transform in to a cause for the destruction of our village.
They absorbed them. There’s no better adjective for what happened. One moment, they were there, and seconds later, they were nothing but dark essence, filtering in through the eyes and noses and mouths of their devil-children. It was over in minutes. A night that should have been a celebration of nature, of the seasons, had turned in to the end of everything that we knew and loved here in our new land.
I started to fight it. The kids knew. The moment I began to resist, to try and reclaim my limbs and mind from the corrupting influence within, their heads snapped back from their feast of souls to survey me in my struggle. My daughter’s eyes were sunken, black pools of the abyss, devoid of any emotion, any semblance of the bright-eyed stare that she once held for me in all her love and adoration for father. I miss that the most, really. The way she’d run to me when I came in from the fields every evening as the sun went down. I lived for that. What reason do I have to live now, other than to find her and stop them? I’m incapable. That falls on you, my friend.
They took the part of my daughter that counts, the part that I loved and cherished, and turned her in to a servant. You ask me why I’m still alive, and again, it’s because I love her, so very, very much. Her body is a hollow shell, filled with the malefice and blackness of evils beyond our world.
The black-robed things have grown as centuries have passed. They are from some place that is not of this world, but their urgency, their hunger, to devour and destroy, is insatiable. It’s an exponential, amplifying contagion on mankind, and All Hallow’s Eve is their pinnacle, their Christmas. I’ve done my best to warn you throughout history, to leave my mark in places where their desolation has left nothing but dust on the wind and empty houses. A deserted football field in a Texas ghost town. A card room in the back of a night club in Chicago, right under the nose of civilization. Roanoke Island, North Carolina, before Johne Rolfe found it in the aftermath.
The thing that I expelled through sheer force of will alone has left me with an unusually long and empty life, devoid of anything but my desire for revenge. I have failed. I’m pleading with you. October thirty-first is not long away. My little girl, or what’s left of her, is going to lead them to the same place. It’s been re-founded, except now, it hums with sport utility vehicles and cell phones. I don’t want this to happen to your child.
Go to Roanoke, and stop them from repeating the ritual. Those bodies they inhabit now are frail, on their way out. It’s been almost five hundred years. They’ll need new ones on this Halloween. Look for a building that appears as though it shouldn’t be there. It will be across from that very tree where I signed my name, where I made my mark. I changed my title, named myself after the tribe of natives who knew it was coming…. who, perhaps, tried to warn us, but for some reason, we failed to heed or recognize their warnings. They were more closely attuned to the earth than us, and yet, they were still wiped out, eventually.
Trick or treat?
Go now. You don’t have much time.
– Croatoan
Credited to Violent Harvest

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One Of Them :
Any night, around 10 or 11 pm, take yourself to a flat, open area where you can walk in a straight line for two minutes or so without running into anything. Once there, face in the direction you plan to walk, with your arms at your sides and your hands relaxed. Close your eyes, and take a deep breath. At precisely 11:09 and 20 seconds, start walking. Be sure to take one step every second, no more, no less. Do not open your eyes, and do not hesitate. Count your steps in your head as you go. On the one hundred and eleventh step, say the word “One” out loud, and stop. Your breath will catch in your throat, and your hair will stand on end. For the next ten seconds, you will be unable to move a single muscle in your body, no matter how hard you try. After these ten seconds, you will be able to move and breathe again – however, you will then start to feel the sensation of cold metal claws seizing each of your fingers by the base and plucking them clean off of your hand. It will not hurt. You will surely be horrified, but do not open your eyes, and do not move. If you move or open your eyes, all that anyone will ever find of you is your two fingerless hands, severed cleanly at the wrist. Once the claws have stopped, and all of your fingers have been plucked off, stay still for another ten seconds. It may help to count. After these ten seconds have passed, you may open your eyes. You will find that your fingers are still quite firmly attached to your hands. Go home immediately, and go directly to bed. Speak to no one for the rest of the night, and enter no building that you do not consider your home.
The next day, you will have become One of Them. Once per day, as long as there is even a sliver of sunlight, you may point at someone and speak the word “One.” That night, he will face the same trial that you faced. If you see that person the next day, you will know that he, too, has become One of Them. If not, then do not be alarmed if you do not feel hungry the rest of the day.

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Listen To The Clock :
If you want to lose your grasp on reality, and destroy your complete sanity, just listen to the clock.
But this will not be easy let me tell you right now. This is not something to mess around with. It’s just an easy way to lose your mind within the confines of your own home. But there are a couple guidelines to follow. First, pick a room with no windows. It can be a room for anything, but it just can’t have windows. Second, you can start at any time in the day, even if you wish to start at night, for the process will take exactly 24 hours to complete. Third, cancel all appointments you have for that day, turn off your phone if you have to, for there can’t be any distractions for you to focus on. Fourth, make sure it is a calm and quiet day outside, and not windy or storming outside. Lastly, to start the process, you must go into the room you picked, put a clock inside (the clock must make the distinct ‘tick-tock’ sound when every second passes), turn off the lights, and light a candle. That candle will be your only source of light. Once you have done all of that, I honestly want you to ask yourself one question, “Do I really want to do this?” If your answer is yes, then may God have mercy on you. I’m here to merely prepare you on what to expect. Alright, let me tell you a little bit of information about the procedure. Back in the mid-1800′s, radical members of the Christian, Muslim, and Islamic faith used it as a way to “connect” with God. It was kept under wraps due to its extreme nature and unusual method to connect with the supernatural. The clock represented life on earth, and how short it can be, and the candle represented God as the only way of guidance through life. Most often than not, each person that would go through the procedure, would lose their minds and within a day and due to their insane actions, would kill themselves from what they claim to have seen. But if you were one of the lucky ones, you can keep your sanity, like me. Ok, now here is what to expect.
The first 3 hours are the least eventful, mainly because nothing really happens, but prepare yourself in these hours. These are the only hours in which you may choose to leave the procedure.
In the 4th hour, you will not be able to escape by any means. The lock on your door will lock by itself and you will have no way to move it.
In the 5th hour, you will start to sweat profusely, and will start to have feelings of anxiety. You will start to look behind you many times, and every time, there will be nothing there.
In the 6th hour, you will hear noises. Not noises from the house or from outside, but thuds and thumps throughout the hour in ten minute intervals. With each noise getting louder.
In the 7th hour, you will pass out, and dream. But this will be the only pleasant hour throughout the process. You will dream about the best moments in your life. Every great accomplishment, wonderful memory, and friend you have made will appear before you. It will have been the best dream you have ever had in your life. Even events from the future can appear.
At the beginning of the 8th hour, you shall wake up. But when you do, you will feel an extreme sense of elation and comfort, similar the effects of smoking marijuana. Now for some this could be considered another pleasant hour, but what comes after will be the start of your suffering.
In the 9th hour, you will, in a sense, go from one drug, to another. Your feelings of elation will change to that of extreme adrenaline and energy. Similar to the effects of any stimulant drug. But a warning, you must try your hardest to keep yourself under control. You’re unpredictable, there is no telling what you will do in this state.
In the 10th hour, hopefully you have minimal injuries from the last hour. But now you will start to feel normal, and your feelings you previously felt will subside. Now you will hear screaming, but the screaming can vary from what it sounds like, from a little girl, to a full grown man. You will hear screaming at six minute intervals throughout the hour. This hour is going to feel like an eternity to pass.
At the 11th hour, the light from the candle will go out. That’s it. You are left alone in the darkness. You are free to think to yourself, most likely regretting the decision you have made.
At the 12th hour, the light from the candle will reappear. But do not worry, this is another hour of silence. But mentally prepare yourself for what you about to experience next.
In the 13th hour, you shall pass out, much like you did in the 7th hour. But don’t expect happy memories. In this dream, you shall experience every painful moment, suffering, and unpleasant thing in your life all over again. Even suffering in the future, including your own death. This will be the worst dream you will ever have in your life.
At the 14th hour, you will wake up. This is another hour of silence. But the silence will be broken by your own sobbing. Your tears shall continue until the hour is over.
In the 15th hour, this is putting it very bluntly, is when things start to get weird. You will talk to someone. He’s not visible, but he is there. He doesn’t have a name, but I’m giving him one. He is your guardian angel, but you can call him ‘Watcher’ or ‘Protector’. But for me, I call him ‘Asshole’. This may seem funny, but trust me, it’s suits him. The first thing he will say to you is “Ask me anything, and I shall give you an answer.” You can ask him anything about your life, what will happen in the future, and why events occurred when they did. He will give you an answer, but extreme and graphic details, and give reasons for things will not understand, whether it be a tragedy or a death. By the end of the hour, he will say “Farewell” and leave.
In the 16th hour, you will talk to your parents. But they do not make a physical appearance mind you. Now it’s your turn to answer questions. They will ask you questions about what you have done with your life, and if you do not answer one of their questions, they will press on for an answer until you can’t take it anymore. At the end of the hour, they will go away.
At the 17th hour, you will talk to the most important guy in your life, whether it be your significant other or your best friend. He will ask you why and how you became friends. But keep in mind, he is not looking for friendly conversation, he is questioning your friendship with him. Finding every mistake you have done to cripple your friendship with him. Reasoning with him will not work, and will act like your parents did in the previous hour.
At the 18th hour, you will speak to the most important girl in your life, whether it be your significant other or your best friend. She will do the same as the person in the 17th hour did, and ask the same questions.
At the 19th hour, you will talk with yourself. Meaning you will talk with your future self, and trust me, this is the least pleasant conversation. He will tell you things you will not want to hear about yourself, and will ask you questions you can and can’t answer. Soon it will be too much, and you will find yourself screaming at yourself, and anger and self-loathing will be the only emotion you will have.
In the 20th hour, following the events of the 19th hour, you will find any possibility to hurt yourself. Self-inflicting pain will be constant in this hour. Some have even committed suicide in this hour.
In the 21st hour, if you managed to survive the previous hour, here is what will await you. Music. Yes, music. It will be soft orchestral music, with a choir singing Gregorian Chant, similar to church music, but more beautiful. By the end of this hour, your wounds will heal. Don’t ask me why, even I don’t know.
In the 22nd hour, the music will stop. This is another hour of silence. But you have time to think to yourself. The light on the candle will change colors, all colors of the spectrum. This quite a sight to behold, it’s almost soothing.
In the 23rd hour, you will sing Gregorian Chant. But your singing will be the only sound in the room. You honestly don’t know what your singing, but it sounds beautiful, and you will actually want to sing more.
Finally, the 24th hour, this is the most interesting hour. Rumor says you talk to God himself, but here is how it goes. You are pinned to the floor by some unknown force, and someone or something asks you a question at ten minute intervals. Questions like “Are you happy?” or “Would you like to change?”. You must answer, you will feel the need to. The questioner sounds like a man, but at the same time sounds like an animal. Almost like the roar of a lion. His voice is terrifying but yet comforting at the same time. After the hour is up you will be able to get up, and the door will unlock. If you’re lucky, you still have your sanity.
Now it up to you what you shall do with this information. If you want to do this, I’m not stopping you, but I’m giving you fair warning. Some things are beyond the realms of human comprehension and sometimes we just have nothing to explain the unnatural. But whatever it is, at least we know we are not alone. Now remember what I have told you. If you want to lose your grasp on reality, and destroy your complete sanity, just listen to the clock.

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Trains :
If you wait at any given train station on a certain date, a train will appear that isn’t on any schedule. If you board the train you will find that the interior, regardless of the battered exterior, will be very elegant and old fashioned.
Have a seat and enjoy the train ride. The steam engine is beautiful: plush seats, exotic decor, gorgeous windows and elegant color schemes.
The crew are refined and very eager to please. The ticket takers engage you in conversation. Every half an hour or so, a waiter comes by to offer you the most select dishes.
The landscape rushing by outside is incredibly lush and lovely. Lakes and mountains, deep forests and pristine beaches. Don’t try to recognize any of it. Not a single tree or peak or grain of sand corresponds to any known geography.
You are not alone. The train is full of passengers. Some are dressed like you; some are in clothing you recognize as ceremonial and foreign; a few are dressed very elegantly, in luxurious fashions as least one hundred and fifty years out of date. Others sport fashions you do not recognize, and carry items—electronics? accessories?—that you have never even imagined.
When the train makes its fourth stop (this will take several hours), get off.  If you disembark beforehand, you will disappear. If you manage to return—and some do—you will speak a different language, one completely unknown to our world. You will panic, and weep for days on end. You will not eat. You will pine for the world you left behind until you die.
If you disembark after the fourth stop?
No one knows.
Do know that every once in a while, a dismembered corpse is recovered from the rails near the boarding platforms. Typically these bodies are rotted masses only vaguely recognizable as human. Despite the advanced decomposition and the mess, they appear very suddenly, often in the time it takes to blink.
Many of the victims remain unidentified due simply to the appalling state of the remains. Those identified, however, all had stained and battered train tickets on their person, dated days, weeks, even months and years prior.
People will tell you the victims tragically fell or even threw themselves into the rail wells.
But surely you know better.

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Sever The Cord :
Many have speculated that the plane in which we live is not the only plane in existence. Those who say this will usually then go on to ponder realms of mystery and wonder. The truth is, there is a second plane, but it is not filled with the euphoric images that most people conjure up. However, it is not filled with horrors, either, rather, it is a perfect emulation of our world. There is no difference at all. Whatever exists in our plane also exists on the Second Plane. Even you exist on the Second Plane. In fact, those “copies” of ourselves, those extra-dimensional clones, are bonded to us. Whatever action we take, they take, and vice versa. That means that, in the other plane, that other you is reading this right now.
In this Second Plane, there is only one difference. A God resides there, though some may call him a Devil, watching over the mirrors of those in Our Realm. This God has no mirror. He resides only in the Second Plane. Our “Copies” cannot see him, either, for unknown reasons. But he can see them. He knows what they are doing. Therefore, he knows what YOU are doing. There is only one way to escape this constant watching, but it could come at a terrible price.
Stand before a mirror. You see your reflection? That is your Copy. Look him straight in the eye, and will with all of your might that what you see before you is not YOU; rather, it is a perfect emulation of you. As soon as you have made this mental breakthrough, turn off the lights. Wait a while, about two minutes should do. Then, turn them back on. Your reflection will be gone. You have just severed the bond between you and your Copy. You can no longer see him, but he exists. Now, however, you will be free to do as you please, without your Copy mirroring it, and without the God knowing what you are doing. You could murder a thousand people, and walk without fear of retribution.
However, it is not recommended that you do this. As you sever the bond, the same decay that effected the bond will eat slowly up the remnants of one side of the “cord”. As it reaches whichever you was on that particular side, it will begin to eat away at its soul. Whichever version of you is effected will become sicklier, paler. It will stink of death, its movements will become stiff. As it nears the final stages of this illness, it will become merely a shadow of itself.
It becomes a ghost. Cursed to forever roam whatever existence it resides in, a shattered soul and lost cause. However, if it is not you that is affected by this illness, but your Copy, you will walk free. You will walk without judgment. You will be a God among men.
But be careful, for if that disease eats up your side of the cord, you will fall prey to its effects.
Trust me. I know.

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Greed :
Right now, there is a thin man in a skin tight black suit sitting in your closet.
His bony knees bent to his chest, his spidery white fingers wrapped around his ankles. He sits there, and has been sitting there since you began reading this.
His name is Greed. Can you hear his breathing yet?
Now that you are aware of his existance, if you open your closet door you will see him sitting there. Immediately his expressionless face will smile, and his sharp green eyes will lock onto yours. You may open and close the closet as much as you wish, and you may leave him there for as long as you like, but he will never go away. And everytime you look inside your closet he will still be there, his glassy eyes following yours. Only you will see him. Don’t attempt to tell anyone else, they will only question your sanity.
If you ignore Greed, gradually he will take over your existance. When you look in the mirror you will see him standing behind you, smiling his eerie smile. You will see him sitting in the back of your car as you drive home late from work. As you turn the lights off downstairs and you run up the steps to the safety of your bedroom, he will be running behind you, even if you do not turn to look you will hear a second pair of footsteps.
There is only one way to rid yourself of Greed. At exactly midnight, of any night of the year (apart from Christmas Eve) sit in front of your closet with a razor in your left hand. You must be alone, the lights must be off, and you must place a lit tea candle in between you and the closet door. Without opening the door, repeat this verse:
In return for my sanity, I give to you my soul,
Use it as you wish, but please leave me alone.
The closet door will swing open, revealing Greed whose eyes are already glaring you in the face. He will hold out his long bony hand. Hold your right hand over it and with your left, make a clean cut across your wrist and let your blood fill his hand. Once it is full he will retreat it and place your gift in his top right coat pocket. Then he will stand up, and walk out of your house, the doors opening themselves for him. He will never return.
From that moment on, your life will be perfect. You will effortlessly become rich beyond belief, you will find and marry the love of your life and achieve anything your heart desires. You will never become sick, and you will die warm and comfortable in your bed, surrounded by those you love.
But once your eyes have finally closed, and your lungs stop breathing, you will meet Greed again. He will take you to visit your loved ones who you have left behind, and you will watch helplessly as he plays his game. He will take the sharpest knife from their kitchen and hide in their closet. Next time they open it he will slaughter and devour them. He will repeat this little ritual until everyone you’ve ever loved is lying dead in a puddle of their own blood. After he has finally finished this twisted game he will take your soul from his top right coat pocket and swallow it. You will become a part of him, and be a part of his game forevermore.
However, if you take the option to ignore him, he will never leave, and every once in a while, if you turn over in the direction of your partner in bed, instead of seeing their beautiful face, your eyes will meet with his, and that evil grin will still be stretched over his rows of sharp teeth.

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The Eisenhower Interstate Phenomena :
Little known fact, is that the Eisenhower Interstate system is built over major leylines. Rumor has it, that if specific conditions are met, weird phenomena will occur.
Phenomena of the First
The first sign of this phenomenon is that you will lose ALL radio reception, and devices such as MP3 players, Discmen, tape decks and other music players will cease functioning. Your heater will begin to only dispense cold air, regardless of setting. after the first mile of this, you will notice a fog growing at the edges of the road, and you will see no exits, regardless of whether they were supposed to be there.
If you continue on, you will begin to see the occasional pedestrian. Some of them will gesture that they would like to hitch a ride. Under no circumstances should you stop for them, no one has ever stopped and survived. If you see lights approaching from behind, and it is a hearse, do NOT let it pass you. No matter what. After 13 miles, the phenomenon will end, and you will be safe.
Phenomena of the Second
Investigated by the witnesses after they read instructions they found in a book, left behind in a rest stop bathroom. Participants must mix a shot of whiskey, a drop of their own blood (One drop for each participant), a pinch of salt, and a small amount of used engine oil. Mix with water from a rest stop fountain in a glass bottle, and smash it on the interstate in the evening or morning. If the instructions were followed correctly, the way will become densely foggy. An unmarked exit will appear, and if you pass it by, it will be closed to you for six years. If you take the exit, go left and under the interstate.
Half a mile down the road, is an old gas station. Inside, it is said that a full glass the coffee sold there, will keep you awake all night, and the other food and beverages are purported to have various properties themselves.
Pay the proprietor only in metal coinage, no bills, no checks, no cards. There are also some arcade machines near the back of the store, as well as an old fortune telling wizard in a glass case. He knows how you will die. Accept no sexual favors that are offered to you while there, and do not anger anyone. Your life depends upon it.
—–
Something really weird happened with this post. Originally, it had the entire thing AND comments (I remember approving like three comments on this entry when it was first posted), but apparently at some point that changed and half the post went missing and the comments got closed. It also lost its category, making it the only thing in the “uncategorized” section that previously didn’t exist. I have no idea when or how, and didn’t even notice until someone in the Pawn Shop Puzzle comment section pointed it out.
creepypasta.com is HAUNTED.

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Inspiration :
You know those long, involved ritual creepypastas, the ones that involve a million different steps, the ones where if you breathe at the wrong second you die? Ever wonder who figured it out? It couldn’t
have been trial and error – you don’t get a second try at something like that.
The answer’s actually pretty simple. Nobody figured it out.
He already knew.
There’s… an entity, I suppose you could call it, although I always think of it as a him. A little boy, to be exact. He seems to enjoy playing around with people, you see.
And he knows all the rituals, or at least all the real ones. So sometimes he spreads out the information. Ever felt inspired to write some piece of horror that seemed to contain elements that didn’t even
exist in your nightmares? Ever had a disturbing idea for some horrible but compelling rite, that seemed to ‘just come to you’? It might have been him working through you.
If you get one of those flashes, write it down and post it. I can’t guarantee your health if you don’t – he can be awfully persistent about getting his little messages out, and even if you’re just babbling it to your safe padded walls you’re still saying it.
But, at the same time, if you get one of those flashes… halfway through writing it, stop, open up the instant messenger of your choice, and IM yourself. If all you see are your own normal words echoed back at you, give up there. Either it really is just your imagination that gave you the idea, or he doesn’t want to talk.
But if the message comes back with odd typos that weren’t there before, or new capitalization, or different punctuation marks… well, I’m sure you’ve seen enough pasta with puzzles in it to know what to do to find the message and respond.
If he likes you, or finds you amusing, he’ll talk to you directly there. If he gives you a new puzzle… keep going, but be careful. They get harder and harder, turning from simple wordplay to numerology
to esoteric mystical references to God knows what else, but also more and more compelling. It’s harder to just close the window and walk away, and the feeling that you’re just about to reach a solution never eases. And so the next time some poor soul’s found slumped over their computer, killed by starvation and exhaustion and neglect… well, maybe it was just some game, right? But maybe he just wanted to solve that one damn puzzle.
If he does greet you directly, you can name three things you desire – any three at all. He will give you, in complete detail, rituals to achieve those three things – if you’re lucky, it will be a single rite that grants all three. They may be dangerous, but they will be clear and detailed paths to gain what you want through paranormal means.
But, of course, there are catches.
The first: you have to spread the rituals on. You can embellish them as you wish, add your own spin, even lie outright, but you have to leave the goal and most of the steps intact, and you have to put it
somewhere where people will see – a forum, a notice board in real life, on the door of a building, wherever. The more popular it is, the happier he will be, and you want his blessing.
Because the second catch is that he always omits some key step. As long as you’ve posted the ritual up in public, you will know when the time comes what that step is – but it could be anything from drawing a simple squiggle to murdering your true love in cold blood. You could have to give up your soul, or mutilate a limb, or drown yourself… or you could just have to hop backwards two times. And you won’t know what it is until you’re buried deep in the rite, unable to stop.
So when you talk to him, be nice and friendly, and make sure you amuse him. He’s kind enough, most of the time. Just a bit mischievous.
How did I learn all this, you ask?
I don’t really know. It just came to me. Inspiration, you could say.

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Holder of Song :
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit “The Holder of Song”�. You will be guided to a single door leading to a long winding staircase. It will seem to take you up higher than the building should stand. There will be a door at the top of the stairway that opens into a dim hall.
Heat will wash over you. Proceed down the hall, and at one point, it will suddenly get much colder. When this happens, you must stand perfectly still and make no sound. If you hear a baby crying, turn around and run away. The baby’s cry will follow you. If you hear it for the rest of your life, you’re lucky, for when it stops, your first-born child has died.
If there is no cry and the heat returns, proceed to the door at the end of the hall. Open it.
The room will be awash in green light. In the center will be an old woman turning a music box that produces no sound. Her legs have both been severed at the knees. When you speak to her, you must look her in the eyes. She hides a spear fashioned from the bones of her legs, and if you break eye contact, she will impale you and leave you in agony to bleed to death. She will respond to only one question. Ask her, “What was the song they used to play?”
The old woman will begin singing. The song is in a different language, but the melody is beautiful; serenity will wash over you. You will be presented with the image of children playing and singing. Things will turn grimmer. The children will begin fighting, then killing, then disemboweling each other with sharp rocks. The image will continue of children spreading death and destruction more horrific than you could ever have dreamt. But still, you will remain calm and peaceful. You will see a naked boy drenched in blood, singing with delight as he runs through a hellish wasteland, pursued by unspeakable monsters. They find him, and mutilate him utterly. Still, the song will continue from his dead lips.
An intense pain will stab at your chest. Your heart will feel like it is about to explode. But still, you must not break eye-contact with the old woman; if you do, an exploding heart would become your happiest dream. If you don’t shift your gaze, the pain will cease. The woman will stand up (you will know not how) and place the music box in your hands.
The music box is object 6 of 538. When its song plays again, they will all come together.

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Holder of Nothing :
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself “The Holder of Nothing”. Should a look of sheer, primal disgust mar the workers expression, you will then be taken to a separate building, which appears to be an old, wooden outhouse. Inside will be a seemingly endless corridor far, far longer than the length of the outhouse.
There will be no sound in the corridor. Attempting to make any at the wrong time is a grievous, grievous mistake. You will notice the lights in the corridor get brighter and brighter as you make your way down towards the end, becoming nearly blinding. If at any point the lights go out, QUICKLY shout out “No! Stop! What you are doing is wrong!” while backing away. If the lights do not come back on, bolt for the door you came in through. It should still be open and hopefully you aren’t far enough down the hallway for them to close it on you. If they manage to close it, hell itself would be preferable to what you will suffer.
If the lights come back on, return to walking forward down the corridor. Upon reaching the cell, the worker will open the door for you while glaring at you in disgust. Inside the cell will be a mad pastiche of colors, arranged in several harlequin-like formations. You must not be distracted by them; for at the center of a room is a naked young woman, slathered in blood and bound by strips of human sinew. If you take your eyes off her even for a moment, she will destroy you utterly. She will only respond to one question. “What were they when they were one?”
She will then stare into your eyes, and speak the answer in incredible detail. It will be unlike anything you have ever heard and you will be on the verge of both ecstasy and agony at her mere words. It is not uncommon for most to lose themselves in the euphoria. The worst thing you can do, however, is look upon the tattoo on her chest. It will pull at your mind to gaze upon it, but you mustn’t. If you do, you will be hers.
She will flay you alive and add your mutilated flesh to her bindings, and you will remain trapped with her, fully conscious, for the rest of time.
That tattoo is object 4 of 538. They desire to be one again. But they mustn’t.

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Failed Rituals :
I really wish I had left that fucking light switch alone. Who would have thought the flick of a switch could mean the difference between life and death. Actually everyone’s thought that. That’s why I turned it on. Stupid little rituals that we take from childhood. The light will chase the monsters away, the blanket over your head will save you from the boogie man. And you just get more of these rituals as you get older. As long as you lock the doors and turn on the home security system, you can rest your head happily in your cozy little fortified home. No killers or psychos, monsters or boogie men.
But it doesn’t work. None of it. We always slip up some how. The one time you forget to lock that door. That’s when they get you. I would have been sound asleep if I hadn’t been woken by the loud slam as the front door blew open. I stumbled out of bed and down the hall to see it swinging back and forth. I moved quickly down the hall to secure it. A moment of panic swelled inside of me. My home felt like a crime scene. It wasn’t my safe little sanctum anymore.
Despite the overwhelming feeling of intrusion, there was no sign of disruption. Just the door. Just my careless mistake. I couldn’t comprehend it at first. It had to be a burgler or some psycho. I looked around the rest of the house. Checking every cupboard, every crevice. Nothing. I felt stupid but relieved. I just wanted to get back to bed, to forget this whole embarrassment. I flung myself back down on my bed, closed my eyes for just a second. I sat back up. There was no way I’d fall asleep unless I double-checked that I locked the door this time. I mean I was sure I had done it this time but I felt this was justified paranoia.
I got to the door and twisted the handle roughly about a dozen times, each time feeling the resistance of the lock. I smiled. Safe. I turned on my heels to go back to bed. But it was just a glimpse, a flicker of something in my peripheral vision that sent me swinging back into a panic. A shadow from the kitchen. I rushed in only to be confronted by my normal kitchen, bathed in moonlight. I sighed, questioned my sanity and decided that this, the longest night of my life must end. I went towards the bedroom once more. Another odd shadow crossed my path. As a shiver travelled down my spine, my tired mind braced apathetic denial and decided that it was probably the neighbours cat passing by the moonlit window.
I sat wide awake in my bed. Trying to lull myself to sleep. Counting in my head until I might eventually nod off. But everytime I closed my eyes that feeling of intrusion was still there. The hands of something unseen looming above my head. Every creak and every shadow filled my mind with the dread of my childhood. Those nights after being tucked in by my parents. Those same fearful thoughts of lurking terror. But it was nothing… right? More creaks. More movement in the shadows. I turned and pushed my face into the pillow. I felt something brush passed my foot which stuck awkwardly out from under my blanket.
I jolted upright, looking deeply into the darkness. Swirling shadows. The monsters. The boogie men. I felt around sheepishly for my phone. The dull light of the screen could put me at ease. Nothing on the nightstand and when my fingers roamed around the edge of the bed, instinctively I retracted them for fear of the unknown. I was alone but in the shadows I saw them, the monsters. Inky abominable beasts.
It was the only thing I thought could help me. I lunged from the bed directly at the switch. My palm slammed down on it and the room erupted into light. My eyes burned momentarily and I glanced round the room. Empty. Safe. Just paranoia. I shook my head and hit the switch once more. Climbing into bed in the pitch black. No shadows without my nightvision. But now I hear them. I can’t see them now. I don’t know what they want but I know I can’t leave. The rituals have failed. They’re on the other side of this blanket and all I can do now is hope that they’re gone in the morning.
//
Credited to Chris Stewart

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A Parent’s Love :
We were all there that day. The day they released him. Me and Kent, Bonnie and Simon, Nora and Anthony, Dustin and Patrick, and Darlene. We didn’t bring the kids. I think it was Nora’s idea to leave them at home. And it was Patrick’s idea to go watch the release. Chad Lamb strode from the prison, wearing the smirk that had won us over six long years ago. He stopped at the gate, spotting us. Dustin waved. Darlene raised a finger to her throat and slowly dragged it across in the classic execution motion. Lamb scowled, exited the gate, and turned west, heading for the bus stop. There was an empty lot across from the prison where we waited by our cars. Lamb, I was happy to see, continuously checked over his shoulder as we watched him walk away. He wasn’t afraid, but he was cautious. When he disappeared from view, Nora said flatly, “It’s time. We need to go to her now.”
Three years ago, the kids had started having nightmares. They woke up crying, but would refuse to say why. They’d started making up excuse to avoid going to school. And they’d reacted with fear around Mr. Lamb, their charming, engaging new teacher. Finally, over the summer, Patrick and Dustin had taken their adopted daughter Yuan to a consular, who’d convinced her to open up. Lamb had touched her. Had touched several other students. With a little more pressing, Yuan gave a few more names. Dustin and Patrick had gone to their parents, gone to us. It was hard. I didn’t want to believe it, but Stan had been so scared. He’d evaded us, refused to answer the questions at first, but finally broke down. He’d been convinced he’d get in trouble. So had Violet, Eddie, and the twins Tyler and Beatrice. Lamb had done a real number on them. The police had been wonderful. Slowly, gradually, the children built up their courage to testify. My stomach twisted as I recalled Violet breaking down in tears on the stand in court. Poor, sweet Violet. Then again, Violet wasn’t sweet anymore. She went from a shy, helpless seven year old victim to a ten year old black belt with a mean streak. Six year old Kayla had the meanest, toughest sister in school. If only Beatrice had been so strong. Once again, I thanked God it hadn’t been my Stan. Then felt horrible for the thought. I heard the car stop, and looked up. We were in front of her shop. I could see the other parents waiting in front of the emerald door. “Come on.” Kent said wearily. “She hates it when we’re late for our appointments.”
The shop was crowded with books, animal bones, statues of gods and fairies, strings of strange plants, and several ancient weapons. The glass counter at the back separated the public shop from the private meeting room. Darlene trudged to the counter and hit the bell once. A black curtain, emblazoned with purple eyes, was pulled aside, revealing Coda. “Heya parentals! Today’s the day, ain’t it!” Coda was always cheerful, no matter what. He had long, sharp teeth, and nails to match, with eyes as yellow as candle flames. If I’d cared, I might have wondered what he was. The boy wasn’t human. She had confirmed that. “I’ll get The Bone Woman, ‘kay?” Coda offered, disappearing back behind the curtain. “Come on!” He called, and we followed. As we always had. Nora had found her. I never asked how. The Bone Woman’s might had been proven to me, and her effectiveness was all that mattered to me. We each took our usual seats around The Bone Woman’s table, and waited. Eventually, Coda returned, leading his master by the hand. The Bone Woman’s glass eyes gazed sightlessly over us as Coda gently helped her into her massive, throne like armchair. She had a thick book, bound in a shining white material. We’d seen the book before. She’d shown it to us the first time we’d visited her. The Caligo Veneficus. The Darkest Magic. One of only thirteen in the world. Bound in the flesh of a murdered priest, the stitching done in human hair, taken from a mother who died in childbirth, and the ink it was written in mixed with the blood of a hanged man. “Are you sure?” She asked, breaking the silence. “We’re sure.” We said in unison. She nodded grimly, flipping the book open to a page near the center. The Iratus Motuus. The Angry Dead. Nora and Anthony looked grim and determined. Bonnie put her hand on Nora’s shoulder. “Are you sure, honey? Completely sure?”
“This is the only way to put things right.” Anthony said, and Nora nodded. The Bone Woman shooed Coda away. “I will need the item.” She said as he left. Nora reached into her pocket, and removed a silver necklace. A heart shaped chunk of aquamarine winked cheerfully in the fire and candle light. Anthony swallowed, tears in his eyes, as soon as he saw the necklace. I remembered that necklace. Beatrice’s favorite. She’d been wearing it even when they found her in her room, hanged by her belt. A news article proclaiming Chad Lamb’s coming release from prison clutched in her hand. Nora regretfully handed the jewelry to The Bone Woman. The shaman took it, inspected it, and nodded. “Her soul has left a mark upon this object. It will work. It will call to her.” Coda came back, holding several bottles, cans, and herbs. He dropped these unceremoniously onto the table, and then turned to a shelf in the room, fetching a brass pot from it. He set this on the table too, and vanished again.
As we watched in silence, The Bone Woman went to work. She seemed to not need eyes to identify what was what. She seized a decanter of dark, red wine, pouring it into the pot, and began to chant. Three yellow rose blossoms, a pinch of salt, seven rabbit bones, a lock of red human hair, a handful of grave yard dirt, snake fangs, on and on and on. The brew began to smoke and steam without being boiled, and The Bone Woman’s chanting grew faster and louder. I heard Beatrice’s name sprinkled in the foreign chant. Lamb’s name as well. Finally, she reached the finally stage of it. “Arise, my child, arise, arise, arise! Your killer now walks free, and justice has done not its duty. The time of justice is gone, now comes vengeance. Arise, my child, arise, arise, arise!” There was a burst of sound, and lavender smoke poured from the pot, filling the room and blinding us. A tortured, horrified scream split the air.
The smoke cleared, and The Bone Woman looked at us gravely. “It is done. She shall be waiting for you at the agreed upon place. Go to her. But, Nora, Anthony, be warned. This is not your daughter. This is an instrument of revenge and unholy justice. Remember that.”
The coffin stank. And the body was disgusting. Why did she get this gig? She’d wanted a fresh corpse. The body slowly reassembled, stitching itself back together via the Shamaness’ dark magic. The Bone Woman. Ah. Her. One of the strongest. Soon, the hands were fully reformed, and she’d slammed upwards, tearing open the coffin’s cherry wood lid. She pushed up, up, up, through the soft, icy Earth, and into the midnight air. The throat fixed itself, and she gulped down oxygen. She didn’t need it, but it felt nice for the body. She pulled herself up, settling her feet on the frosty grass. She knew where to go. She rolled her still repairing shoulders, and walked. Heading for the iron gates, down the dirt road, towards an abandoned barn that her master had ordered her to proceed to. “They, shall, be, waiting.” He rumbled.
The white dress was tattered, torn, the lace slightly yellowed. She’d lost a shoe on the trip up, and the another on the walk down the hill the grave was on. It was two hours to the barn, and the legs were stiff. The arms swung limping, the feet shuffling and shambling. It grew to be too much effort to keep the mouth closed, and she let it fall open, the tongue lolling out. She felt restless. She wanted to rip, tear, kill, devour. She wanted to get the job over with and go home to the fiery, sulfur-scented fields of home. The crumbling barn appeared, and she vaguely spotted several cars parked. She grimaced. Damn. Late. As she approached, she heard shouting. “The damn witch cheated us! Nothing’s here! God damn it Nora, how could you—“ She got to the door, reached up, and ripped it open. Nine living humans looked over at her, startled. One of them took a hesitant step forward. “Be-Beatrice?” The human whispered. She said nothing. Only a raspy moan for an answer.
The human drew back, gathering together, whispering. “What did she say for us to do?”
“Uh…We send her to Lamb, I think. Yeah.”
“Okay, okay.” They broke apart, and another one approached. “Es…es vos iratus…mortuus?” He fumbled out uncertainly. His Latin was awful, but she nodded once. She pulled back the blackened lips, showing the sharp teeth granted by the spell. She held up the hands, the black, claw like nails casting shadows. She gave another raspy, hungry moan, and one of the humans burst into tears. “Send her away, send her away.” She wailed. The one before her pointed back out into the night. “Chad Lamb.” He said firmly. “5831 Carmen Lane. Soon. Within a week. Understood?” She nodded, moaned, and turned, shambling away. Some instinct, evolved from the earliest days of her people, led her back outside, towards town. She did not run. She had time. So much time.
She took back roads, moving like a shadow through trees and backyards, quickly approaching Lamb’s house. She got hungrier with every step. She needed to eat! Good, she was sure the nose was picking up his scent. Finally, thank you high dark master, there was the house. There was her meal.
Chad was still up. On his computer, surfing his ‘special’ sites. Thank God that the American government still hadn’t started monitoring what registered sex offenders looked up on the web. He was so engrossed in a newly posted video, that he didn’t hear the back door open. Nor did he hear the sound of dirty, cold feet padded across his kitchen floor, through his front hall, up his stairs, down his hall, stopping in front of his closed office. He did finally hear the office door open, and looked up. “WHAT IN THE HELL??!!” Beatrice Mastin was standing in his doorway, standing in at him with puffy, sticky eyes. She smiled at him, her dirt stained fangs filling her mouth. She shuffled through the door, holding out her arms, curling her claws in and out. Chad fell off his chair, his pants around his ankles, scrambling backwards, until her ran into the far wall. Beatrice reached him, and stopped, staring down at him.
The girl, from far away in another world, asked her to say something, and she complied. After all, fear made the meat taste better. “I’m hungry, Mr. Lamb.” The man’s screams were almost as sweet as his skin.

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The Vegas Illusion :
When going to Las Vegas, ride the rides from places like New York, New York and the Stratosphere, gamble away your money in a drunken state on a few hands of poker, or take a complete stranger back to your expensive hotel room. Or perhaps you’d prefer a magic show from Cirque Du Soleil or David Copperfield? I would suggest this option for your first night in Sin City. Real magic is to be found in Vegas, but not on the Strip, oh no. For a true experience that will make you believe in the realm of magic, you must seek out master illusionist Mephisto Centurion.
To see his astounding performance, drive off the Las Vegas Strip past the airport, and keep going until you reach desert. Be sure you make this journey after midnight, for Mephisto’s act is only to entertain the nightlife. Once it seems like you’ve made a wrong turn, stop your car, get out and peer across the night desert. You won’t see anything at first, but then a hotel shrouded in darkness will catch your eye. Leave your vehicle behind and approach the hotel in the distance.
You will notice that no lights are on in this hotel, but don’t be fooled, it is plenty occupied. Walk up to the hotel’s entrance and knock on the glass doors, which will swing open. The entire lobby will be dark, and no one will be there to greet you, so bring a flashlight as you enter the building and make your way through a large, empty casino, following the signs hanging from the ceiling that will direct you to the hotel’s theatre. While there will be no one around, if you get the sense that you’re being watched, you’re correct, but don’t let that feeling hold you back. Continue to follow the signs until you come to two large, golden doors with many faces sculpted on them.
These doors will open for you, and to your surprise, you will find an enormous, bright theatre filled with hundreds of people you didn’t even know were there. It will be a full house, but one seat will still be available in the front row. Take it, it’s yours. Once you are seated, the lights will dim, the curtains will open, and the great Mephisto Centurion will appear in a flash of light onstage, dressed entirely in black with a cape, top-hat, and a long, black beard and mustache. He will have a wide variety of tricks up his sleeve that will astonish you, so try not to blink.
The beginning part of his act typically consists of card tricks like making a card float in the air right out of the deck, or making the card appear on the other side of the room. Something even more mind-boggling is when he takes a real sword and impales himself right through the stomach. This special trick isn’t even performed inside a box, it looks like the sword is actually going through his body, and he’ll pull it straight out and be just fine. He can also make real animals and automobiles disappear and reappear at his command. His talents are endless.
Fire will accompany many of his acts, and you will find yourself cheering and applauding with amazement, but in the back of your mind you’ll be thinking that nothing you saw actually happened in real life. Once this thought crosses your mind, Mephisto will ask for a volunteer, and point directly at you. He tells the audience that he will make you disappear, how can you resist such an honor to be part of his legendary act? A spotlight will shine upon you, and the whole audience will join in to give you encouragement. Stand up, and get onstage where the real experience will begin.
You may have seen disappearing acts before, and you’ll probably think that a trapdoor will open, and then Mephisto’s assistants will help you back to your seat while everyone claps for you. Instead, you’ll feel the most intense rush of your life. Mephisto, at nearly seven feet tall, will loom over you, and inform the crowd that the trick is about to begin. He’ll have you tell everyone your name and what you do for a living, then he’ll have you stand atop a platform and wave his hands at you while chanting words of an ancient language. At a certain point during his speech, you’ll notice his eyes glowing an eerie purple, and before you can scream, a beam of white light will engulf you.
After the light comes the darkness, but it only lasts for a few moments before you’re flying through a wormhole at a very fast rate beyond your control. It will be quite a thrill, so don’t close your eyes. When you reach the end of the wormhole, the next thing you know, you’ll be soaring high in the air above the Stratosphere, and an invisible force will keep you up there. The feeling of the wind will make you realize that it’s not a dream. Don’t be afraid to swoop down over the Vegas Strip that glows in the night.
Enjoy this flying sensation, don’t even question it, just have fun while you can because it won’t go on for too long. Before you know it, you’ll be teleported inside a lion’s habitat at The Mirage. A lion will wake up and approach you, and you’ll run for your life, frantically searching for an exit, but there will be none. The ferocious beast will eventually have you cornered, and ease in for the kill. In fear, you’ll curl into a ball, shut your eyes and prepare for the end.
When you open your eyes again, you’ll be in a dark room with a wide opening at the top. You’ll realize all too quickly that you’re standing inside The Mirage’s volcano, and the show is about to start. You may scream loudly in hopes that someone will rescue you, but it will be too late. A ball of fire will come for you, and there will be no way to escape it. Just seconds from your impending doom, there will be another flash, and you’ll be back at your seat, sweating and trembling as you suddenly hear clapping from everyone in the theatre.
Mephisto knows your journey was intense, but he was there with you the entire time to guide you along your way. He welcomes you back and thanks you, then he bids the crowd farewell and vanishes. Converse with the crowd, if you wish, then make your way back through the dark lobby. As soon as you exit the hotel, there will be another flash, and then it will be morning, and you’ll be in your own hotel room with no memory of how you got there. That’s when the realization comes that the magic trick isn’t over… and it never will be.
Don’t bother looking for this place in the daytime, you won’t find it. If you look up Mephisto Centurion online, all that exists will be a single article titled: “Vegas hotel burns; Illusionist goes missing.” This article was written in 1960, only a few days before the famous El Rancho hotel burned down, which was a far bigger story. The hotel was called The Vegas Illusion, and Mephisto’s act was the main attraction. Little did the audience that attended know their entertainer was completely out of his mind.
He committed arson that night, burning the whole place down with the intent of taking himself with it. Many guests fled, but some did not make it out alive, and their remains were never found. Mephisto, real name Albert Torrance, worshipped an ancient god who promised him great power if he sacrificed his body, and he would do it in the most dramatic way possible with one show. Now he has abilities you can’t possibly comprehend, and he’ll be entertaining you for all eternity.
You can ask for help from the people around you, but they won’t hear you because, well, you’re dead. You died the second you got out of your car and stepped into a dark abyss that consumed you. There was never a hotel, there was never an audience, there was only HIM, and his beloved act. How do I know all of this? I am The Creator of the Magic Realm, I am amongst you, and I invite you to the show of a lifetime. I promise that my dear apprentice will make it all worthwhile.

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So Cold :
Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Bartholomew Jackson and I desperately need to get this story out by any means necessary. Your belief on the matter that follows is not required, but I would indeed appreciate it if you were to bear with me. I’m afraid I must inform you that your convictions on the paranormal may be challenged throughout my tale, but I assure you that all of it is quite true.
I was born on the southeast side of the Appalachian Mountains in eastern Kentucky in a mining town that has long been abandoned since then. On the exact hour of my birth a large portion of the coal mine on the outskirt of town collapsed. Fifty-seven men died that day, including my grandfather and two of my great uncles. The reason for the collapse was undetermined and declared an act of God by the local church.
As unimportant as this anecdote may seem, keep these facts in mind as we continue. Once I was released into my mothers care our family packed up and headed to a cabin on the opposite side of the mountain range that was inherited from our family patriarch’s untimely demise. A few uneventful days passed at our new home until the night of December 21st.
It was an especially cold night, snow was falling in legion outside and had all but blocked the road into the nearest town. My mother was cradling me in the crook of her arm while she slept, as per usual, and awoke to the sound of tapping. Attempting to rise and glance at the window my mother found that she could move nothing more than her eyes, as I’m sure you can imagine this fact alone was terrifying. The tapping continued until her gaze found the source, on the adjoining doorway that led into the living area was a set of fingers darker than the night around them gracefully tapping alongside the wooden frame.
Frozen in place my mother flinched as the fingers slammed onto the frame with enough force to cause the wood to creak and groan. Time slowed to a halt as a tall, lanky figure stepped into her bedroom. It’s body was entirely… black does not do it justice, the entity’s form seemed to be the antithesis to light itself, except for the eyes. Luminescent glowing pools of amber regarded her dismissively and focused upon my tiny form, my mother fought against whatever force was paralyzing her with all her might at this point but to no avail.
It shimmered out of focus and reappeared , standing silently next to my mother and I. Hours, minutes, seconds… my mother cannot recall how long the entity stared upon my sleeping form. Suddenly the creature moved with incredible speed , grabbing her arm (my mother shook involuntarily at this recollection when she told me, “So cold, so cold” she said) and almost gently placed it on her chest staring into her eyes.
It waved an arm in the space above me, and the moonlight that had been streaming in through the windows was blotted out. At this point my mother blacked out, and did not wake until the next morning. Finding herself able to move she threw back the covers and checked to see if I was still among the living and without harm. I received a single scar from that night in the shape of a five pointed star.
It has been twenty-five years to the day since that terrible night. Over the course of my entire life I’ve been experiencing harrowing nightmares and hearing murmuring voices when I’m alone.
The nightmares and I’m starting to have holes in my memory, whatever this is I think I’m running out of time. Anyone with knowledge on pagan or satanic rituals please contact me at bartjackson@ ohmy,whathavewehereacryforhelpthereisnohelpforthisvesselwearelegion.

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Fallout 3: Numbers Station :
Fallout 3 contains several in-game radio stations. The most diverse and important station is Galaxy News Radio.
Many players of the evil persuasion know that you can kill Three Dog and he will be replaced by the technician Margaret. She is not a charismatic person and has very little it say, seeming to not enjoy her new announcing duties. She also never appears in person, and therefore cannot be killed. Once Three Dog is dead, you’re stuck with Margaret.
What most players do NOT know is that under certain circumstances, GNR will become a “numbers station.” A numbers station is a station that broadcasts an unusual coded message. Many of these exist in real life and some hypothesize that they are a nuclear retaliation control network. Simply check Wikipedia for more information about these odd broadcasts as they relate to the real world. Back to Fallout 3…
No one is really sure which actions are needed to hear the numbers station in Fallout 3. It appears that you must kill Three Dog, because no one has reported hearing the numbers station with him still alive. It also appears that you have to skip over the quest “Galaxy News Radio” where you help boost the signal so that the station can be broadcast further than just the immediate DC area. This is easy enough to do with either a speech check or simply using the FalloutWiki to look up where to go next and advance the main plot. Finally, you definitely have to destroy Raven Rock. This is the actual trigger to turn GNR into a numbers station, and it will remain such for the rest of the game. However, the vast majority of the players who perform these three actions still continue hearing the standard GNR broadcasts, so there must be several more requirements the community has yet to isolate.
If you’re lucky enough to have hit upon the right set of circumstances, just after destroying Raven Rock, you will get the message, “Radio signal lost” and a few seconds later, “Radio signal found.” You cannot, however, actually listen to GNR just yet because you didn’t boost the signal and are out of range of the broadcast at the exit of Raven Rock. Luckily, Raven Rock is situated in the mountains and is right near one of the few places outside DC that you can get high enough to catch the signal. So far, the confirmed location to hear the GNR numbers signal are:
Within the immediate DC area obviously…this is true for the regular GNR throughout the game.At the top of the ferris wheel at point lookoutOn the tops of some of the satcom arrays you can climb in the northwestern map area.On the roof of Tenpenny Tower, though this may be within normal broadcast range anyway. Feel free to playtest and get back to me on this.On the highest point of the broken bridge around Arefu…again, may be within braodcast range anyway.On some of the highest points of the mountain tops in the area near Raven Rock. This is obviously your easiest chance to first listen to the numbers station.
When you tune in, you will hear an old familiar voice…Three Dog, despite the fact that you killed him earlier. However, you will quickly notice that he does not seem to be “in character.” So I guess it’s not technically Three Dog, but just the voice actor, Erik Dellums. He reads a series of numbers in a monotone, depressed sounding voice. He always recites a list of single digits between 9 and 12 characters long. For example, “nine-three-seven-nine-one-seven-two-zero-three-four.” Hever never uses a multi-digit number like “eleven” or “forty.” These numbers are followed by widely varying lengths of Morse code. This is then followed by the song “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” All other music tracks seem to be inactive on the numbers station.
The Morse code was the easiest part of the mystery to crack, as the code is widely available and many people actually know it by heart. We quickly had a list of a great number of messages in English. Some sounded completely mundane and even comical, such as “Washed the car today, maybe Chinese for dinner.” or “Have you watched my YouTube video yet, I uploaded myself kicking bums in the nuts.”
You may be saying, “But wait, YouTube doesn’t exist in the Fallout universe,” and you are right. As far as we could tell, all of the messages sounded like they were based in our reality somewhere near present day.
Some of the messages, however, are quite sinister, such as, “The Queen has died today. The world mourns, as on days like these, we are all Brits.” or “I can’t believe they’re actually done it. Not long left. The noise. I can’t take the noise anymore. I have a pistol in the attic.”
Just recently, a player on the wikiforums noticed a message that brought to light the meaning of the messages. He was reading a thread that collected all known messages, transposed from Morse to English, and saw the line, “one-two-zero-five-five-two-eight-two-zero-one-zero. What are you talkin’ about? You’ll be missed.” He realized this referred to the recent death of Gary Coleman, and the quickly realized the numbers were the time and date of death. He immediately scanned through the messages to try and find more examples of this apparent future telling by a game that’s more than a year old. The next message he read shocked him and pushed him to enlist the aid of the others to decipher the codes. The message was “nine-four-five-four-two-zero-two-zero-one-zero. Accident in the gulf, several dead. Oil spill apparently averted.” He realized this was the BP explosion and the erroneous day-one assessment that the well was not leaking.
From this point on, all numbers will be transcribed as times and dates. All times were given in game in military format and remain so in this document.
Numerous members of the FalloutWiki message board began looking over the messages to see what else we could learn. We quickly found that most of the dates were after the game had been released, yet oddly some were from the past. “22:15 April 15, 1865 He’s dead and blame will probably be placed on that actor, Booth. Johnson better not cheat me out of the payment.”  This shed new doubt on the official version of the Lincoln assassination.
As the community quickly started piling up interpretations of the messages, the mods of the site summarily banned everyone who had posted in, or even read the thread. All reference to the numbers station was removed from FalloutWiki and filtering software was put in place to prevent reposting of any relevant information. A few people, however, are trading emails and slowly finishing the translation of the remaining messages and putting dates to the existing ones.
“The Queen has died today. The world mourns, as on days like these, we are all Brits.” 4:02 March 19, 2014
“Have you watched my YouTube video yet, I uploaded myself kicking bums in the nuts.” 24:16 December 24, 2012
“I can’t believe Britney’s actually won an Oscar!” 21:33 February 27, 2023
“I can’t believe they’ve actually done it. Not long left. They were warned, but they just had to keep pushing the boundaries of science. The noise. I can’t take the noise anymore. And the light, dear God! The Universe is slowly unraveling around us. I’m not going to wait for death. I have a pistol in the attic.” This is actually the only message not preceded by a string of numbers.
It may be worth noting that the latest date on any of the messages is 1:27 July 6, 2027.

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The Man At The Crossroads :
There is a certain road near the Everglades in Florida, which, if you drive down it alone in the rain, day or night, you will suddenly have a very real feeling of being completely lost. Your radio will turn to static, your CDs will skip, and your tapes will play slower than normal. If you try to find a map in your car, it will have mysteriously vanished. If you continue forward down the road for more than a minute, you will find that you can’t turn around, and everything behind you is pitch dark. There are no other roads and no other cars. Continuing down the road, you will come upon a fork with no signposts. In the middle of the fork, there will be a man, covered head to foot in various pieces of clothing. The only skin visible will be around his eyes, which will be bright green. You must get out of your car, but do not turn it off or close the door after you. You must approach the man, but stop at least three feet away. You must stand there silently, waiting for him to speak first. If you break the silence first, you will find yourself back on a main road, but you will die within 24 hours. If he speaks first, he will ask you what you require. Tell him that you need to know which road will take you to your destination. He will then ask you what you will offer him in exchange for his assistance.
If you offer him a ride, he and your car will disappear, and you will become the new guardian of the crossroad. If you offer him an umbrella, he will take it and stab you through the chest. If you offer him your love, he will take your heart still beating from your chest and eat it, condemning you to walk the earth without a heart, insane from the pain and loss. You must offer him your loyalty and kneel before him. If you do this, he will close his eyes and bow in return, extending a hand to whichever path will lead you back to safety. If you try to run from him, you will be dead before you reach your car, and your body will be found back in your car in some random location.

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Handbook for the Study of the Unknown :
Handbook for the Study of the Unknown, By Professor V. I. Hayworth
Chapter One – Beginning Precautions
There is an eternal problem that plagues those of us drawn to the study of the darkness. It is our innate humanity. For to the creatures of the darkness, human is synonymous with prey.  For the average citizen this is no trouble, because of a defense mechanism which has stood us in good stead over the thousands of years, and no doubt it is the reason that
humans exist anymore at all.  It is our ability to block from our consciousness all those things which are out of the ordinary. For all of these supernatural threats are far from ordinary, and to a one, they can only sense what senses them first. It is awareness which tempts and attracts them like the motion of a mouse’s tail attracts a cat.
These facts make the study of these creatures all the more perilous for those of us who take up the cause. Due to the rarity of humans who notice them, much less seek them out, we glow to them like beacons in the night.  While there is no way to block the light of our awareness, there is a way to disguise our human natures and thus be able to continue our studies in relative safety.
Before you begin your learning in earnest, it is vital that you perform this ritual to keep yourself safe on your journeys. It will also grant you certain powers which you will find invaluable as you continue forward.
First, you must summon one of them.  It is imperative that you select something small and weak, so that it does not overwhelm you. I recommend minor shades if there are no children in your household, as they are simple to control and summon, requiring only a small creature such as a mouse to distract them from attacking you. However, if a child is
present in the home they will ignore all other living beings and attack them exclusively. For this reason, despite the relatively higher risk they pose, full shades are preferable in such households. It will require a sacrifice of your blood to keep them from attacking, but it is well worth it. I have included the summoning rites for both at the end of the main ritual. Simply use the one appropriate to your situation.
Before you summon your shade, you will need to take a bath containing the following:
One cup of sea salt, preferably Dead Sea salt if you can get it.
Three drops oil of myrrh
One spoonful dragons blood powder (actually a resin product)
One handful of leaves or needles from the tree most common in the place you were born, preferably red gathered from around your childhood home.
Soak in this for at least a half hour, then towel off with a clean, new towel and put on clean new black clothing that has never been worn before, even to try it on.  Go to a place where you will not be disturbed, and make precautions such as locking doors and closing windows to preclude intrusion or escape.
Take a stick of white chalk and inscribe on the floor a circle large enough for you to lay down in with your arms and legs stretched out. Draw within this first circle the summoning sigils for the shade you decided apon. Scribe another circle around this, about six inches larger, and fill it with various protective runes, and another circle around this, which should be large enough for you to stand comfortably in. This you should leave blank.  Douse all light save for a single candle placed  on a shelf or table to the north of your circles. Place the blood or mouse at the southernmost part of the inner circle.  Also be sure to place a broom in the circle.
Stand in the outermost ring of your circle. At no point during the summoning part of this ritual should you leave this ring. You should especially not cross the protective ring till you are sure you wish to complete the ritual. At this point you should proceed with summoning your shade. Once it manifests and is preoccupied with the mouse or blood, observe it for a bit, it’s motions and attributes.
You must decide now weather or not you wish to continue. If you do, step across the protective ring into the center with the shade. If you do not, step out and turn on the lights, banishing he shade. Beware, however, if you shoes to back out now, for this shade now knows you, and is likely to lurk in the shadows of your home and will pose a danger if you are unwary.
If you have decided to continue, stand at the north point of your circle, between the shade and the candle, to cast your shadow over the shade.  Chant the following:
“Umbra, phasma, ater, animus, phasmatis, atra, atrum, univorsus! “
Continue to chant it repeatedly. Notice that the shade and your shadow are now starting to combine, the delineation between them softening, the shapes shifting. At this point the shade may begin to struggle. Pay no heed and keep going. If it breaks away now, it will devour you.  Keep chanting until it struggles no more and your shadow has settled back into its normal shape, though it will seem darker now.  You will feel a desire now to go finish eating the mouse or drinking the blood. Do so, as it will further cement the bonding.
You will find that you can no longer cross the protective symbols. Use the broom to sweep enough of them away to open the circle, and go blow out the candle. The darkness will no longer keep you from seeing.
From now on the creatures of the shadow will see you, but they will not notice your humanity. You will be able to see in the darkness, but the light will burn your eyes if you do not protect them. You will be able to go unnoticed in crowds, especially at night.
However, there are a few cautions. If you summoned a minor shade, you should avoid prolonged time spent in the company of children, lest the hunger of your phantasmal partner overwhelm you. If you summoned a full shade, it is advisable to avoid blood when in polite company, because you will have an overwhelming desire to drink it.  In either case, the only food that will tempt your appetite anymore will be meat; raw, and fresh, preferably still living. I have found keeping mice and rats to be a satisfactory method of keeping myself sated, and highly recommend the same.
Summonings:
To summon a minor shade:
You will need: 1 mouse in a small cage.
Draw lines radiating from the center of the inner circle, thirteen in all, alternating between capping them with a circle and an arrow head till you get to the last one, which should point to the mouse. This you should cap with a box and place the mouse cage within it.
Pick up the candle and put your hand between it and the inner circle, casting a shadow on the floor in the middle of the summoning sigils. Walk clockwise three times around the circle, attempting to keep the shadow in about the same spot. Chant the following as you circle:
aliquantulus umbra adesdum
You should see as you circle, a small shape coming out of your cast shadow. Complete the full three circles, then stop and hold absolutely still till the creature has fully emerges and flows up the line to the mouse. Continue the ritual as outlined above.
To summon a full shade:
You will need: 1 empty bowl, 1 knife sharp enough to cut you.
Draw a rough shape of a human being on the floor within the inner circle. Mark the head with a circle, the hands with triangles, the feet with rectangles, and the center with a nine pointed starburst. Place the empty bowl within the circle at the head.
Pick up the candle in your left  hand , standing with your right hand towards the circle.This should cast your shadow on the floor in the middle of the summoning sigils. Walk clockwise three times around the circle, beginning and ending before the bowl. Chant the following repeatedly as you walk:
grandis umbra adesdum
You should see as you circle, a large shape coming out of your cast shadow. Complete the full three circles, then stop and hold absolutely still till the creature has fully emerges and flows up the line to the empty bowl. It will then rise till it stands as tall as you.  Do not speak to it. If it speaks, do not respond. Look deeply into the spot where it’s eyes glow red, and cut your hand, holding it into the circle just enough for the blood to drip into the bowl. Once the creature bends to drink, proceed with the ritual as outlined above.

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The Ritual :
I don’t think there’s a college that doesn’t have its share of legends. Stories range from the ghost of the girl who was pregnant with the football coach’s child to the creature that roams a building at night. And everything is said to kill you in the most horrible fashion if you run into it, of course. My school, Miskatonic University, up in Maine, was no exception.
In addition to the obligatory ghost stories of the suicides and murder victims still haunting the grounds, there was a story of an evil creature that liked to torture its victims by scaring them for days on end before killing them. The thing is, you have to call this monster, invite it to hunt you. The monster is called Achildes and it feeds on the terror.
Yeah, that’s brilliant, call up an otherworldly horror to come and torture you.
But there were tons of people who did this and they didn’t die. It was some sort of rite of passage. Frats and Sororities had it as part of their initiation ritual. They would take the new kids out to the old run down building on campus.  Despite its sorry state, it still was usable, there just weren’t any classes being held in it. That wasn’t common knowledge, though. The members would send the pledges in and have them call up Achildes. The pledges would do the ritual in the men’s bathroom and then someone in a mask would jump out and scare the bejesus out of them. Most of the time the kids would run screaming out of the building, sometimes they would go deeper into the building and get lost. Which meant that all the lights would have to be turned on and a search would go on until they were found.
What a great way to get people into your frat, give them heart attacks and/or mental issues.
Then my friend Tiffany told me and my girlfriend, Alexia, that she had found the actual ritual and where it was supposed to be done. I didn’t really want anything to do with it, and neither did Alexia. We told Tiff not to do it, that it’s not a good idea to mess with things that aren’t of this world. Of course, she didn’t listen. I remember when it happened, it was at the end of November…
It was a dark and stormy night…
I was lounging on the couch in the apartment that Alexia and I shared just off campus, playing Mass Effect for the twenty-eighth time. Alexia was sitting at her desk nearby, playing some Facebook games on her laptop.
“Remember that ritual Tiffany told us about?” Alexia asked me,
“Vaguely,” was my muttered reply.
“She has a status saying that her, Mark, Tonya, Steve, and Jeff are going to perform it tonight. That was about 3 hours ago.”
“What time is it now?”
“9:27″
“Wonder if they’re still alive.” I wasn’t taking it seriously.
“Probably not.” She said in a similar tone to mine.
A while later the phone rang. It was right next to me, but I was shooting people, so obviously I couldn’t answer it. I quickly checked the caller id. “It’s Tiff,” I said as I tossed it to Alexia and went back to shooting people, but with the volume down a bit more. I didn’t really pay any attention to the call, I was too busy trying to snipe some mercs, and Alexia had gone into another room. Not sure how long the call lasted but it was long enough for me to get out of that area in the game.
“Find a save point,” Alexia called out to me, “We’ve got to go get ‘em.”
“Why?” I asked, saving and shutting down the system.
“They did the ritual and are scared out of their minds.” She replied as she put her coat on and grabbed her purse.
“Okay, so where are they?” I grabbed my coat and keys.
“The old mental hospital.”
“Why am I not surprised?” We went out to the car and started towards the old mental hospital that was just outside of the warehouse district of the city. Alexia reminded me what Tiffany had told us about the ritual.
The location for the ritual has to be a place where great fear has been felt – the mental hospital was perfect for that – and at night with no lights on. You have to have 27 black candles and, after arranging them in a specific pattern, light them. Then everyone who is participating in the ritual has to stand in the middle of the symbol that the candles form and start chanting a challenge to the demon. And you have to use its actual name, not Achildes, which is the bastardized version of it.  It takes 27 times of saying the chant for it to work. If it works, then the candles are supposed to go out and then you have to run for your life because the creature/demon/entity/thing is now hunting everyone who took part in the ritual.  Supposedly this thing feeds off of the fear that is generated by its hunt and it will try to terrorize you for days before finally killing and eating you, not necessarily in that order either.
From what Tiff told my girlfriend, it succeeded.
I didn’t believe that some creature had been summoned from the ether to wreak terror on these dunderheaded college students; I figured that someone was playing a prank on them. I mean, they posted it on Facebook, for crying out loud!
It didn’t take long to get there, only about 15 minutes and that was due to hitting every – single – stoplight on the way. It was still raining hard when I parked in the old asylum’s lot. No lights were on in the parking lot and the big building was completely dark. The only sources of illumination were the street lights and the occasional flashes of lightning. We got out into the cold rain, using the small umbrellas we kept in the car as protection against the weather. I pulled our flashlights out of the back of the car. A 3 D Cell LED Mag-Lite for Alexia and a big 6 D Cell Mag-Lite (called Bessie) with the ultra-bright Xenon bulb for me. With our flashlights in hand we headed to the building.
The front entrance wasn’t locked so we stepped inside to the lobby. Alexia tried to call Tiffany but the reception was horrible. The only thing that she could make out was, “It’s coming for me.”
After hanging up, Alexia looked at me and asked, “Time to search, shall we split up?”
“Sure,” was my reply, “That way it can eat us easier.”
“Good,” She said. We both looked around, “I feel like I’m walking into a horror story. Shall we skip to the end and just go down to the basement and-”
A scream from upstairs cut her off. We both headed up the stairs that were in the main lobby of the asylum. There was another scream, one filled with even more terror than the first one. It sounded like it was on the third floor, so we ran that direction. It took a moment on the third floor landing for us to catch our breath. Neither one of us was in good enough shape to really run, much less run up 3 flights of stairs. As my girlfriend and I were wheezing on the landing, my light hit something big and odd looking, but it vanished just as quickly as I saw it.
Tiffany was on the floor against the wall right next to where I saw whatever it was. Alexia went over to her as quickly as she could. Tiff grabbed Alexia and sobbed against her. I continued looking around; keeping an eye out for whatever it was that had run off.  Finally after a few moments, Tiffany regained some composure.
“What was that thing?” I asked,
“It was Arke…” Tiffany started to say but was cut off by Alexia.
“Don’t say its name!” She said to Tiff.
Tiffany nodded and continued, “It was the creature that’s summoned by the ritual.” She managed to finally stammer out. I looked at Alexia and she had a very concerned expression.
She looked up spoke in the tone that she uses that I knew better than to argue with, “We need to leave, now!”
“Got to find the others.” I stated. “No way we can leave ‘em here.” We both helped Tiffany to her feet, “Alright, we stick together and search for the others.”
We began searching, Alexia staying right next to Tiff. The beast already knew we were there so there was no need to remain quiet. We moved through the halls of the 3rd Floor calling for our friends.
We heard the sound of someone running from down the hall; I shined my light and hit Steve right in the eyes with the bright beam. His face had no color and his shirt was covered in blood. I caught him as he reached us and practically collapsed.
“It got Mark,” He stammered out between breaths. “Ripped him in half.” Steve grabbed me and started screaming, “WE’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE!”
“We’ve got to find Tonya and Jeff.” I told him, “Calm down, we’ll get them and then get out of here.” I tried speaking to him in a calming tone.
“They’re probably dead already!” Steve shouted, “Let’s just go!”
“We’ll be fine if we stick to-” Alexia started saying but was interrupted by a blood curling scream that came from below us. “That’s Tonya!”
I was already starting to run towards the stairs when Steve grabbed me, “NO, IT’LL KILL YOU!”
“We have to get Tonya!”
“SHE’S AS GOOD AS DEAD!” Steve shrieked in my face. Then we heard Tonya scream again. I grabbed Steve’s arm and started dragging him along with me as I began the decent down the stairs.
“If we stick together we’ll be fine!” I told him. Steve tried to fight against me, but I’ve got quite a bit more muscle than he does, so I was able to drag him down the stairs. I let him go when Tonya came into my light. She was still screaming and was trying to get up from the floor, which was covered in blood, as was she. She managed to get to her feet when I saw her, but a leg came out of the darkness and slammed into her legs causing her to fall back to the floor. I noticed that the leg wasn’t attached to anything. I managed to run over to Tonya and shine my light down the hall where I saw it.
It stood over 7 feet tall and its skin was dark and shiny. The thing’s mouth was large and vile looking. Its eyes held a terrible presence, burning terror into my very being. In one of its grotesque hands was Mark’s body, what was left of it, and its other hand pulled the last limb, an arm, and threw it at us. I ducked under the arm and grabbed Tonya, hauling her to her feet.
“RUN!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, shoving Tonya toward the stairs. I heard the thing laugh as we ran down the stairs to the first floor. The exit, we just needed to get out of the building.
I was the last in line as we hit the first floor. Steve was first to the door and tried to open it, it wouldn’t move. Alexia shined her light on it revealing a glob of black goo stuck to the doors, preventing them from being opened.
We heard the laughter of the creature. It was on the stairs, coming for us. Steve took off down one of the hallways that went off of lobby and the rest of us followed. I looked back behind me and shined my light; the creature was following us, scuttling on the walls.
That was not what I wanted to see.
I turned back to make sure I didn’t get separated from everyone else, but I knew that this thing was going to catch us soon if we didn’t manage to get outside. Steve ducked down yet another hallway, continuing to run at a breakneck speed with Tiff, Tonya, and Alexia right behind him, and I was at an ever increasing distance behind them. I heard Steve hit something before I rounded the corner, a door leading outside!
“It’s locked!” Steve wailed, franticly trying to get the door open. “I can’t get it open!” The girls caught up to him and started trying to help get the thing open. The door had a window in it, one with the metal netting in it to keep people from breaking in, or out. Somehow we had made a few turns and I could see into the parking lot, our cars were just a little ways away. Salvation was just one door away.
I skidded to a halt as I reached them and looked back behind us; the monster was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t see the thing.” I called out.
“Maybe we lost it?” Tiff sounded hopeful, almost pleading.
“No, it knows where we are.” Alexia replied. I took up a position to be able to keep a look out as they worked on getting the door open.
The door was at the end of a short hallway, with rooms to both sides and the crossing hallway a little ways away, so I knew that it only had one way to come to get us. I stood, shaking with fear, watching for this thing to come for us.
Mark’s head rolled into the intersection and stopped, his lifeless eyes looking at me, his face frozen in an expression of sheer terror.
I screamed.
So did everyone else.
I heard Tonya and Tiff start sobbing, Alexia was whispering something, and Steve just started pounding on the door.
As I stared at Mark’s head the bulb on my flashlight popped, plunging the intersection into darkness. Looking back I saw that Tiff and Tonya had dropped to the floor and were holding each other, crying uncontrollably. Steve had stopped pounding on the door and also went to the ground, curling up in a ball. Alexia was staring at me with wide eyes, her flashlight still on.
“LOOK OUT!” she yelled.
My gaze returned to the intersection and no more than 8 feet away from me was the creature, illuminated by Alexia’s flashlight. It was unlike anything I had seen before. Seeing it from a distance had spared me the full view of this thing’s horrific features, but this time I saw the whole thing in detail. The creature’s shiny black skin was stretched taunt over its skull and its mouth was full of vicious looking teeth.  I could smell its breath, the scent of death.  Its arms were misshapen, unnaturally long, and too thin for its size, with large claws at their ends.
But its eyes were the worst, vile dark pools of malevolence. I stared at them and saw what this monster was going to do to us; I could see the horrors it was going to inflict dancing in them.
I screamed in terror and it screamed in joyous laughter. It stepped towards me, its tongue sliding over its thin lips, dripping sickly green bile. Fear shot through my entire body and my mind no longer worked. I was so filled with terror that I could no longer think and this creature knew it, its evil grin broadened.
Then its head violently snapped back.
The creature brought its face back down level with mine and I could see that it was angry. I shrieked again as sheer horror filled me. This time the beast was struck down as my nonworking flashlight slammed into its forehead. It reeled backwards from the blow and came at me, trying to rake me with one of its large claws, and it fixed me with its terrifying gaze again. Terror flooded me again, causing my mind to step out of the way one more time and let my body take over. Ducking under the misshapen limb, I smashed its wrist with Bessie, and grabbed the creature with my free hand. Kicking thing’s leg out from underneath it, I took the monster to the ground.
That was when the terror turned into rage.
This time when its eyes met mine, I saw fear and confusion in them. I’m sure it saw the rage in mine. I brought Bessie down onto the beast’s shoulder and Alexia smashed the thing’s knee. Repeatedly, we pummeled the thing, using our flashlights as clubs, until I brought Bessie down onto its skull one final time, cracking it open like an egg.
I don’t know how long we stood there, but when I finally regained my senses the police were there. All of us were questioned and I know they didn’t believe our story. A group of Federal agents arrived and took over the investigation. They convinced the police that it was an emaciated gorilla that we had killed and I wasn’t going to argue. Heck, Steve, Tiffany, and Tonya actually believed the story after a bit. Only Alexia and I remembered what happened. They found Jeff; he had been strapped down in one of the electroshock therapy rooms. Guess the thing was going to save him as a snack for later.
Alexia and I were given the option of assisting this Federal agency. I can’t go into the details, but we said yes.

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Tunnels :
Before I begin, there are two pieces of information you must consider.
Have you ever noticed that whenever a mirror is reflected into another mirror, after multiple reflections it begins to fade into a darker and greener infinity? The mirror can be cracked or completely unblemished; it simply does not matter. The light will always disappear and greenify the deeper the reflection tunnel runs. It is not wise for one to purposely create these tunnels, but for the curious, which I’m assuming you are, they are at least very interesting.
Secondly, yes, you’re doppelganger does live as your immediate reflection on the surface of the mirror. The good news is they are harmless. They live as you do, as clueless to as you when they see you in their reflection. Why should they question your intentions when they have none themselves? They live with as much or as little peace as you do in a single reflection.
It need not matter the day, place, or position of the moon for this to occur, though the darker it is, the easier it is for them to approach. It would also be a good idea to note the precise time at which you begin for reasons that will be made clear later. You must have two large mirrors facing each other with roughly one meter between them. Stand between them, and do not make a sound. In fact, the location you choose must be free from any extraneous noise. This is of the most upmost importance. They frighten easily, especially in the beginning. You must be able to see your entire reflection in the mirror you decide to face.
Count as many frames as you possibly can over your reflection’s shoulder until the greenness and darkness swallows the last remnants of the reflection. Depending on the amount of light in your location, this should take anywhere from ten to twenty minutes. Feel free to take your time. As your eyes strain to count the last visible frame, you should notice pale shapes emerge in the furthest green of the mirror tunnel before they retreat into their infinity again. This may just be a trick of the mind at first, but slowly you will begin to see them more and more frequently. Once they begin appearing at more and more regular intervals, you may notice an uneasy expression appear on your reflection’s face although you may feel your own face at ease. Step out from between the mirrors immediately at this point, exit the room you were in, and lock the door behind you. They have awakened.
If on the second day you feel as curious as the first, you may repeat the same process as described above. It must begin at the exact same time you had started the previous day, hence having write it down. Those things that you may have glimpsed at for only a few seconds may reappear more readily if you have earned their favor. Your reflection may appear a bit shaken, but that is only a trick of the mind and nothing you need to worry about. Once you have finished counting back as many frames as possible, blink only once to refocus yourself. You should not close your eyes again, not that you actually could if you wanted to. You may begin to notice that they appear not only in the darkest frame of the tunnel, but now in closer frames. You can’t make out anything that could be considered a face, give or take the blur of what could resemble teeth.
Don’t let your curiosity blind you. Looking for human similarities in them is fruitless, even though you will continue to try to understand them. If ever they appear in any frame less than 6 away from your own reflection, they have become too comfortable with you and you with them. They have become too beautiful to ignore. You have become too focused on them to notice your own reflection, pointing, warning you about the thing reaching through the mirror behind you.

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The Power of Gods IV :
Dear Anonymous,
I have received your answer and am glad you have shown interest. I know that the process seems daunting, but the opportunity that I have given to you is worth the risk.
I have outlined the instructions below, as promised. Follow each step precisely, and the power you seek will be yours. But first, I’m giving you a little background info that pertains to your task.
In Hindu mythology, there were great wars waged between the devas (gods) and the asuras (demons). Maintaining order and peace became impossible because the tide of power was in a constant flux. The devas and asuras would do tapas, which are practices that involved giving up pleasure in order to obtain siddhis, powers such as strength or invisibility.
Tapas usually involved menial tasks like yoga, fasting, tantras, meditation and the like. While the devas were more devoted to practicing tapas as a form of enlightenment, asuras would perform them long enough to obtain a siddhi and then abruptly stop.
Sukra, the teacher of the asuras, gave the asuras knowledge of different tapas and rituals to grow more powerful. Eventually, he was able to give them invincibility. The devas lost battle after battle against the asuras, and faced extinction. However, under the guidance of Vishnu, the Supreme, they were able to obtain the drink of immortality and defeat the asuras. Now, you may wonder why I told you this little tidbit of myth.
The asuras are real, and you’re going to perform a tapa to get a siddhi from them.
I have a few things to note before I start. You’re not going to be doing the upward dog on a yoga mat or chanting hymns. These tapas have more…exciting requirements that may repel those with weak hearts. This power is not meant for the meek.
Second, as I have stated earlier, the asuras were defeated in many of the great wars. While many died, some of the more powerful asuras are still alive. They are weaker than when they waged war on the devas, so their siddhis are much more accessible. You will attempt to gain a siddhi from one of them.
Finally, a word of caution; there is no turning back after the tapa. You may leave and forget everything – the power, the tapa, and this letter – before the tapa begins. Once initiated, the tapa cannot be stopped. You will either finish the tapa or die. This is not a threat from me, but a warning of what you will face once the tapa begins.
Now that you have been properly informed, please feel free to read on.
Your first step is to go to a local jeweler or charm shop to find a symbol of a snake. This can be an actual snake or just a fang. The symbol can be on a ring, bracelet, necklace – any accessory that can be worn. You will need to keep it on to begin the tapa.
Once you have found a suitable accessory, roam the streets until you come across a peculiar shop that you never noticed before. It’s a small, windowless establishment with a black snake on the door. A small peephole outlined in red will be above it.
Knock twice and hold your accessory, with the snake symbol visible, to the peephole. After a brief moment, the door will open and you will be greeted by a small, elderly women in gray robes. Return her greeting by saying “Namaste” and bowing slightly. If done correctly, she will usher you inside.
The woman will seat you at a large wooden table, and then sit across from you. Do not be fooled by her frail appearance – she is a rakshasa, a guardian of the asuras. If you show her weakness, she will either kill you or drive you insane to the point of suicide.
Do not tell her anything about yourself. She will trick you into reminiscing on a past memory or dropping a hint of the slightest insecurity. Her innocent small talk is an attempt to pry the fear from you, but you must not give her a single detail.
If she offers you food or drink, do not take it. If you start to feel tired and she offers you a bed, refuse. If she begs or pleads with you, ignore her. She will even shapeshift into hideous, monstrous forms to scare you. Do not show fear and do not scream.
Soon, she will know that you are serious and will ask about your purpose. Muster as much confidence as you can and say “I ask to be granted a siddhi from one of your asura masters.”
Afterwards she will guide to a large metallic door, inscribed with Sanskrit words. These are shamanic spells that are designed to keep you inside. This door is the final step before the tapa begins. At this point, you can still leave the shop unscathed. The rakshasa will not follow or impede you, as long as you make your decision quickly. If you choose to begin the tapa, she will wait for you to enter before closing the door behind you. Now the tapa will begin.
Inside the room you will find several things. There will be a small table in the corner. On the table you will find a crooked dagger and a small bowl filled with water. A single drop of water will fall from the ceiling and into the bowl on a regular basis. And you may also notice the man that is bound and gagged in the middle of the room.
Take the dagger and sit across from the man. Wait patiently until you hear a drop fall into the bowl, and then cut him once. Be careful how deep or precise the cut is. I recommend cutting his arms or legs, away from any veins. Do not mind if he squirms or yells while you wait for the sound of another drop of water.
Then you must cut yourself.
The tapa you are performing shows two points: that you can bear pain like an asura and revel in the pleasure of harming another being. In order to gain the siddhi of an asura, you must prove that you can act like one.
You must perform this tapa exactly fifty times; twenty-five cuts for both you and the man, with each cut getting slightly deeper than the last. Be careful with your cuts. You must make sure that neither of you bleed out before the last slice of the dagger. If you and the man survive, then you will notice significant changes on the last cut.
All of your wounds will quickly begin to close, and you will feel energetic and active. You may feel the need to prolong the man’s suffering, but you must kill him; these urges are common but can be controlled.
You’ll be strong enough now to completely crush the metallic door and let yourself out. Do not be surprised if the rakshasa bows to you as you leave.
Your body temperature will become higher than the average person, to the point where others will think you’re running a fever. But you will discover that you will not contract any sickness ever again and that you age slower and live longer than most humans do.
You may want to consider changing states after a few decades – people will start to ask questions about an eighty year old that looks twenty. You may not want to bother with a family, either. This power is not genetic, and they may grow suspicious of your youthful appearance or die long before you do.
I hope that you will enjoy your new found power. But do not meddle with the humans for too long.
Your brothers await you in the afterlife.
Sincerely,
Bala

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The Elevator :
In a dilapidated office building somewhere in Connecticut is one of the few elevators in the Western world that has a button labeled ’13′ amongst its choices of floors. If you enter after midnight, crawling through the loosely boarded up window on the South side of the building, you will find the elevator doors standing open, with soft florescent lighting and muzak spilling from it, even though nothing else in the whole of the building seems to have power.
You can, if you choose, pick through the debris of raucous teenaged parties and office meetings past. The path seems to be mostly cleared through the broken, dirty, stained and vintage office furniture and burned out joints, cigarettes and crushed beer cans, all the way to the light in the door.
All of the buttons work in the elevator, and will take you to its designated floor–despite the creaking of the cables–though there seems to be a layer of grime on their plastic covers. All but the button labeled ’13′, which seems to glow brightly.
No one’s quite sure if that one goes to the thirteenth floor. But there’s a story about a group of high school teenagers who had a party after their prom there, in the early nineties. A dare was made, and four of them piled into the rickety elevator, taking it to the thirteenth floor. When they came back down again, they were pale and shaking, but all of them swore they’d seen nothing more than a normal office floor, covered in dust and shadows. Two of them died in an accident on the car ride home that night. Another, three weeks later, took a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet, climbed into a hot bath, slit her wrists and dropped her hair dryer into the water with her. The fourth disappeared from the face of the planet two months later. None of them said anything of what they’d seen on the thirteenth level of the building, and when asked, would only ascertain (loudly, if necessary) that nothing had happened.
But you can, if you so choose, crawl in through the window and see for yourself.
Credited to Flea.

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He Waits for You :
As the dead of winter approaches, you may find yourself alone at night, feeling isolated and abandoned in an all-too-empty bed as the night grows ever bleaker. Ghastly shadows, dancing across the wall. The crying wind battering against your window. An ambulance siren in the distance. And there’s no one there to convince you that you didn’t hear those gunshots. There’s no one there. No one there.
But do not be afraid. He waits for you.
Wait for the moon to hide itself, perhaps behind a gathering of clouds. Midnight is the best time to do this. Just close your eyes and hold your breath as you leave your bed. You may open your eyes once you exit your bedroom. Get dressed if you like, because you’ll be leaving your house soon. Take nothing with you, except for what you can keep in your pockets. Then, drive out of town. Drive as far away from civilization as you possibly can. Eventually, the air will become still. Then a dense fog will form just a short way down the road. You will hear nothing but silence as you approach it. Let it consume you and your vehicle. No harm will come to you from it. I promise.
Do not be afraid. He waits for you.
The fog will lift. You will see a dimly-lit motel, stranded and alone in the night. Just like you. As you walk inside, notice that there is no one else there. The only sign of human inhabitance will be a small key on the front desk. Take these keys. Wander the corridors until you find the proper room. You will soon know exactly where it is. But you won’t know why. Use your key to enter this room. Walk in, and lie down in the bed.
It’s no more comforting than your bed at home. There’s nothing but pure silence for miles. Death hangs in the air all around you. And it’s so cold. You’re still alone. And frightened. But it’s okay. He’s frightened, too. And it’s just so cold. Cold enough to hold the pillow close to your body, burying your face in its softness and embracing it. Pretend that it’s a lover all you want; you won’t feel any safer. But you will feel… warmer?
Open your arms, lift up your head! The warmth… is his arms. Two twisted, mutilated arms, tracing down your body. There he is. And he’s frightened, too. You can see it in his blackened, spherical eyes, fixating upon your face and twinkling with the light of another dimension. The light shines in specks from beneath his parched skin, making him glow from the inside. Bruises cover his decaying neck, as well as deep, finger-wide indents. It’s as if someone had tried to strangle him. He sighs, and softly caresses your face. The skin of his hands begins to flake off onto you, and you want to sweep it away. But you’re stunned, completely stunned by this strange creature that’s completely enamored by you.
At least you’re not alone anymore.
You’ll then gather enough will to take your hands, and gently lift him off you, placing him to your side. You get a better look at him. His legs are disturbingly crooked, having been broken in so many places, and healed in ways that they just weren’t meant to. And he won’t stop staring at you. Small, glistening tears drip from his eyes. He shivers and trembles, trying to form words with his torn mouth. You can’t tell exactly what he’s trying to tell you. It doesn’t matter for now, anyway. He will want to touch you, to hold and to comfort you. Whatever pain you have ever felt from loneliness, whatever sorrow you may have felt in your entire life, he feels it. His tears fall onto you, and he lies back in submission. He will let you do anything you want to him. He knows that no matter what you do, it will never hurt him as much as what the others have done. It will never hurt him as much as the isolation he’s felt in this motel. As you gaze upon his twinkling eyes, you may gain a sudden urge to mutilate him, and punish him for existing the way he does. But please, be kind. He loves you, after all.
Spend the night with him. He’ll let you do anything, and he won’t be able to speak. But be sure to leave the room before sunrise. He will do everything in his power to keep you from leaving. He will grab onto you, cry, and scream at you. Tears will keep gushing from his glowing eyes, disintegrating his skin even further. But no matter how much you pity him, leave! Resist him, and leave! If you don’t, you will be forever trapped, and doomed to live the same existence that he does. Do not let him follow you. Just close the door behind you, and lock it.
You’re alone again.
Next thing you know, you’ll wake up in your bed at home, some time after the sun is risen. The events of last night will feel as if it were nothing but a dream. Everything in your home is where you left it last. Your car, your clothes, everything. Then, if you are lucky, something incredible will happen. Within a few days, you just might meet a new person. This person has everything you want, and it’s as if they were made for you. Within time, the two of you will fall in love. You will almost forget the ghoul in the motel, and forget about those glowing eyes staring at you. All that will matter is that you will be in love with this wonderful new person, and they will love you.
But once they move in with you, things will grow progressively stranger. As you lie together in bed, you might hear a faint scratching on the door, and an all-too-familiar cry. But do not worry, your companion will keep you from becoming too worried about it. The next night, the cry might become a shriek. The scratching will become a pounding. And only you can hear it. No matter how hard you try to convince your partner of what you hear, they will only tell you to go back to sleep.
And one night, you will notice that the noises have vanished. Nights will be peaceful again, and it will just be you and your partner. But from then on, you will constantly look upon your lover’s eyes. You will notice a new glow in their eyes, twinkling with the light of another dimension…
Do not be afraid. He’s waited so long for you.

Credited to Lindsay “HackerOnHacker” S.

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If You Lost a Loved One… :
There is a way that you can bring back a loved one after death. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. Death is final and cheating it always leads to bad results. But you’ll want to know anyway. Well, here you go:
Go to the cemetery that your loved one is buried in. This only works for those who’ve been buried, though (there’s probably another method for cremation or something, but I don’t know it). Make sure that you take the one material object that is most important to you with you. The emotion from this object, this sacrifice, will provide your power. Take it to the plot of your loved one and bury it over their grave. You don’t have to go very far down, so don’t worry about running into the slab or anything. Before you cover up the hole with your object, don’t forget to add a few drops of your blood to it. This imbues the ritual with your own life essence and… draws them in.
Then comes the final steps. Take a small handful of dirt from where you buried your object and swallow it. Disgusting, but necessary. This creates the link between you and where you need to go. After that, get yourself as comfy as you can and fall asleep upon the grave.
If everything was done correctly (and you get a bit lucky) you’ll awaken to find yourself standing at the gate of the graveyard. It will be dim, foggy, and you’ll notice a lack of color in this drab place. You’ll also see that there seem to be people wandering around the gravestones. Exactly how many and what they’ll look like will depend on the cemetery you went to, but I’ve never heard of a location not having at least a few dozen of them wandering around.
Whatever you do, stay away from them. These are the shades of those left behind from failed rituals or weak spirits drawn from the surrounding areas to the power of your blood and object. Even if you recognize some of them, do not go near them. They’re little more than instinct now and desire one thing above all else: life. They want another chance to live and crave nothing more, even if the shade’s mind is so far gone it doesn’t even recall why. And if one catches you, it WILL try to steal that life away from you.
They may notice you, they may not. If they do, evade them. It shouldn’t be too hard as they’re reflexes and control are not nearly as sharp as they used to be. Avoid them and look for your loved one. The person may be at their grave or wandering the walkway. You may even find them hiding, terrified of the scene before them.
When you finally see your loved one, stop. Don’t go near them yet. Call out the person’s name and wait. If the response seems genuine, everything is going as plan. If the response is delayed, quiet, distant, or not even present, then hold on. Ask, from a distance, what was the one thing the person hated in life. As these shades progress and their minds dwindle to nothing, some of the first things to go are the memories of the things they hated in life. Any bad memory that makes life seem terrible would slip away to be replaced by that deep desire to return to the living. If your loved one’s answer seems legitimate, take their hand and pray that you weren’t wrong. If you are, you may find yourself as a replacement shade wandering this foggy graveyard.
Be aware their hand will be cold. Freezing. Like grasping solid ice; but never let go. Even if your hand starts going numb and your fingers turn black, do not let go. After feeling that rush of life touching their hand and immediately losing it moments later, your loved one may not be able to resist the urge to take it all from you.
Take your loved one back to the gate, avoiding other shades as you can. More may notice you now as your living body is connected to their realm via your lost loved one. Be quick, be decisive, and DO NOT let go of your loved one’s hand.
Should you make it and step through the gate of the cemetery, you’ll find yourself back in the living world; however, this time your loved one will have rejoined you at your side, still clutching your hand.
To the rest of the world, it will just seem like your loved one went on a long trip somewhere and recently came back. Nobody will be able to recall where it was they went or what they did there (well, nobody except you and your loved one) but they will be happy to see the person’s return.
After this, I suggest that you never stay in one place too long. Keep moving, keep roaming. The more random your journeys, the better. The moment you start to see the sickly, pale look come across your loved one’s face or the bit of decay that might start forming on your skin, move. Death hates to be cheated, and if he catches up with you and your loved one, he’ll make sure that you both feel every bit of the rotting sickness that will build up in your bodies until your loved one once again falls to the grasp of death and returns to the cemetery. This time, however, they won’t be alone. You will be joining them.
Maybe you’ll get lucky, though. Maybe someone might make this journey for you. They’ll take your hand and drag you back to the world of the living… only for it all to start over once again.

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See The Light :
Back in the late Sixties, there existed a religious sect known as “The Process Church Of The Final Judgment.” Their core beliefs were that at the end of the world, Christ and Satan would come together, reconcile and begin to judge and execute the population. So, they worshipped both of them. While this information set people on edge, it did not deter people from becoming members of “The Process” and the church flourished throughout the sixties and seventies.
In that period, an increase was seen in missing children across the United Kingdom, the Mexican Yucatan peninsula and even in the state of New Orleans. Kids ranging from as young as 3 to as old as 10 were being taken on walks home, In their front yards and even sometimes from their homes In the dead of night. Bodies were rarely ever recovered. When they were…well let’s just say it was quickly established that it would’ve been better for the families to simply hold out hope for a safe return. What was done to these children was simply horrifying, every unspeakable act you can possibly think of in order to inflict pain was carried out. All children left completely blind, with a look of indescribable pain and terror on their faces if any were discovered by the authorities or god forbid…passers by.
Due to the satanic panic raging throughout the United States and United Kingdom at the time, most information regarding Satanic cults or missing persons cases were kept under lock and key so as to not cause mass hysteria. One particular incident caused so much havoc, it was feared that if brought to the publics light, it would shock the nation to it’s core.
On October 12th, 1975, A photograph was posted to the local authorities in 15 states in the USA & 5 counties in the UK, all receiving the same image, the one you see accompanying this story.
On October 13th, a normal middle class family in Essex was settling down for the night, when the father heard his son screaming from his room. As he darted upstairs, he found a man in a white lab coat, goggles and a modified gas mask towering over his frightened 7 year old son. The father reacted quickly and subdued the man before calling the authorities.
When he was brought in, he was identified as Rev. Michael Turnwell, though he had no records of ever living in the area, in fact the residence he was registered at was 300 miles away…what was he doing way out here? In his pockets, they found a bottle of chloroform, a rag, a switchblade knife and a small pocket book, filled from cover to cover with incomprehensible gibberish mixed in with citations from the Satanic verses, Diagetics & The Old Testament. When asked what the hell he was doing with all these items and his purpose for that young boy, he simply smiled wide eyed and said “I’m doing Gods work…they needed to see the light…”
Under further interrogation it was revealed he was a member of the Church of The Process, he agreed to show the police where the children were being taken in exchange for protection. Assuring them all the while that “The Children are fine, they’re with God now, they saw the light…”
Not fully understanding this vague reference, they persisted and got him to open up, this is what he told them:
“We knew that the children could be spared Judgment, for they do not understand sin, they are pure. But in order to be accepted into Gods loving arms, they first needed to see the light. So we subjected it to them with the God machine. Those that became blind or removed their goggles were…punished accordingly. Those that were not blinded were accepted into Gods flock, their souls escaping their bodies and their shells to be used as we saw fit, they were no longer harbouring any children…” He trailed off, giggling like a child.
“Those were our…toys to play with. And believe me, officers, we did enjoy our toys…even if they broke sometimes. Love the sin, hate the sinner.” He burst out laughing, the room seemingly shaking around him.
After a few moments, they asked him what happened to the children that turned around, as all the children positioned in this image were facing outwards. The Reverend gave a sick, twisted smile and said slowly, in an unnaturally deep voice:
“They are the ones who become part of HIS legion…who do you think carries on our work once some of us get caught or perish? We are everywhere, detective. We will bring all children to the light. You simply need to look West and you will know the face of evil.”
He suddenly leaned forward to intently stare at the detectives opposite him and asked sadistically “Tell me…do ”YOU” have children?”
He was found dead in his cell the following morning, having concealed a cyanide cap in one of his teeth. Some weeks following, one of the officers involved in the case lost their child, a little boy. He simply vanished one day walking home from school, his body was never recovered.
Serial killers Fred & Rose West were caught 19 years later on the 24th of February 1994 after a 20 year spree in which they raped & killed more than 13 people, including their own children. When Fred was interrogated, he mentioned that 20 children were captured & killed by himself, Rose and others he did not know of in a barn not too far from where they lived, when asked how he managed to capture all of them so easily, he simply smiled and said:
“It’s easy, when you live directly next to a Church.”

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The Eye :
It’s late. You shouldn’t be up like this, you know.
It’s not healthy, surrounding yourself in utter darkness, with nothing but a dull monitor to illuminate your surroundings, utterly defenseless. Your internal conscious could already be laughing at me. You could be thinking to yourself that you are entirely aware of where this is going. Well, it’s your funeral.
I’m here to warn you. In precisely four minutes and thirteen seconds, something will catch the corner of your eye. You’ll turn your head sharply, attempting to focus your vision. Your cat will slink past, wryly waving its tail. Your relief will overcome you, as you gently welcome your feline companion into your lap. In exhaustion, the poor animal will collapse, a purr of contentment filling the air.
As you continue perusing the internet, you will notice something strange about your pet. You look down, to notice a note has been tucked into its collar. It’s blank. You question this, but return to the internet. Your cat shivers, stretches, and jumps from your lap, scurrying off. The note, which you’ve conveniently placed next to your computer, begins to bleed with dark ink. You open the crumpled paper, holding it to the light of the monitor. It’s then that an illustration of an eye will appear.
It’s then you realize that you don’t own a cat.
Now, this is retribution. If you have any hope of saving yourself, find a scrap of paper. Draw the eye.
Turn off your monitor. Surround yourself by darkness. Don’t you dare close your eyes. Blink, and this will all be for naught. You will be dead before you even felt your eyes close.
Kneel. Fold the illustration, and place it within arms reach of you. By now, you should feel it on you. The eye will be watching. It will choke your breath. You must try. Utter the following: “I can see you.”
Drop the illustration, and return to your computer.
I’m sorry to say, the watchful eye will never cease. You will always feel it. It’s watching you now.
Nice shirt.

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The Mirror Box :
Though written about in fiction occasionally, the mirror box is quite an old invention. Being inside of one can be enlightening or traumatizing for the witness who bears its burden. The procedure is simple, though finding and preparing the materials required might take some time.
The materials to construct the box are:
-Six square metal sheets, slightly taller than the witness. The length should never exceed the height of a witness with raised hands. One of them should be larger than the rest by at least the thickness of the sheets themselves. The material should preferably be made of graphite or lead alloy for the most prominent effect.
-Five nearly perfect, aligned mirrors, sealed upon the metal plates. Each of the 5 will form the sides and bottom of the inner box. One larger mirror should be attached to the large metal plate, which will be used for the top.
-A simple light source of pure white or bright yellow. The light source should emit in almost all directions. Candles can be used, but carbon dioxide and monoxide poisoning is a problem. The light source should not be planted upon the mirrors or receive any outside energy. Construction techniques are left up to the witness.
-Two or three alarm clocks. An extra alarm clock of any kind is also needed. Watches are alright, but not suggested due to the small type face and hands.
-Wear simple clothing.
-Do not bring any other objects. Witnesses have often crowded the box, causing it to become either useless or highly dangerous. This includes jewelery, food, weapons, or religious materials such as beads and crucifixes.
-An assistant is required to help the witness in and out of the box and get help in case of emergencies. The assistant should be trusting and as strong willed as the witness.
-Two ladders
-Several Blankets, water, medical remedies, and a first aid kit.
When the box is complete and ready to use, prepare the alarm clocks to ring around ten minutes after the witness’ planned entrance. Depending on the material used for the box itself, the time of day will not matter, but a night during a new moon is suggested. Despite intuition, sound does not play a large role in the event. The witness should use a small unattached ladder to enter the box. The top should already be placed upon the box, with an opening large enough for the witness to enter. Once inside, the witness should be handed the light source and the clocks (one should be kept with the assistant). The outside assistant should ask sincerely whether the witness is alright. Once confirmation is given, the top should be moved to seal the box. The witness may turn on the light source once the box is sealed. At any point should the witness ask to leave the box (if soundproof, tapping should be used), ONLY the top should be opened. The witness may do it themselves, since the top of the box should be easily reachable. Once ten minutes are up, ALWAYS remove the top, regardless of what the witness says. Some witnesses may plead to stay inside the box, even suggesting great danger should it be opened. The assistant should never trust those pleas. Suffocation is only one of many concerns should the witness stay too long in the box. Once the top has been slid opened, place the second ladder in the box to allow the witness to leave. If the witness has any serious wounds, or discoloration, call for medical help.
Should you happen to meet a witness, never trust what they say about their experience, and never ask them for the time or where the antumbra meets.

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The Operation :
On the farthest point of Long Island, the last scrap of land that still counts as New York, there sits a tremendous, abandoned building. Protected by its own isolated location, there is also at any given time two to three Security Guards there. However, if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December 4th, you will see that on this night, even those few security guards refuse to work.
The gates are left unlocked, and the wind will be utterly still, a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula. Go directly to the main doors and step within, there will be a single long hallway, the end occluded by that fog. If you look to either side upon entering, you will see a modern operating room through a glass door. The further in that you walk, the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed.
When you can finally come upon the end of the hallway, the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening. The hall will terminate in an open door leading to a single wooden table where a man in woolen medical clothing, stained brown from blood, will be bent over a corpse. The body’s face will be covered, and the man will turn silently, screwing the top onto a cloudy jar of liquid, filled to the brim. He will hand this abnormally heavy object to you, before turning back to his work.
Instantly, you will be outside of those cast iron gates. From that point on, disease and injury will never affect you, but if you ever open that cloudy jar and pull out the contents… you will find a heart, pulsing and beating loudly in your palm. A sudden feeling of horror and revulsion will pass through you as realization strikes, that you have just pulled your own living heart from your chest.

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The Cigarette :
Go to any high traffic bathroom. It must be a high traffic bathroom; otherwise the room won’t have enough latent residual energy to carry out the task. A hotel bathroom is perfect. Make sure it’s after 12pm, and make sure you have 2 clove cigarettes. The stronger the cigarette, the higher your success rate is. Sit in the dark and begin smoking one of the cigarettes. Make sure there is a mirror present, and that you look at your reflection at all times. The burning cherry should provide just enough light for this. When you’ve smoked the cigarette within a 1/4 in of the filter, the room should be full of smoke. Your eyes will no doubt be watering, but don’t blink. Don’t take your eyes off of the mirror or your reflection whatever you do. To blink will make all you’ve done at this point for naught.
You’ll begin to notice that your reflection will begin to fade into black. The reflection of the cherry from your cigarette will begin to separate into two red eyes. The smoke in the room will begin to condense, and before you even realize it’s happened, a shade will be sitting on the ledge of the sink. He’ll ask you for a cigarette, which is why you’re instructed to bring two. Give the shade a cigarette, which will light itself once he brings it to his withered lips. At this point, you can ask the shade any question you want, and he’ll answer true. You can ask who shot JFK, who was Jack the Ripper. Anything you could possibly think of. Be sure to keep an eye on how much of the cigarette he’s smoked. When it gets to the point where it will only take a few more hits to kill it, the smoke from the other cigarette will begin to define more of his features, making him more material than ethereal.
At this point, stand up and snatch out his eyes in one sweeping motion. He should still be mostly smoke, so your hands should pass easily through his head. If you let him finish the cigarette he WILL attack you, almost surely taking your life in the process. The shade will begin screaming and cursing you and the hand holding his eyes will be burning intensely. DO NOT OPEN YOUR HAND! Even though the eyes are disembodied, they can see if they are out in the open. Run to the light switch and flip it on. This will banish the shades physical form and send him back into the ether. Leave the room and wait until 3:00 am to open your hand. The burning will be unbearable until then, but to do so will blow all the lights out in your house, allowing the shade to return and seek vengeance. You will have 4 burn marks on your palm when you open it. All cauterized of course, and mostly healed.
From then on you can never be in a dark room with a mirror, because the shade will be able to track you through the burns in your hand. He’ll have black hell dogs now, given his loss of sight, and they are far more terrible than the shade could ever be. The number of hell dogs depends on the strength of the shade you made contact with. After this, you’ll always be cold, no matter how warm it is, and you’ll be given the ability to perform minor miracles. Your dreams will always be nightmares, but in them, you will be granted a kind of third sight. You’ll never be able to see anything good, only the most horrific future events. And these events will only be known to you at a point where you can’t do anything to stop them.
A small price to pay for absolute knowledge.

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Salvation :
In Edmonton, Alberta, there is a hotel called the Canterra, off of Jasper Avenue and 109th Street. During the night, go here and ring the doorbell. Should you be let in, look to see who the guard on shift is. If the man looks in his mid twenties, yet the hair on his head and face both are white as snow, take a seat beside the security desk. If it is any other guard on shift, leave and return in a week’s time.
Here you must wait. The guard will say not a word, nor answer any questions you may ask. He hears you, but he will not respond. He will only give you a sad look, as if knowing something terrible awaits. When the time is 2:52 AM, the guard will rise to perform a patrol of the building. Follow him only on this patrol – if you follow him at any time before 2:52 AM, you will be forcefully removed from the hotel, and lose your chance.
Say not a word as you walk the halls behind the guard. He will check that the rooms are all locked, as well as patrol the stairwells. When you both reach the 5th floor, you will notice that it is remarkably colder than the last four. Yes, the floor is deafeningly quiet – it is normal. When the guard secures all the rooms on the floor, you will both stop at a door that seems much older than any other door you’ve yet seen in the hotel. This is room 512. Only this particular guard has access to this room, Take note of the key of which the guard uses to unlock this door – it will be important later.
At this point, the guard will open the room for you and allow you to pass through. It will be quite dark, but do not yet be afraid – the worst is yet to come. Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and step through the doorway. Do not open them until you hear the door close behind you, for seeing the transition can be maddening.
It will be almost unbearably hot, here. You will find yourself in a long hallway with numerous turns. There will be thirteen doors lining this hallway – do not open any of them. Take note which door has a splash of white paint on it, this will be critical soon. When you reach the end of the hallway, you will find yourself in the living room of the suite. In each corner of the room you should see a tall figure, each with burnt flesh. They should all be sitting on the floor, hugging their legs with their heads upon their knees and facing their respective corner. Their fingers will be chewed away until their tips are nothing but sharp, boney talons. Do not address these figures; do not touch them: they are Her guardians.
In the centre of this room, there She should be. She will be sitting in an old, ragged reclining chair. It is impossible to say how She will look, for Her appearance changes for everyone. She should, like her guardians, be asleep. Do not awaken her from her slumber.
For now, you have time to rest. There will be food and drink set out upon the coffee table in front of Her, and you are welcome to it. Do not partake in the pie, however, for it will numb your legs.
Should you be so bold, take a look outside the window. It will resemble a hellish version of the avenue which the hotel is on. The buildings will be burnt-out husks of their former selves, the river valley beyond will be dry and cracked. Fire will appear to be on the horizon, and the ever-burning sun will resemble blood set ablaze. Should you stay for hours on end, you will find no reprieve from the heat – there is no night here.
Now, look to the streets – you will find the same figures there as the ones in the room. They, however, are awake – shuffling, screaming and wailing from their back maws. They have no eyes in their sockets, but by some twisted means they can still see. Take care not to attract their attention, for they will follow you back to our world and this venture will be for naught.
When you are ready, stand before Her and speak clearly these words: “Save me, Mother, please.”
Say nothing else and wait. You should start to hear Her breathe.
At this point, one of two things will happen. Remember the key which the guard opened this room with? Should She place that same key on the table in front of you, count yourself lucky. Should She, however, place a different key upon the table, you will need to give Her an offering. A knife that was not previously on the table will now be present. The blade will be rusted, bloodied. Take this knife, and sever a finger, placing it beside the key. Wait.
If She places the same key as the guard’s on the table, you may take it and leave. If not, remove another finger. This will only occur a maximum of four times before the right key will be produced.
Once the key is in your possession, She will once again return to Her haunted slumber.
Now pay attention, for you only have a short amount of time. The Guardians will be stirring, now. Slowly they will rise from their sleep and turn in towards the room to face you. If they see you, they will slaughter you. Run. You have 10 seconds before they will fully turn from their corners.
Remember that door with the white splash of paint? That is the door you will need to use to remove yourself from this hell. If you hear screaming from behind you, the guardians are fully awake and are coming. You don’t have much time. Find the white-marked door, and get out!
You will find yourself inexplicably outside your own home, exactly a week after you entered the hotel. Keep the key on you at all times, wherever you go.
One day in the future, distant or near, a ragged old door with the number ‘777’ will appear wherever you happen to be. Use the key and open this door immediately. Leave anyone with you behind.
Wherever it leads, it will be far better than what is about to happen to this world.
Credited to T Striethorst.

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Dargaia’s Nectar :
If you ever find Dargaia’s nectar, you’ll probably be one of the ones who have been looking for it all their lives, and thus won’t need any instructions on what to do with it.
Just the same, it’s pretty simple, at least to start with. Make sure your affairs are in order (incase you have a bad reaction), and then? Bottoms up.
The coming months are the least pleasant part. You’ll find yourself unable to keep food down long before you’re far enough along to stop needing it. Same with sleep. The color of your blood will be off, and your veins will consequently stand out more. Expect a few ingrown body parts; little things, just fingers and ears and teeth, usually pressing up against the skin. Make sure you’re caught up on your booster shots because you’re never going in for a checkup again. Or wearing anything more revealing than a trenchcoat in public, most likely.
Eventually, a little cut on your belly will start ‘unhealing’, becoming a puss-filled wound in a few days. Over the coming week, three things will emerge from this.
The first object resembles a greasy black beechnut with maybe a tooth or two growing from it. When you’re dead someone will eventually find it and use it to make a new batch of Dargaia’s nectar. Hide it well, make things fun for future generations.
The second object basically looks like a softball-sized cluster of veins, many of them broken and leaking oily black stuff, all wrapped around something. Then it’ll squirm and you’ll notice the twisted little skinless fetus in the middle. It will only survive for about twenty seconds. Burn the remains.
The third object will—
well, let’s just call it “object 3″. It’s easier that way.
You can plant it anywhere you want. I advise some place where you don’t mind spending all your time and no one else would go. Your back yard or under your cellar works if you don’t have any roommates; as long as there’s fertile soil. Dig at least five feet down. It won’t want to be buried, but just keep piling dirt onto it (if you can still hear it when you’re finished you didn’t go deep enough).
Its veins (or roots, I guess) will eventually spread in all direction about a foot and a half for every year of your life. Grass and weeds will grow stiff and bony, or black and oily, or take on the color and texture of a spider bite, or rice paper. Wood will be infected too; you’ll hear the arteries in your walls pulsing on quiet nights. The ground will rot with dead insect and animal life. Don’t mow your lawn; it bleeds like hell.
This is your sanctuary.
No matter what threats or injuries beset you outside, here you will be safe and healthy. Well, what passes for ‘healthy’ for you now. And if you really hate someone, bring them here. Trick them into coming. They’ll get infected, one way or another; a lungfull of spore, a thornprick, a bit of residue on their hand. They will blood-vomit and the blood will have tiny centipedes in it. They’ll shit out their own spinal fluids. Their eyes will milk over and hatch; little spines and brambles will grow from the sockets. They’ll survive for months or years, doctors will be baffled, it will be completely fucking great.
That’s all for starters. You’ll learn more as you go. Much more. But if I told you everything now you might not do it.
Whatever you do, just guard it with your life, with your very soul. If you think you’re in danger of loosing it, dig it up, kill it with a silver needle, let someone else make a new one some day. You’ll feel as if you’ve pierced your own heart, but it’s better than letting it fall into the wrong hands.
Because you’re a Holder now.
And you’d better not let them come together.

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Scribblings In The Well :
These bizarre instructions were found etched into the wall at the bottom of an old well, somewhere in rural Germany. They have been translated to the best of my abilities:
Somewhere in Europe, there is an empty field of grass. Amongst the long, unkempt grass is a wooden hatch in the ground. The hatch guards an old storm shelter, but this is not your destination. In order to gain access to the alternate opening, you must spill your own blood over the doors. You will awaken at the edge of field; the doors will now be made of rusted iron. You may now enter the hatch.
There will be a long, narrow shaft stretching deep into empty darkness. You must climb down a ladder fixed to the northern wall, keeping your eyes upward at the opening.
If you are to glance downward into the darkness, then return your gaze upward, you will find yourself ten rungs away from where you started. If you look any longer downward, the echoing sound of someone climbing up the ladder will reach your ears, and a rotten, weather-beaten version of yourself will pull at your legs until you fall.
After an undetermined amount of time climbing down; your feet will reach a floor. Keep facing upwards, if you look at your feet; there will be no floor. You must now choose your path.
LEFT
Reaching into the darkness to your left, you will feel a cold metal plate mounted on a concrete wall. Keep your hand on this plate, within the course of ten minutes it will rise to an excruciating heat and your hand will be burned. Do not remove your hand until the plate cools once again and lights click on. You may now turn around.
You will find yourself in a long corridor, there will be a door corresponding to each year of your life on both sides. At the opposite wall will be a door marked ‘PRESENT’. If you enter this door, you will find yourself ahead in your life to three minutes before your death. You must find the door marked with the year that you found most fortunate. Should you pick the wrong door, you will relive that year, but every space in which you did not stand will be torn away to reveal fire beneath. When the year finishes, you will be back at the door, as if you had not opened it.
If you are to pick the correct year, you will enter an enormous space of undetermined size. Darkness will surround all but a straight line through the room. The door behind you will cease to be there if you check behind you. You must follow the lit path through this area for one hundred minutes. Along the way you will regularly encounter loved ones, trapped in rusted metal torture devices. They will beg and scream for you to help them. You must ignore their pleas and keep moving. If you help even one of these people; the exit door will vanish and never reappear.
Should you reach the end of this area, there will be a scratched door with your name engraved upon it. Enter this door and you will awaken in the storm cellar, the original form of this place. You may now leave.
RIGHT
Reaching to the wall on your right will yield different results. You will feel a warm, moist wall of soft flesh. Keep feeling around until you feel a hole in the wall, plunge your hand into it. After thirty seconds, you will be bitten and blood removed from your wound. Keep your hand there until the pressure stops. Your eyes will suddenly adjust to light you never noticed before, you may turn around.
You will see a long corridor paved with pulsing skin, flesh and muscle. On both sides of this corridor, you should see torn openings that stretch inwards deeply. Cool air will gently flow from each opening rhythmically as if it is breathing. At the end of the hallway, you will see a door marked with your mother’s name, awkwardly incorporated into the wall of flesh.
Never enter this door.
You must look for the opening from which hot air is breathed. If you enter the wrong opening, the tunnel will never end and you cannot return.
Should you enter the correct opening; the tunnel will become gradually wider and more humid. There will be hands pushing through from both sides, stretching the wall trying to reach you. Keep away from them, and do not turn around. Every so often you will find an ideal sex partner, sitting in the centre of the tunnel. They will beg you to stay with them, ignore them. If you stay with them, they will devour you from the waist up.
After one hundred minutes in this place, you will reach a hole leading to a far narrower tunnel, enter this hole and crawl as fast as you can. The hands can now reach you and will caress you gently from behind the thin flesh. If you stop, they will drag you down.
As you progress the light will gradually fade and your heartbeat will become louder until it reaches an almost deafening volume. Open your eyes; you will be lying in the foetal position on the floor of the storm shelter. You may now leave.
If you chose the left path; you will receive complete financial security until you die, but your hand will throb painfully once a day.
If you chose the right path; you will be considered popular and charismatic by everyone you meet, but you will be plagued by nightmares of the tunnel.
If you attempt this ritual twice, you will never awaken from those nightmares.

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Last Will :
This is my last will…I’m recording this now. I don’t have much time left. Well…not so much of a will, really. Everyone I know is dead, missing of seconds away from death.
I don’t know how it went so wrong. It was supposed to be something that would grant me eternal wealth, riches and longevity. Something that I heard was supposed to be how Caesar rose to power. Me being the idealistic man that I am, I decided to try it. The information was scattered far and wide. On top of Mount Everest, inside the 5001st paving stone on the Great Wall – everywhere imaginable. Everything fit together precisely and beautifully. This is how it works.
Go into the “slums” of your city and wait for midnight to strike. You must bring along three items – a coin that was made on the year of your birth, an object that holds music – like a CD, a tape or an MP3 player and the left eye from a two-week-old puppy. Stand on any street and wait exactly five minutes. If you did it correctly, there will be the sound of a single footfall behind you. You must then place the items on the ground, say your name aloud and then walk straight ahead for five minutes. Not sure what you’d do if there’s a wall or a bend in front of you. Follow the curve of the road or go around the obstacle maybe? Anyway, there’s no time to muse over the small details.
If you’ve followed those steps to the exact letter, you’ll get great power and life and all that in a couple of days. After that, you’re set for the rest of your life. If you didn’t…well, that’s where I am now.
Wait. Did you hear that? A sort of…squishing sound? Like wet…I don’t know. The mic on here probably isn’t powerful enough to pick up those sounds. After I didn’t get my wealth and power, I did some research on this particular ritual. It’s not some crappy internet meme like Candlejack or the strange Creepy Pastas on old rituals. It’s powerful stuff – old black magic. Old…as in really old. If what I’ve read is correct, this stuff was considered old when Rome was the only world superpower. Some of the reports have crude drawings of the thing that appears behind you. HP Lovecraft has nothing on those images. I’ve also read reports on what happens to those like me…the ones who fuck up.
Man, those are the worst Nightmare Fuel. Reports of people being found torn in half, their internal organs sucked out their eye sockets…and the reports of the people who are found alive. Their seemingly insane babblings and yells of unspeakable things. Of course, they speak them…rendering the whole “unspeakable” aspect a moot point. I don’t want all those to happen to me. That’s why I bought an old style revolver with me. It’s loaded with silver bullets coated with salt. The way I make it, if five bullets don’t kill whatever it is – the last one will go into my brain.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I guess I didn’t follow everything to the letter cause I got no power. After the research left me a quivering heap in my apartment, I began to slowly accept my fate. All of my affairs are in order. All my family…shit man, strangely…all of them died a few days ago. I mean, I was on the phone with my father, just talking about life and where I was going – when he screams and gurgles. It sounded wet. Really wet. I kept listening – trying to hear the killer…five minutes later I got nothing. When I went over to his place to see for myself…police were all over the place. Questioned me for a bit and then got me to id the body. Or at least…what was left of it. Christ; my old man didn’t deserve to die that way. All this death for a stupid wish. All my friends? Dead, or dying. I just came from the hospital. Pulled the plug on my ex. Literally. She was pretty torn up – again, literally.
I’m preparing myself now. I’m going to place this recorder inside this dumpster and leave the lid propped up. Hopefully whatever it is will make some sort of noise. Anyway, I won’t say my name here. You’d probably Google it to the high heavens anyway. OK, goodbye to everyone who is listening.
Save yourself.
Full recording of a tape found in an empty street. The only sign of the individual (John Doe) was a rather large puddle of blood near the far wall. Further investigation found said revolver – unfired. The last five minutes of the tape are transcribed below.
JD: All right you son of a bitch, I’m here. I did everything and you didn’t deliver! What the fuck is wrong with you? What the hell are you anyway?
(Silence)
JD: What? That doesn’t make a lick of sense! You can’t be serious! Step out of the shadows! I wanna see who I’m dealing with.
(A single footfall is heard)
JD: Oh Christ.
(Silence, then a scream that trails off into wet gurgling. Crunching sounds heard for the remainder of tape)
Forensics have found tracks leading away from the pool of blood. the tracks do not match any known human or animal on record.
Credited to LordRex.

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Gai Kao :
There are times in ones life where one feels unsafe. Insecurity permeates their being, and despite their best efforts they cannot quell the fear that builds within them. They seek some form of solace; a refuge against the tumultuous and unpredictable storms that seek to overwhelm them. Some weather the storm stoically, holding to some deep-rooted faith, divine or otherwise, that this moment will pass. Others lose what vestiges of their sanity remain, their paranoia evolving into madness…a thunder of sorts to match the lightning of this overpowering gale. But there is a third option, one known to only a few. The Taiwanese call it the Ritual of Gai Kao.
To engage in this age-old rite, you must first be riding the waves of sadness driven before this chaotic storm. When you feel you are at your most desperate, seek out a place that is often frequented by many people at once. The patio of a coffee shop, a bowling alley, an RV park…any place where the traffic of humanity has left the residue of souls. These are places of great power, and will aid greatly in your efforts. It is also easier to do just prior to 8:24 PM on October the 26th, as that is when the Kao is at his greatest strength.
Once there, sit calmly and engage in a mundane activity. Reading the newspaper, stirring your coffee, something like this. Do NOT speak to anyone, or your efforts will be in vain. You must be in a meditative state, engaging in only such mindless activities so that your mind can focus on the worry at hand.
Soon you will become keenly aware that the sounds of the world have dulled. The crappy coffee shop music is gone, the sound of crashing pins has faded, the engines of vehicles lost in the void. At this point you MUST look down. This symbolizes the approach of Gai Kao, the spirit of security, and to not show your reverence by averting your gaze will result in the most dire of consequences. From this point on you must do EXACTLY what I say. Do not deviate; I will tell you what will happen later if you do.
After a few moments, you’ll hear a heavily-accented voice bid you to raise you eyes. When you do, you will be looking straight into yellow, slitted reptillian eyes. Everyone else who was in the room will be gone; you will be the only one who can see this creature. Do NOT gasp in fear, and do NOT speak. The creature will have a yellowish-green, scaly hide and speak around a gross, oversized tongue in its mouth.
The creature will engage you in a few lines of small talk. Do not speak unless you are answering a question. If he deems you worthy, he will then tell you the remedy to all of your current problems. He will know you as well as you know yourself, though whether he is reading you thoughts or not is unclear. Feel free to ask clarifying questions during this time, but always begin your statment with “Great Kao”. NEVER, EVER thank him for his answers, or he will depart.
After he has addressed your every worry, he will begin to speak of nonsequitur events once more. This is important: DO NOT LISTEN. He will talk of things that interest you, offer to discuss real-life events, anything to get your attention. Instead, avert your eyes as before and wait for the noise of the room to return. Once this occurs, you may look up to find the room just as it was and no time will have passed. You may then go forth, and feel comforted.
But be warned! Should you in ANY way deviate from this process, and the Kao will put upon you a curse. This is a curse of degeneration; you will slowly regress the evolutionary path. You will sprout hair from your knuckles and brow. Your teeth will go awry as your jaw reforms and your forehead takes a neanderthal-like appearance. This is an insult from the Kao; a cut at your humanity and an insult to your intelligence.
If done correctly, your every care will be comforted and you will once again feel joy. However, from that day on you will feel the Kao’s presence upon you. He will observe you to note your contentment. You will never shake his gaze. The gaze of those large eyes. It will always feel like somebody’s watching you…and you get no privacy…

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Unholy Hour :
Perhaps you have heard the legend of the supposed “holy hour” that occurs on certain days of the year: Christmas, Easter, Good Friday, November 1, and the first of both February and August, each day between 7 and 8 am (not including Daylight Savings Time, mind you, because it is a human invention and supernatural entities do not observe it). When you were a kid, this was the hour in which you probably opened Christmas presents and started tearing apart your Easter basket after dragging your parents out of bed, and much to your parents’ chagrin refused to eat anything but leftover Halloween candy from the day before for breakfast; however, more than likely you had never gone into a darkened room in preparation for this ritual. However, perhaps you’ve heard others speak of it.
Go into a room with a mirror, preferably one without windows, between 7 and 8 am on any one of the dates listed above. You do not have to perform this ritual alone; if you have any friends, you may in fact want them to come in with you to help you perform specific tasks outlined that are difficult to do in the dark. (Important: The only light in this ritual must come from either a candle or a lighter – some tiny, flickering flame. Save for this light, you must be in total darkness – otherwise there is a strong possibility that you won’t see anything, hence the suggestion that you perform this in a room without windows. However, it all depends on your own sensitivity to the paranormal; when my friend performed this ritual last November 1, we had to shut all the doors in the hallway first because the light from the doorcrack kept distracting him.) Make sure that you perform this ritual in comfortable clothing – you want to avoid any unnecessary
discomfort.
Once inside this room, close the door and light your candles and/or your lighter. This/these flame(s) must remain lit until the end of the ritual, although I know of people who have chickened out and blown the flames out which instantly ends it and generally leaves them wallowing in their own cowardice for days on end afterwards. You may have your friend(s) hold or light the candles or lighter if desired, as long as the flame is reflected in the mirror. Now begin chanting some Christian prayer – any one will do, even the “Sinner’s Prayer” on the back of those Chick Tracts, as long as it mentions God, Jesus, or the Holy Ghost at least once – as you stare into the mirror. It must be the same prayer and, again, the number of times you need to chant this prayer varies depending on your own sensitivty to the paranormal, but generally twenty times is more than enough. (My friend chose Our Father, and he needed to chant it fifteen or sixteen times.)
When you have chanted for long enough, one of your flames will flare and then change color. (Ours turned red, but I’ve heard of flames turning blue, white, and even green and lavender before.) A few seconds later, an image will appear in the mirror of the archangel Michael – he looks a lot like the usual images of Christian angels, only he has this really nasty burn mark on the left side of his face. Also, he has really deep-set eyes.
Bow to Michael; again, it is important to make sure you don’t accidentally put out your flame(s) unless you wish to end the ritual. After you bow to him, Michael will ask you if you are entirely certain that you want to perform this ritual. I can’t really describe the voice, but it’s not the sort of voice you’d expect an archangel to have: it’s kind of scratchy and overall not very pleasant to listen to, and he has a faint accent of indeterminable origin.
After you answer yes, Michael will explain the conditions of the ritual: he will ask you seven questions, and if you answer at least four of them right, he will either allow or a conversation with a deceased loved one or give a living one immortality; however, if you answer three or fewer of them correctly, he will slit your throat and you will die right then and there. (I’ll admit that I actually do not remember any of the seven riddles from when my friend did this, but I do remember that they were rather arcane – i.e., not the type of riddles you would find in a riddle book – and he seemed to be fully aware of this. Also, if I remember correctly, each one consisted of seven words.) My friend never did well at riddles, so you can imagine that he didn’t get any right, which seemed to amuse the hell out of Michael, as by the end of the ritual he had this big, terrifying Joker-like smile on his face.
After you are finished answering the riddles (you only get one try at each, but he lets you think), Michael gives you the score. Again, if you answer three or fewer right, he smites you. While he smites you, he says something in the angel language – Enochian, I believe it’s called – and you’re left writhing on the floor in agony. My friend was screaming his head off when the ritual was over, and he started speaking in tongues; it was horrible and I’m currently in therapy for this. Really fucking horrifying.
But I digress. Anyway, the candles all went out, and the lighter he had me hold died at the exact same time. I left the room feeling dizzy, and passed out on my bed in my own vomit. Strange thing is I woke up eight hours later and went into the bathroom I performed the ritual in, and found no trace of my dead friend in there. Strange, I live alone and all my doors and windows were locked, there was no sign of anyone having broken into my apartment, the landlady was on vacation, and no matter how hard I looked in the bathroom I could not find a single trace of my friend’s blood anywhere.
A few days later, I got a call from his roommate, asking about my friend. According to his roommate, my friend disappeared on Halloween night and hadn’t been seen at all since. He had called all around, asking my friend’s parents, siblings, aunt, uncle, people like the guy at the convenient store where my friend bought his cigarettes, and even his old teachers from grade school if they knew anything about his whereabouts, only to get a resounding “no.” He decided to call me because apparently I was the only person out of the people both he and my friend knew that he hadn’t called yet. So I told him exactly what happened, down to my friend’s body mysteriously disappearing. He didn’t believe me, and reported me to the police, but, when the police came to investigate, they did not find any trace of my friend either, not even his DNA. It’s almost like he never came over my house and instead chose to fall off the face of the earth and leave his friends
behind.
On a side note, I’ve heard that someone in fact, by some miracle, did get all of the riddles right, and they wished for the immortality of whoever. However, the next day their loved one was not alive. They, much like my friend, were mysteriously spirited away, only this time on the wall of their room there was a message in some mysterious language, written in blood. Perhaps only God and the archangel Michael know what has become of the two of them.
//
Credited to M. Collins.

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The Gallery of Henri Beauchamp :
If you go into this one tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, and the right bartender is behind the counter that night, you might be able to see a very exclusive gallery show of the lost works of one Henri Beauchamp. But, to get in, you have to prove you’re a devotee of the artist to get in.
You’ll be asked, in clear and perfect English, “What would like to partake of this glorious night?”. Answer absinthe, no matter what. Any other drink, from whiskey to water, will kill you as you sleep.
The next question will regard the type, and you MUST answer one of two things: “The stuff that Man himself could not bear to take,” or, “The good stuff. The best stuff.” If you ask for any other absinthe, in any other way, you will be plagued by nightmares for 13 days. Each night’s dream will be more horrible than the last, until, upon the thirteenth dream, your nightmare will follow you, every moment of your waking and sleeping life. Don’t try and cheat the barkeep: the door locked behind you. You have to drink what he gives you, doom or not. That such a powerful man granted you audience should be enough. Besides, I’ve heard that the dying complimented his drinks in their death throes.
If you make it that far before sealing your fate, the bartender will say, “Be sure you handle this with care; this is the finest I have.” From here, you may do one of two things: Say, word for word, “I overestimated my fortitude, and I bid you good eve.”. If the barkeep nods, you may leave the door you entered, unharmed and with nothing gained and nothing lost (except the time spent inside).
Or you can go on. You will be given a glass with a seven-sided rim, with each side twisting ever so delicately around the basin until forming a sleek and simple handle. You will also receive a very, very, very special absinthe spoon, in the shape of a key; the holes at the key’s top serve as the draining point for the alcohol to pour over the sugar cube. And, of course, an unmarked bottle, stripped long ago of its label, scraps of paper sticking to its sides, covered in the rot of the decades past.
The spoon is completely flat, but has two distinct sides: one with a groove along the shaft of the key, and one without. Turn the shaft down, so its groove will be face down. If you attempt this face up, your absinthe will taste foul, your nose will burn, and your eyes will shrivel in their sockets with unspeakable horrors not of this world. Now, if your spoon is the right way up, begin preparing the absinthe as one would (put the sugar on the spoon, and pour the alcohol over so it gains its color and “special qualities”).
Say “cheers” to your friend, the barkeep, and bottoms up. If you don’t, the absinthe will burn every innard it touches with the power and pain of sulfuric acid.
If you’ve done it right, the already dim lights will go off, and darkness will consume the bar. Don’t be afraid; the darkness is the cue that you’ve been approved for the exhibit. Wait out the darkness, and keep silent as the dead, lest the bartender decide to make you so.
Eventually (not too long, two to three minutes), a green floodlight will shine brightly on a door on the far wall of the bar. The bar will be bathed in green, and not just from the floodlight. Little luminescent spheres will gently drift through the room, and the barkeep will no longer be there… nor any other unassuming patron inside before. There’s no danger by this point… consider it a safe point. If you didn’t finish the absinthe, you don’t have to, but you might need the alcohol. Either way, take the spoon and put it in the keyhole of the green-lit portal’s doorknob. It will fit perfectly, and reach the end of the keyhole with a resounding click.
Inside is a small elevator, with the most beautiful woman any mortal eyes can imagine, bathed in the green glow in just such an angle that the light refracts beyond her into the shape of wings.
The Green Fairy herself will ask you, “Going up?”, and considering all the trouble you went through, it would only make sense to say yes.
Now, you have one more hurdle to clear. She will ask you, as you cross the line from the bar to the compartment, “How would you compare Beauchamp’s surrealism to that of, say, Rene Magritte?” For your reply, you must say, “I’ve come to see more than art tonight.”
If you don’t, the green floodlight will blow out, the doors will slam shut, and the elevator will plummet through a seemingly infinite blackness before a rea light grows brighter as the elevator nears the very depths of Hell. Now, if your elevator begins to go up, the green light will also fade, but in its place will be the cool glow of the moon. But, before you even recognize it, the elevator will reach the top of its… well, let’s call it a shaft to not get too intricate.
Now, I’m not as sure about this as the rest, but I’ve heard that, if the Green Fairy kisses you on the cheek as she leaves the elevator, you will always be blessed with a creative inspiration: a permanent, ever-changing muse. You can’t ask her, you can’t kiss her; she has to do it of her own volition. If not… well, nothing, but no reason to do it anyway and anger the woman who is responsible for keeping the Beauchamp paintings safe for so many years.
You will enter, from the elevator, a turn-of-the-century parlor, with a large poster of Henri Beauchamp on the left side of the opposite wall; on the right is a door.
Taking the time to read the poster is a fairly good idea, as it explains the very significance of Mr. Beauchamp. You see, he was a struggling surrealist in the 1920s, always making art to try to be free of all premeditation, and managed to do so. You see, after one night in a tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, he began to paint… patterns. First it was geometric patterns. Then complete fractals. Then images that would be in the newspaper the next day. Then next week. Then from fifty years ago. 100 in the future, 200 in the past…
Then, on his last night of life, he kidnapped three young girls from their homes at night, murdered them, and painted his finest masterpieces in reds and yellows with the blood and bile of virgins.
He committed suicide immediately after painting exactly 13 of these.
These are behind the door.
The first six, from the left, show, from left to right: the genesis of the universe, the only true visage of God as viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Jesus Christ, the sprawling clouds of Heaven, every Pope from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of Jesus’ appearance in his Second Coming.
The other six, on the right, show, from right to left: the cataclysmic of the universe, the only true visage of Satan as viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Judas, the sprawling flames of Hell, every human-embodied demon from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of the Antichrist in his Second Coming.
Now, six and six makes twelve. But what of the thirteenth?
This thirteenth painting is turned around on its wall pin, the image facing the wall. The space around it is roped up at a very wide diameter, and under the flipped image is a sign, in three languages. The top is in the scriptures of the seraphim, the bottom in the runes of the highest demonic orders, and in the middle, in Roman letters.
DO
NOT
TOUCH
Now, like the kiss, I can’t say this part with as much certainty, but all the same… I heard that, somehow, as he died, Beauchamp flayed his skin, his organs, his very soul, into some sort of collage. How he took his dead body and created such a horrific masterpiece, I could never say, nor would I ever dare to.
So… if you make it, maybe you can flip the canvas over and tell me sometime? You can tell me about it over a drink.

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The Girl :
This is the story of a girl. She is no ordinary female, however. She is, at first glance, the most beautiful and attractive girl you will have ever met in your life. She has every trait a man could want. She has a magnificent body, a wonderful personality, an unbeatable sense of humor, a kind heart, and she is extremely intelligent.
There is but one way to make this girl yours, and you must follow these instructions exactly. It may seem a simple task, but it is far more treacherous than any tall, anorexic man with a complexion condition you may ever come to face in the woods or any pale faced, 17 year old Joker fanatic you could ever have the privilege of seeing at the foot of your bed. No this girl is much different. There are 8 steps you must follow precisely to make this girl yours, so precisely in fact that I would advise you to take this with you when attempting the trial.
1. Make sure its her. You don’t want to be performing some mystical trials you found on the internet to some random chick you thought was hot. She often roams outside flower shops, jewelry stores, and beauty salons, mocking those earthly and mortal possessions that will never be as valuable or fair as she. This girl will appear as I stated before. She changes with every man (or woman). To whomever she meets, she will be the most attractive person that individual could ever dream of. Upon approaching said woman, even her age will change to match the exact date, hour, and second of your own. Aphrodite herself wields no chance of competition. She will be wearing, regardless of the season, a light blue loose long sleeve shirt. She will have on black skinny jeans. The clothing does not have a brand. She is wearing two diamond earrings and a bracelet with several colored, pearl cubes on the loop. Every cube is a different color.
2. Approach her confidently. This is crucial, and I don’t mean that as in YOU’LL FRICKIN DIE IF YOU DON’T, but she may wave you off. All women like a confident man, especially the perfect one. When you get to her, provided that you look confident (not douche bag confident but enough), she will simply look at you and await your first words. You must utter this sentence exactly. “I have come to earn the perfect partner. Does she accept my trial?” If she does she will simply state “The trial has been accepted. It shall begin at [local restaurant name] at 8:00 PM.” If she does not she’ll just reject you. If you are rejected, you will never see this girl waiting outside any store ever again. She will leave your life completely, because although you thought you had chosen to interact with her, it was really she who had chosen you. You will, in turn, spend the rest of your life seeing every other girl as nowhere in comparison. You will live an existence of regret, depression, and self-destruction.
3. First date. You must arrive at the restaurant by 8:00 PM or you will never see her again. Don’t worry about reservations or anything. They are already placed. When you see her, be casual, confident, and friendly. It wouldn’t hurt to look good either. Don’t worry about the mystical talk anymore. Everything from now on will be as if she was just a normal date aside from a few exceptions later on. Be casual, funny, considerate, happy, and charming. Have fun, but above all, DO NOT MAKE HER SAD. To know how to get around this ask her “What elements of this world bring your soul pain?” She will list you everything that makes her unhappy, angry, sad, depressed, and just plain not happy. For the next nine dates you will need to know these. Feel free to list them as she tells you. It is crucial you don’t make her upset. If you do AT ANY POINT skip to the end.
4. You will have set up a second date by the end of the first one. If you didn’t then you have the wrong mythical girl, because this one will have set a second date. Do the same as the first. Just have fun. You may have noticed by now that she never seems to smile. She may smirk, but she never smiles. She even seems to laugh without smiling. This comes into play later. After the date is when things are at a make or break spot. She will tell you this “The time is right. Commit me”. She will then walk away as if nothing happened. Do not follow her. You must get back to your living quarters (house, condo, apartment, mansion, box ‘o’ shit, whatever you live in) as quickly as possible. When you get inside you will find a book and a vial full of clear liquid. Take these to a window where the moon is visible. Open the book. It will be full of pictures of the girl. in every photo she will look sad and depressed. if you look closely you should see small pearl trinkets, much like the ones on her bracelet, sitting next to her in the pictures. At the back of the book will be a photograph of the girl wearing what she was on the day you first talked to her. She will look neutral. Not sad nor happy, but neutral. Open the vial of the clear liquid. On that picture, drop one drop of the liquid from your fingertip onto where the girl’s heart is. Then take another drop and place it on your chest where your heart is. You must then douse the window with the rest of the liquid while the moon shines trough. Make a circle with the liquid with the moon at the center and stand in front of it. You must then say “I commit myself to the perfection and the perfection to me. Let the bond commence.” A single beam of moonlight will shoot through your window and hit you in the chest. As you fall backwards you may feel a slight sting as the liquid drop literally absorbs into your heart. The liquid on the picture will also absorb. If you go back to the picture now, you will notice that you are standing beside her in some generic cute couple pose. She will still seem neutral, but as long as you complete Step 5, that will not stay for long.
5. You will receive a call on your cell phone some time in the next week (if you don’t own a cell phone you’ll be shocked to notice that you do now). It will be her. Her contact will be listed as whatever name you find most desirable. The number she calls you from will be “1″. That’s it. She will ask if she can come over and watch a movie. Obviously you say yes. When she arrives, you will be greeted upon opening your door with a smile. A smile that could stop time, level mountains, extinguish the sun, set Antarctica on fire, end civilizations, and create world peace all in the same day. it will be the most beautiful smile you will have ever seen. Your soul will be filled with so much happiness that you will feel faint or intoxicated. You yourself will not be able to stop smiling in return. You will, to put in simple terms, absolutely love her. Eventually this will be interrupted by four simple words. “Can I come in?” You then go about watching the movie. Maybe make some snacks. At the end of the movie, she will get up and go for the door. Before she leaves, ask her “Was the bond accepted?” She will turn around, wrap her arms around your neck, and give you the biggest, deepest, and longest kiss you have ever experienced and will ever experience. When she lets go, she will leave. Feel free to pass out now from ecstasy.
6. Continue dating. That is the only objective right now. Remember to NOT MAKE HER SAD. This includes even insinuating sex. Until you have completed Step 8 you must always watch what you say or do. If you have EVEN ONCE skip to the end. She will begin to look different every time you see her. Her clothes will never wear as well the next day. Her hair will also fall different every time you see her. She will also never run out of things to tell you or discuss. Just go along with this step until the 30th day you’ve been together.
7. It is day 30. Upon arriving to your set date, you will notice something. The girl you once loved is now wretched and ugly, almost like a corpse. Her eyes are sunk back in her protruding forehead. Her skin sags from every inch of her body. She is grey. Her skin flakes off. Her hair is white wherever there isn’t a bald spot. Her frame is bony and hideous. You must complete this date as though nothing has changed. Love her as if she looked the same. If you upset her or have upset her skip to the end. It is the “True Love” trial. Get passed the looks and find her beautiful anyway by the end of the date, and you will be fine. When you take her outside after the date, you must kiss her once for at least 3 seconds on the lips. Her skin will then fall away revealing the girl you saw on the first day, beautiful as ever and beaming at you as she stares into your eyes. Feel free to the kiss her as passionately and as long as you want under the full moon (it will be full).
8. The final day in your test has arrived. You will know because you will awake and your heart will be glowing. Literally glowing through your chest (you’re not Iron Man don’t get excited). She will call you on your cell and say “Now is the time of reckoning. Are you prepared?” At this point, if you answer “Yes” things will proceed. If you say “No” then you will never see her or hear from her again. She will arrive at your house on the beginning of the next hour. She will enter and head straight to the bedroom (before you ask, yes this is exactly what it sounds like). Follow her. She will undress. You should follow. Then get down to business. When you both are done, the glow in your chests will become extreme, knocking you both out. When you awake, you will be infatuated with the girl, and she with you. This will wear off slightly after about a month, but you will always remain in the “honeymoon phase”. You can now say whatever you like. She is yours and you hers. Enjoy your life.
IF YOU MADE HER SAD BEFORE STEP 8:
Get to your home as quickly as possible. If you haven’t put the liquid in your chest yet then you need only burn the book that is laying on the table. if you have then this is where it gets tricky. You have to stab yourself in the heart. Literally breaking your heart will disable the bond. You must also burn the book with the pictures in it. Keep the blade in the wound to keep from bleeding to death and call 911. If you fail to burn the book (and break your heart if needed) within one hour, the girl will break down your door. Her hair will be jet black, along with her eyes and finger nails. She will be wearing nothing. She will begin to weep at your door frame. As the tears hit the ground they will engorge, transforming into streams of water, filling your house. The stream will burst into a river, sweeping you off your feet and bursting your lungs and stomach as the water floods your esophagus. As the waters consume you, your body will dissolve into them. When you are completely gone, the waters will recede back to the being at your door and slowly center at one spot next to her foot. When all of the water is finally gone, a small pearl trinket of unique color will be lying on the ground next to the girl. The next time a man sees this girl, she will have a new set to her collection, and the next time he goes in the book to seal the bond, there will be another picture of the sad girl standing next to the trinket.

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Altera militiae in anti christe :
Ever since I was young, I’ve been having this recurring nightmare. In it, I’m standing in a dark room, in the middle of a large circle with the symbol of an upside down star in it. A pentagram. The symbol of the devil. I look around confused, as I have no idea how I got there and realize all I wear is my boxers.
I see candles, skulls, but most of all, I see several people standing around me. All of them wear a hooded robe that covers their face.
As the dream continues they all lift their arms, and mutter various incantations which I don’t understand.
At the end of the dream, the tallest hooded figure, who I guess is their leader, walks toward me. Immobolized by fear, I watch as he comes closer. Closer. Closer. Until he is but a few inches from my body.
I hesitate as he pulls out a rather large ceremonial knife. Just when I think he’s about to stab me, he merely pricks his index finger with the tip of the knife, and proceeds to draw another pentagram on my chest with his blood.
And just as I am about to wake up, he whispers in a cold, raspy voice “Altera militiae in anti christe.” To this day, I have never found out the meaning of the dream.
Because of this nightmare, I’ve been sent to a counselor numerous times, and have even been sent to my local priest, but nothing has been concluded as to what is causing it. All I can do is try to ignore it.
A couple of weeks have passed since I had the dream last. I start to think, “Maybe it’s finally stopped.” Until today.
I was browsing Youtube for scary videos. I searched for just about anything. Ghosts, aliens, cryptids. Anything that could give me a good scare.
I had gotten to a point when I was just clicking on videos in the sidebar. When I saw one that nearly stopped my heart. It was titled, “Altera militiae in anti christe.”
I recognized the title instantly. How could I not? I began to contemplate if I should watch it or not. I pondered this for a good ten minutes before I had finally come to the conclusion to watch it. And as I waited for the video to load, a thought popped into my head. I quickly denied the thought and proceeded to watch the video.
Within the first second, I recognized it. The thought that I just denied could ever happen or would ever happen, happened. The video was an exact recreation of my dream.
I watched in horror as saw my dream unfold once again. Everything was there. The candles, the skulls, the hooded figures, and even me. I kept watching until I had finally gotten to the part that’s haunted me all these years.
I watch, once again, as the tallest hooded figure approaches me, stabs his finger, draws a pentagram on my chest, and whispers those dreaded words, “Altera militiae in anti christe.” His voice was exactly the same as in my dream. It gave me chills.
But as I thought the video would end, it continued as the tall man retreated to his previous position. He then grabs a book off an altar and begins to recite an incantation out of it. As he reads, I see myself slowly collapsing until I am on my knees and grasping my chest.
I am horrified as I watch myself scream with antagonizing pain. Just when I’m about to close the video and back away from my computer, I see it. I see the most horrifying thing I have ever seen in my life. I watch my spasmodic body turn lifeless as a demonlike figure bursts out of my chest. And just like that, the video ends.
I sit there, frozen. So that’s how my dream ends, or is supposed to end. My mind is struck with fear. I pull my trashcan in close as I vomit into it. I sit, staring at my computer screen, trying to make sense out of a million things. I’m not sure how much time passed before I moved. Minutes? Hours? I’m not sure.
But there was only one thing I made sure I did imediately. I pulled up a translation website and chose to convert Latin into English. I hesitated as I slowly typed in “Altera militiae in anti christe.” I couldn’t believe the words came up on my screen. My eyes almost burst out of their sockets when I saw that the most accurate translation it could give was: “The next host for the anti-christ.”

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Willow Men :
There’s a local legend where I come from. They’re simply referred to as the willow men.
There’s hardly a need for the law enforcement in this town. The willow men take care of all that. Every single step taken, every word spoken, every drop of blood spilt.. The willow men know about it before anyone else. Believe me, anyone that has invoked the wrath of the willow men has gone missing without a trace.
That’s why when I realized what I had done it was too late. The willow men were coming.
She just wouldn’t shut the hell up. No matter what I said and what I would do she was just hysterical. She kept pacing about the house screaming. She said she found this and that and knew I was cheating on her. She’d ask me who it was and I told her she was crazy. I guess I wore that excuse out. After a while, I couldn’t take her damn voice anymore. I’d walk room to room and she’d follow me. When we got to the kitchen I had my fill.
I reached for the first knife I could find and jammed it into her throat. The face of anger and sorrow melted into one of despair and disbelief. The crimson fluid ran freely all over her blouse and she dropped to her knees, scrambling around on the floor. She clawed at the tile and made gurgling noises which only served to infuriate me. I grabbed an iron skillet that had been pre-heating on the stove and took a swing at her head. A wet crack followed the impact and while I didn’t need to keep going I did.
I lost count of the number of times I hit her but I had a good deal of blood on me. What was left of her head was being held together by thin particles of bone and blood continued to rush out. I dropped the skillet to the floor with a loud clang. I wish remorse could have followed so I would’ve felt a least a bit human but it didn’t. I was just happy to be rid of her. With a grunt I picked her body up off the floor and hoisted it unto my shoulder. Her face hung next to me, dead eyes staring with conviction. I could only chuckle. As soon as I got outside, I dropped the ragged heap onto the ground and went to find a shovel. That’s when I knew they were watching.
I could hear the whispers from the woods and in the corners of my eyes I could see them staring intently at my every move. Whenever I would look up to the woods I would find only gnarled trees staring back at me. I knew they were there. It was dusk by the time she was good and buried. I was drenched in sweat and it had made the blood stains on my clothes expand and turn orange. I looked back up to the woods and I saw them peering from behind the trees. Long, gnarled faces with hollow eyes and gaunt figures. I could only half see the faces as they chose to hide behind their precious trees but they were there. Watching, whispering…
“What are you staring for, bastards?! You heard her! I had to do it,” I yelled at them.
Was I expecting a response? I don’t know. They just continued to watch me from behind the trees. I spit on the ground and threw the shovel down. They would come for me under cover of darkness and I wasn’t going without a fight. I stole away into the house and prepared. I pushed couches and dressers in front of doorways. I nailed wooden boards haphazardly to cover all the windows. As the sun crept underneath the horizon a great trepidation settled in the pit of my stomach. Was it honestly nerves? I hated to think it was such a powerful fear that I would start breaking into an ice cold sweat. I loaded up my shotgun and reached for a bottle of whiskey. I forced down a mouthful and then another and slammed the rest of the bottle against the wall in frustration.
One door I left open. It was the back door that stared out to the woods. I put a chair down in front of it and sat, shotgun in my lap. They were still staring at me. The willow men. We stayed staring at one another for three days. Eventually, exhaustion began to get the best of me and I started to nod off. I tried desperately to keep my eyes open. For a foolish second I propped my head up with the shotgun so that it wouldn’t fall. I snapped back to reason and lifted my head high. Last thing I wanted to do was shoot myself. Had I known what was coming I probably should have.
I pushed myself to stay up for a few more hours. The day came and went and it was the dead of night before I knew it. They persisted behind the trees. I began to rationalize that if I closed my eyes for a second, I could have enough time to open them while the willow men were coming at me so I could take a few down. Smiling I did just that. Of course, its’ difficult to tell how long you were asleep. Could be a second, could be for days. I opened my eyes again and found I was still sitting in my chair with my shotgun in my lap. I snapped up when I saw that the willow men were no longer behind the trees. I flipped out and held the shotgun up, darting around barrel first. I took a few steps outside and tried to control my heavy breaths. I shook damn near uncontrollably and found it impossible to keep the gun steady.
I began to calm down when I didn’t see anything outside and began to return to my post when I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt tears well in my eyes and something began to push up and out of my throat. The willow men were peering from around the doorway and the sides of the house. I froze staring at their gnarled up faces and branch-like hands. I had to do something. I pulled the gun up and fired off a round. It managed to take out part of the door frame but it missed any of them altogether. I popped open the shotgun and madly grasped for a fresh shell in my pocket. I successfully reloaded it and lifted the gun back up.
The willow men continued to look at me from where they had been. I took careful aim this time and fired once more. Another shot hit the doorframe this time although closer to the willow men. I fumbled for a third round and as I did, I saw a large shadow cover me. Looking up, the willow men were upon me. I screamed and closed the barrel down on my thumb effectively severing it. Immediately after that, I lost all consciousness and collapsed.
When I awoke, it was ice cold. My vision began to return to me slowly and I could feel that I was being dragged. My heart sank when I looked around. Darkness stretched as far as the eye could see and I knew I was in the deepest part of the woods. Where my thumb had once been was black and swollen and had managed to numb up to my forearm. My ankles were in severe pain too but I didn’t know why. When I looked, I saw that they had been clearly snapped and the willow men were dragging me by my feet. I began to scream as loudly as possible for someone, anyone.
All I did was cause more willow men to appear and watch me from behind the strangest willow trees I’d ever seen. Their trunks were small and looked just like leather. The earth around them was red and moist yet where I was being dragged was dry, rugged land. I looked up to the canopy and wish I hadn’t. Skinless corpses hung down, blood dripping freely to feed what I now knew were flesh-bound trees. My screams were swallowed by the dark and my throat gave out, hoarse from the strain. In the silence, I heard a faint moaning.
I looked around to see if there was someone else here. Maybe some poor bastard who suffered my same fate. To my horror, I discovered the source of the moans. The bodies hanging on the branches of the trees were all still alive. Soon, I too would have my flesh torn asunder and be damned to hang up there and feed the hungry willow trees. There was nothing I could but accept my fate. The willow men had me.

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An Eye :
The girl who pushed open the shop door was too young for the cane she leaned on. I examined her from under the brim of my dark baker’s boy cap.
I sat in my tall swivel chair behind the counter, feet kicked up next to the register. Two knitting needles clicked in my lap, the motion so mechanical I never looked down. They manipulated the strand of yarn into a nearly-completed scarf. The little ball danced on the ground as I pulled from it.
“Morning,” I said.
The girl flashed me a smile. “Good morning.” She was polite, and didn’t stare or even give a second glance to my eye patch, partially hidden under the brim of my cap. Since I had turned, I had never felt bad about taking what I needed, but this girl seemed oddly bright, naïve even. What a waste. I couldn’t wait any longer, though.
My good eye never left her as she limped through the store. It wasn’t hard – the shop was more of a nook than anything, and the bright and airy front windows did nothing to make the shelves seem less crowded. They were looming and solid, full of open-front cubbies that displayed neatly stacked skeins of yarn. I had sorted them by weight and by color, careful to tuck all the loose ends away.
I glanced down for a moment to finish off the scarf, looping it around my neck once it was free from the needles. When I surveyed my shop again, I saw that the girl had knocked a skein to the ground. She perused a nearby cubby, unaware. Spots danced in front of my eye. For a moment I expected to feel the accelerated pounding of my heart, as well. But then I remembered.
“You dropped one,” I said, my voice stiff.
“What was that?”
I gestured toward the rogue skein. “You dropped one.”
“Oh,” the girl said, smiling, and replaced the yarn. She had to stoop down awkwardly, keeping her weight off her bad leg. Only once everything was back in order did I breathe deeply, feeling the passageways in my mind open back up like undammed rivers.
I adjusted my baker’s boy cap. “How long have you been knitting?” I asked, leaning my elbows on the counter.
“Ever since I got hurt,” she thumped her cane to emphasize her bad leg. “I couldn’t walk at all for a while, and I needed to keep busy.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident,” she said simply. Her eyes met mine and I felt the emptiness under my eye patch.
“We have a knitting group here sometimes,” I offered, struggling to keep the pushiness out of my voice. It crept in anyway. “We could use some new members.”
“I’m all set, thanks though.”
“You don’t even have to come,” I said with a charming smile. “Just sign up and you get a free skein of yarn. All I need is your name and an email address.” I could see her resolve breaking. “Preferably one you use, but hey, I’m not picky.”
“Fine, but only because I need this,” she held up a skein of expensive alpaca yarn and smiled again.
“Sign up sheet’s in the back.” I slid out of my tall chair before she could change her mind.
I led her into the only other room in the shop – my windowless office that was no larger than a breadbox. The florescent light flickered slightly. The desk was small and shoved into the corner, covered in neat stacks of paper. The faint smell of cleaning product hung in the air, and not a single mote of dust could be found. I produced the signup sheet from one of the perfect stacks of paper.
“This is cozy,” the girl said as she filled out her name and email.
“It’s really a supply closet.” I closed the door and stood behind her. The cane leaned against my desk. I unwound the scarf from my neck and gripped an end in each hand.
“Sorry about this,” I said flatly, and looped the scarf around her neck, pulling it tight and cutting off her windpipe. She struggled, but her bad leg gave out and we both fell to the floor, crashing against the closed door on the way down. Her hands clawed at mine, but she grew weaker and was still after a few minutes. I loosened the scarf from her neck and wrapped it back around mine. That was easier than last time.
The girl slumped forward, her hair spilled into her now-puffy face. I pushed her onto her back and yanked my eye patch down around my neck, exposing my raw, empty eye socket.
Mechanically, I pulled the girl’s right eyelids wide open with one hand, and with the other I scooped my fingers under her eye, popping it out with a sickening squelch. I didn’t flinch. Once upon a time I might have, but not now. Tendons popped as I freed it completely from the dead girl’s distorted face. Careful not to drop it, I pressed the organ into my own waiting eye socket, squeezing my lids shut over the foreign object.
Warmth slowly radiated out from the new eye back into my face and head as my body adapted. I blinked rapidly, but my sight didn’t return immediately so I repositioned the eye patch once again.
I walked out the front door of the shop, not bothering to lock up. I wouldn’t be back here. Dismayed, I saw that the girl had left shallow scratch marks running up both of my forearms. Those would need to be replaced too, then. Just when I thought I was done for a while.
I adjusted the baker’s boy cap, pulling it lower over my eyes to block out the beams of sun that flickered between the low square buildings that populated the outskirts of the city. My legs were new enough that I walked normally, without the shuffling that usually plagued others like me. I was grateful to still look human. The warmth in my new eye grew more intense. I whistled as I walked down the sidewalk, eventually pulling off the eye patch and dropping it into the gutter, my eyesight restored.
Back at the shop, I knew the girl would be stirring now.

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Laura :
Laura looks at the clock on her dashboard which reads “5:43”. She curses herself for staying late at work, but there was just too much to do to justify leaving early. Being Valentines Day, she knows she should have made an effort to get home on time to be with her husband. They managed to somehow get the kids out of the house for the weekend and the thought of missing out on this opportunity for some alone time is nearly frightening.
Rolling into her driveway, she notices something posted on the door. The stack of papers on the passenger seat is stuffed into her bag as she exits her minivan and walks up to the door. Her eyes squint the whole way, trying to make something of this disconformity. It’s a note. She reads it and her heart sails.
“Meet me inside for some fun…”
Part of her feels her level of guilt double, being that he has put some real effort into this special day, but the other part can’t wait to see what her husband has cooked up. She turns around to see if anyone is watching, slightly embarrassed that perhaps someone has seen this sultry example of foreplay. No one. She tears off the note and dances inside, giddy with excitement.
The lights throughout the house are all turned down while candles burn, their dim ambiance casting soft rays of amber against the beige walls. She tosses her bag to the floor and starts searching. The second note is found in the kitchen, stuck to the side of a can of whipped cream.
“You’re almost there. Come to the bedroom and bring this with you.”
Her heart is pumping with anticipation as she grabs it and makes her way to the staircase. She grasps the banister with her free hand, arms shaking. Each step has a rose petal placed delicately on it and rich vanilla cascades from a candle perched somewhere in the dark abyss of the hallway. Reaching the top floor she sees another note on the door to the bedroom.
“Welcome.”
She quickly fluffs and fixes her hair before flinging the door open, standing in the threshold in her sexiest stance. The bed is made up with heart shaped pillows. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket of ice. More candles fill the room with light and scent but something is wrong. Her husband is nowhere to be found. Confused, she looks around finding one final note across the room, stuck to her dresser.
“Your husband is dead. Perhaps you would like to join him in the closet?”

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My Medusa :
There are few times in life when a man can admit that he’s afraid of a beautiful woman. Sure, the shyness of lust and romance may be one excuse, but the legitimate fear of her power, as small or infinite as it may be, is something very hard to come by. This is the reason I am afraid of Laura. The role of a man is to protect his woman, never the other way around. I love her, but I am scared to death of her.
We met in junior high school. I wasn’t much to look at back then; I was a scrawny nerd obsessed with Pokemon and anime, often daydreaming day and night, never really doing much in favor of my social status. I would drift in and out of classes, letting apathy get the better of me. It was a lunch period that I first met Laura.
I sat by myself often, enjoying the time to think and reflect on my imagination, when Laura came to sit across from me. I looked at her but couldn’t help but notice her low-cut shirt. She had the body of a model at 15. I was instantly turned on, to say the least. Awkwardly, I’d said hello to her. She told me she was waiting for ‘a friend,’ but never mentioned who. We spoke a bit, generally about television shows, I mentioned Pokemon. I started to feel as if I’d instantly lost her interest. That’s when she started talking about books.
I’d never really read anything before that point, often caring nothing about that part of life, as no moving images meant no entertainment. The thing is though; your mind is a powerful thing. You can envision anything you want to, and that’s exactly what she taught me that day. “Let’s say you look at a book. On every page, you have adjectives, nouns, verbs, all of them describing things. Don’t think of the words themselves, but what they’re talking about. You can imagine the details in your head, like a movie.” From that point on, I started looking at reading differently, and slowly but surely, I adapted to this new form of nerdy obsession… Reading.
I didn’t see her again that year. As a matter of fact, I sort of forgot about her apart from the lesson and her beauty. It wasn’t until I was a 16 year old kid in high school that we met again. Laura was into gymnastics by then, and had just gotten through a relationship with one of the seniors on our school’s football team. I, sadly, had become picked on by a lot of kids, many like him. I never could stand up for myself, and I was used to getting pushed and hit like I was nothing more than a toy. I’ll admit, I had my habits that encouraged such behavior, but people always took it too far.
Laura and I met again as I was being shoved into my locker. A brute by the name of Carson was trying to pester me into making an ass out of myself in front of the crowd, telling me that if I didn’t take my shirt off and start squealing like a pig, I’d get a knuckle sandwich (well, it was worse than that). Laura came out of the blue and shoved him away. “Leave him alone,” she had said, “what are you, a kid?”
Carson just looked at her like she was nuts. “Dweeb boy’s your boyfriend?”
She didn’t respond. She just glared at him, and offered me her hand. I took it, and she hoisted me up from the bed of papers in the tiny metal jail. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to him. What’d he do to you?”
Carson just shrugged, and walked away. Laura and I ate lunch that day, and discussed how things had been through time. She remembered me very well, and asked about my reading. I told her I was starting to become more of a writer. She appreciated that change, and said I might be able to make a living off of it, if I got good enough.
For the first time, our eyes met in an intimate fashion, we just stared at one another, smiling. I knew she was beautiful, far too much so for me, but I was attracted to her. I was falling in love, I felt. We hung out frequently, and my daydreams quickly became filled with her. She added me on Facebook, expanding my friends list to 32. I became a bit of a stalker… I would look at her photographs, pleasure myself, and feel like a sickening dog afterward.
It was on my Junior year that something happened between us that I didn’t ever understand until this day. It was a homecoming dance, and she’d asked me if I wanted to go. I reluctantly said yes, not wanting to embarrass her. I did my best to dress well, but an oversized Armani suit still doesn’t go well with thick rimmed glasses.
I had to be dropped off by my older brother, who thought it was a pointless venture until he saw her. “God damn, bro,” he had said, “how’d you get that?”
Laura had driven herself, since she had a permit and owned an old Plymouth. She was a fan of classic cars, she had told me. It was an old 1950′s model, very rare back in 2008. We danced together for the entire course of homecoming, she didn’t ever take her eyes off of me, not even for a minute. She showed such great devotion and trust that I started to feel a little afraid.. how was I supposed to compete with the intimacy of someone so beautiful? What could I do in return?
After the dance, she offered to drive me home. We went out to the car, and she set out on the road. The radio played an old forgotten tune, something from out of 1950′s suburban America, I was sure. It was then that she reached over, putting her hand on my leg. She asked me, “do you know what love is?” I couldn’t answer. Dancing with her was alone the pinnacle of my life. When we had sex in the back seat of her car, it all quickly overtook that, and I had never felt so alive…
Or, so changed.
After that night, I completely gave up on what I now call my “past-life,” and started to feel dead. Everything I did revolved around Laura, and everything she did involved me. We were inseparable, but I was modified, to say the least…
I ditched the glasses, and began to wear contacts. I threw aside the hand-me-downs and started spending every cent of my birthday money on new clothes, dressing fashionably. My “friends” faded away, and were quickly replaced by the people that Laura knew, the jocks and rough talkers, many of which I had known even before meeting her, and had bullied me when growing up.
The only person that didn’t see me any differently is Carson. Carson hated me with a passion that I can only equate to the anti-Semitism of Adolf Hitler. I didn’t “deserve” Laura. I didn’t “earn” sex. As far as he was concerned, I was nothing more than an insect getting laid by a goddess. I wouldn’t know how much he hated me until he, and a few friends, decided to trash my SUV.
It was late after school, I’d stayed to watch Laura’s Gymnastic tournament, and she was a no-show. I stayed anyway, talking to a few of her friends on the team instead, trying to get a bearing on what a good gift would be for her. Something was wrong, though. Nobody had seen or heard from her for about a week, yet I had spoken to her only hours earlier at the end of classes. They told me she may have been going a little crazy; she had blocked a few of her friends over minor things. What stuck out to me was, they were the same people who didn’t approve of our relationship.
After the tournament ended, I made my way into the parking lot. I twirled my keys on my fingers, bored, ready to get home, maybe call Laura to ask what was up. That’s when I saw my Tahoe sitting in it’s lot, windshield busted out, tires deflated, and an axe in the hood. I was taken aback at this, as you might suspect. Some people gathered around, watching in confusion, asking one another if they knew anything about it. My vehicle was totaled, and I had a good idea of who was responsible.
It was then that, out of nowhere, the round headlights of Laura’s Plymouth appeared. I stared into them as they came closer and closer, people began to clear out of the street, as if she wasn’t going to stop. The hood of the car was inches away when the car halted. It was as if I knew somehow that it wasn’t going to roll me over. Laura got out and yelled, “get in, right now.”
I did as I was told, not questioning her order. I stared at her as she drove, eyes dead-set on the road, a slightly furious expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The guys who wrecked your rig broke into my house,” she stated. She twisted the steering wheel, swerving the car down another street.
“What?” I asked.
She glared at me. “You don’t even know what…” she hesitated. She pointed to the glove compartment. “Open it.”
I swallowed the knot in my throat. I slowly gazed at the glove compartment. I unlatched it and let it drop open. Inside, a knife sat on a paper towel, covered in blood. “We’ve got to finish the others.”
“What?” I asked.
“Carson,” she said. “He broke in. You know god damned well what he tried to do.” She pointed at the knife. “I stopped him, but his friends got away.”
“Wait, what?” I asked again.
“We’re going to kill them, Arnold. We’re going to destroy them.” She grabbed my wrist. “I will not let them ruin this one.”
Not only was I confused, now, but I was getting frantic. “What?” was the only word I could muster.
“They’re going to KILL you, Arnie.”
“No, that’s…” I didn’t believe a word she said.
“Your brother’s dead, Arnie.”
My eyes started to water. “What?” I repeated.
“You have no fucking idea.” She swerved down another road, and then into the driveway of an unfamiliar house. “Take the knife,” she said.
“I don’t even know what’s happening,” I pleaded. “Don’t.. push me into this!”
“You’re already in this,” she stated. She switched off the car and held out her hand. “I’m in it with you.”
“What the fuck did I even do?” I asked.
She shrugged, then instead reached for the knife. As quick as she grasped it, she was out the door of the car. I watched the tight jeans she wore move up driveway, then glanced up at her darkened hair. She didn’t turn back. She went straight for the door, jiggled the knob, and began to violently kick when it didn’t budge. She did over and over again, until the frame finally cracked, and the door rattled aside.
When I heard the screams, I gripped the handle of the door, pushed it open, and stood up, ready to rush into the house to save the one woman who meant the world to me. The screams rang out again; they were not Laura’s.
I stared at the house, mouth agape, waiting for something new to happen. Dead silence enveloped the subdivision. Then, I saw my princess leaving the building, bathed in blood that was not her own. I stared in awe and horror as she made her way back to the car, the plain red knife in hand. “Get back inside,” she commanded. I did so, slamming the door as she sat at the driver’s seat. She stared ahead at the garage door, then leered over at me. She reached out and pulled me close, locking her lips with mine. “We’re not finished, yet,” she said.
The thing about love is that it is always hungry. It is fueled by a ferocious desire to consume your life. Your family, friendship, and time are her main course, your sexual drive is just the appetizer. Chances are, you don’t know what it’s like to be in love, and to sacrifice so much to power that urge… It can be, at times, insane. If I were to tell you that Laura were the “man” in this relationship, it would be an understatement.
When she told me that she’d set them up for a fall, but it ended up costing my own brother, I couldn’t stay angry. It was a possession of sorts… She would bribe me with her love and body. I would take that bribe like there was no tomorrow.
I didn’t even attend my brother’s funeral. I haven’t spoken to my family ever since. I have not seen my old friends, nor her old adversaries.
No man I know is as brazen and fearsome as Laura. Like medusa; all who sought her seemed to turn to stone. The next person we “visited” was her ex, the old quarterback who was now an alcoholic drop-out. She told me how they broke up, and why. The minute she mentioned a drunken stupor and the black out, I was in on the plot. We set him up. I was merely a passive accomplice, but a participant no less. What we did was illegal, but that wasn’t anyone’s concern, not for a man like that.
The only question I have is why am I the only one she has faced and not destroyed the life of? Why am I the only one she can not destroy? What is the key that keeps me from turning to stone?
It is only then that I realize that it is she who made me who I am. I am her creation. I had no life before Laura, and that is the blindness that protects me. It is the blindness that drew her to me in the first place.
Laura is my protector. My Medusa.

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What is Dead :
I write this as an apology to those who are affected by my mistakes. I hope that you can find it in your hearts to forgive me, though I will understand if you can’t.
My wife was terminally ill and, a few month ago, she died. I was very sad at the loss as she was a marvellous, caring woman. She was kind, and everyone that met her said their lives were better for it. I couldn’t bear the pain though, so I did something terrible.
I will not tell you how I did it or how I learned to, for enough damage has been done, but I found a way to … bring her back. To raise her from the dead. I could no longer bear to be alone, and I made a terrible mistake in my loneliness.
When I finished the ritual, nothing happened. Not at first, anyway. I was about to re-bury her when I first started to hear breathing. With an understandable measure of joy, I realised that the sound was emanating from her mouth. I had done it. At the time I could not fully understand what ‘it’ was, but, in my blissful ignorance, I carried her home.
She was not the same. She was no longer caring, but a primal, instinctive beast. She howled and screamed, snarled at me whenever I passed. I was worried, nt for my own sake but for hers. SHe could escape. She could go out and do something to get hurt.
Let the record show that it was for her own good that I locked her in my basement. I never meant to keep her that way. I never knew that my actions would set a chain reaction of unfathomable horrors into action.
I kept her there for as long as I could, but her screams grew more and more desperate. I was chilled to my very core by the screams of my betrothed, and before long I stood on the rain slick precipice of insanity. I needed to do something.
As it so happened, I was not the only one to hear the screams. My neighbours began to show interest, eventually sneaking onto my estate to snoop around. I caught them in the act, and as I had no explanation for what they may have seen, I attacked them. I didn’t kill them, but they were unable to leave of their own accord and, as I feared the consequences of letting them go, I locked them in the basement with my wife.
This was my second mistake. The first, of course, being that I raised her in the first place.
That night I knew the sound of crunching bone.
Upon my awakening in the morning, I went down to check on the neighbours. One was gone, the other was wide eyed, cowering in the corner and covered in blood. Something else was off, too, though at first I did not know what. Then it hit me. The screams had subsided. My wife was asleep.
She had fed, and now she slumbered. All this time, the screams were of hunger. I shut the door, and went to lie down.
She lasted a few more days, obviously feasting on the other neighbour. It seemed that she only needed to eat once every few days.
Now, I’m not proud of what I did next, but I didn’t know what else to do.
I went out at night every few days, around the time that only a few people would still be around. I stalked the streets and attacked people who walked alone. I would take them back to my wife and leave them in the basement. I would often wake from my slumber to hear their screams, cries for help. This would always rouse the beast and would never last longer than a minute or so. 10 minutes of crunching and gurgling pleas later the deed would be done and I could rest easy for another few days.
Although I did now kill anyone, I may as well have. It was my actions that brought about the deaths of so many, and my actions that robbed so many of loved ones, of closure. How many torn and bloodied rags did I have to burn? How many personal affects were destroyed by my hands? I lost track of the numbers, but surely even one is too high a number!
I was kept awake the its screams – and it shall henceforth be referred to as ‘it’, for I have come to the conclusion that this monster is NOT my beloved – so I fed it. A night of rest for the lives of so many.
Day by day it grew stronger, its strength either increasing or returning, for I know not what horrible beast is now in possession of my wife’s body, and as time went on I was forced to bring home more food. Bigger people. Men. 2 women. A woman and a man. Eventually it was eating a full grown man every day.
I knew, in some dark corner of my mind I knew that this could not go on forever. I could not keep taking people. I was in danger of being caught, and, though I deserved to be, fear took hold of me and that, I suppose, is why I let that charade go on for as long as it did. So I decided to flee.
I had just packed my bags when I heard a knock on my door. The police had found a trail of blood leading through the woods up to my estate and were inquiring as to whether I’d seen or heard anything suspicious. I managed to keep a cool head and talk my way out of what could have potentially been a very unpleasant situation.
I know not why, only that I deserved it. It began to scream. It screamed louder than I had ever heard it scream before, and it sounded mad. The police instantly drew their guns and went in, thinking perhaps some horrific predatory beast had made its way into my home. They eventually found my basement door and threw it open. Slowly, ever so slowly, they descended the stairs. I was at a loss for what to do, so I did the only thing I could think of in the heat of the moment.
I shut the door.
Throwing the bolt across, I ran to my quarters and grabbed my bags, making for the door. The screams of the police haunt me to this very day.
I heard the sound of splintering wood as that … thing … burst out of its cell. It was now loose in the house.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me out of there, out into the streets of the town I had stalked, into a train and I left that place far behind.
My old home is a ghost town now. Splashed with blood, yet no bodies remain. How I long to return to my estate, to gather up all of my research and burn it so that this might never happen again. I have made many an attempt to do so, in fact, though every time I get near I hear that beast’s wild howls, screaming for flesh.
I know it haunts my home now. I know it wears my wife’s skin, but the worst part of all this?
I let it happen.

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Don’t Go Into the Basement :
You know, Mom, I remember now how it all started.
It was right after moving to the new house. How old was I? Four, maybe five? I was so young. So innocent. So unsuspecting.
The new house was beautiful, Mom. Do you remember how I used to run from room to room? You always laugh so hard when you recount those times. We were so happy. All of us.
The house was so big, much bigger than the old house. This one had two floors. The main floor had the living room and three bedrooms:  Judy’s, Dad’s and your’s, and my bedroom, at the end of the hall.
Do you remember what I used to tell you about the basement though? I always told you to not go into the basement. You would brush it off. Wave away my fears. You probably don’t remember me telling you at all.
But I remember. I can never forget.
It all started with going downstairs on my own a few times. When I would go down there to get something, I would see things moving. Small, black things. In the corners, on top of the TV cabinet, in the hallway, in the laundry room, anywhere. They would move in and out of the corner of my eye. This would cause me to dash into the half-dimmed room and scurry upstairs. I remember one time Judy commented, “Oh, Kelsi’s scared again.”
I was scared of these beings, Mom. I was so scared. When you sent me down into the darkness alone, I feared for my life. I never knew what would happen when I was down there. I got to the point that I never went anywhere without turning a light on. A light switch would always be switched before going in any room, and then a frightening dash back upstairs. But I also didn’t want anyone to know I was afraid. I hid my fear the best I could, Mom. That was until seeing wasn’t the worst part.
It was not long after I began seeing them, that I started hearing them. Saying things in hushed whispers. Mocking me. Snickering. Moving objects in the basement. The small noises meant nothing to you and the rest of the family. You could turn your back to the sounds. You closed your eyes to the unknown living in your house.
I remember this one time; you found a handkerchief waiting for you on your bed. You laughed it off. You all laughed it off.  The handkerchief didn’t belong to any of us, and it was just waiting there for you, almost like a warning. But you all thanked the beings for their kind gift, making a mockery and a joke out of it. Mom, why didn’t any of you listen to me when I told you to stop?
By the time I was eight, the voices were a constant occurrence in the house. I could hear every word they said. These creatures, which I called the Whisperers, talked about everything. They talked about new things to do to be nuisances, how much we amused them, how best to hurt the family living in their house. I had learned from you to put these things behind me and ignore them.
But that became harder and harder. I remember one night, laying in my bed, I heard the door creep open. I hadn’t been able to sleep well, so small noises jerked me up in the middle of the night quite often. But the Whisperers never moved objects so carelessly. They knew I was awake, and they knew the best way to frighten me. Loud movements were heard from the kitchen, and to save myself, I flung the blankets over my head. I wanted to cry for you like a toddler, Mom, but I didn’t want to put you in harm.
I heard a yelp from the kitchen. It was soft enough that no one else would be awoken from it. I know if you ever read this, Mom, you’ll yell at me for being so stupid, but I had to see what was in the kitchen. I had to know what evil was preying on my family.
The hallway felt eerily cold in the hot summer’s night. The light, being already on, hardly made my descent to the kitchen less terrifying. My feet shattered the silence as I struggled to creep as quietly as I could. I was so afraid, and the sweat from my body glued my clothes to my skin.
Mom, I don’t want to scare you with describing what was in the kitchen, but I’ll tell you best of what was there. A small creature, about 2 foot high, stood before me. It was pitch black and beady yellow eyes. This is the only way to describe the appearance of the creature, Mom. It smelt of a mixture of vegetable oil and that paving stuff that they put in the cracks of roads. It gave off this sound, like a crackling fire and constant murmuring whispers. The creature made me afraid, Mom. It was fear incarnate. This creature drove a stake right into my soul, making me cold and writhe in true darkness.
While I watched this…thing, it stared me down and opened its mouth, which was invisible at first glance. Its mouth was simply a whole full of razor-sharp teeth, and it snickered as I gasped at the pure horror of the scene. As quickly as it opened, the creature’s mouth closed, and it turned its gaze over to its right. I hadn’t noticed her, Mom. I hadn’t noticed Dino.
Dino, our poor hound, lie directly in the center of the kitchen underneath the countertop. A large butcher knife was nestled gently between two of her ribs. Dino whined one last time as she took in her last breath and died a painful death.
I didn’t know what to do then, Mom. I had no control of my body at that time. I cried. No, I screamed while tears fell from my eyes. I didn’t know what else to do, Mom. I couldn’t help it.
That’s when I heard them, down the hall again. Judy’s door and your door was open. Oh, God, Mom. I was so frightened. Without thinking about it, I ran into Judy’s room.
Judy was dead, Mom. I found her mutilated, but I know you wouldn’t want details about how your daughter was killed. Let’s just agree that she had not stood a chance.
I had no time to grieve. I had to check on Dad. Strangely, the light to your room was on, so I didn’t need to go too far inside to see Dad laying lying on the ground, in a distraught, disturbing way. Two butter knives were lodged into his neck, Mom. I don’t know how that was done.
You were not in the room. You weren’t there. Why weren’t you in your room? Did you hear it coming, the footsteps? Did you honestly think that running to the basement would be the best answer?
I knew immediately, Mom. I knew you were down there, trying to escape the evil that was upstairs. I ran down the stairs, hoping to beat the Whisperers to you.
I found you in the family room, Mom. The light was off. I found you in front of the TV. You had gashes in your head and your legs. You were losing so much blood. When you saw me, you screamed. You screamed so loudly. I didn’t understand.
But then I saw them. The Whisperers had beat me to you. And they were chanting.
Kill her. Kill her. We must kill her. We must kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
They were chanting at me, Mom. They were telling me to kill you. They were telling me that you had to die.
That’s when I looked at my hands.
They were covered in blood, Mom. Blood was staining my new nightgown. Blood was running down my arms. I was holding a knife. A knife from the kitchen.
When I looked back up, the Whisperers were gone, and it was just you and me.
I turned on the light and smiled. You screamed again. I advanced you, raising the knife in my hand.
I told you to never go into the basement, Mom. Why didn’t you listen to me?

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Sewers :
A laptop computer was found in the city sewers on Monday, April 22nd of 2013, after screams were heard echoing from below. As far as authorities could tell, there was no owner. All picture files on the hard drive were corrupted, and forensics failed to reconstruct all but one of them. The reconstructed photo partially revealed a terrified man in his late teens or early twenties, and some sort of face behind him.
Analysts have disputed whether or not that actually is another face, or simply image noise created as a result of the reconstruction of the photo. Apart from the single image, all that remained on the laptop was a cryptic word file left open, unsaved. Some see this as the suicide note of a deranged lunatic. Others see it as a prank. All that is known for sure is that over the past three months, there have been over twenty disappearances, all leaving no trace.
**********
I just hope I can finish this. I need to tell it. I can’t NOT tell it. But I don’t have time to finish it. And that’s what’s horrifying. Because, if I don’t tell, then it might get the rest. I HAVE to. I’m on very limited time, but I’m gonna be as detailed as possible. So it doesn’t get the rest. Please bear with me, please listen to me.
I guess it all started three months ago, when we found that secret room. The room in the sewers with the little trap door under the rug. When that happened, everything went wrong. But I’m getting ahead of myself, I have to tell the full truth. Or else it will get the rest.
I’m nineteen years old. Me and my three best friends have always been fond of the sewers. We would go down there and explore, at first using rope, then chalk signs, then nothing at all as we learned every twist, turn, and passage to the point where we could find our way around in pitch darkness, something we’ve had to do on at least three occasions when our flashlights died.
Now, what’s strange, is that we never found the room. It was when James asked to join us that the room was discovered. James was more of an acquaintance than a friend, but we often found him hanging out with us. We never told him about our excursions to the sewers; most people thought of that as strange. We had known James for probably six months before he overheard us speaking about the sewers.
Of course, he wanted to know what we were talking about. So we told him, about how we went down into the sewers every now and again to explore. He, of course, wanted to join our next expedition. We said it was fine, and we went early the next Saturday.
James wasn’t very good with darkness. We found that out the hard way. Or maybe it was the darkness coupled with claustrophobia. I don’t know. But, once we got into the deeper levels of darkness, where the daylight ceased to exist, and the tunnels became black, he began to hyperventilate.
At first, it was almost unnoticeable. His breathing got quicker, and he moved closer to me. Then, without warning, he began to breathe wildly, and he dropped his flashlight. It hit the ground and went out, and just like that, he was sprinting, sprinting and screaming for help, down the dark tunnels.
We chased after him. Following his screams, we started to lose all of our sense of direction. We went deeper than we thought possible. We thought we knew these tunnels. But there was one small niche, that we had never noticed before, that led into an even older series of tunnels. We had to crawl on our stomachs to get through it, and it opened into a tunnel not much bigger than that. We had to crouch down to the point of being on our hands and knees to traverse it.
It’s in those same sewers that I’m sitting now, with hundreds of white Christmas lights strung up around me, and stretching down the tunnel. These won’t last forever. The battery I’m running them off of can only keep them lit for a few hours. But they keep me comfortable, and serve as a warning. The thing can’t stand to be in light. It’s coming for me, I know it. But the lights will go out before it can get to me, so I’ll know.
I’m hiding here because this is the last place it will expect me to go. It’s looking for me. But it wouldn’t think that I would go into its sewers, its very back yard. I know that it will find me, and soon. But I just hope that this will prolong the inevitable. Long enough for me to get my story out. I’ve got my phone programmed to dial 911 in two hours. And I’ve got a camera, with night vision, ready to record when it shows up. So the cops will know, to stop it.
I just hope they can.
We eventually tracked down James, and he was sitting outside a big rusty door. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Somehow we convinced ourselves to open it and oh my god I just wish we hadnt this crap would have NEVER HAPPENED IF NOT FOR THAT STUPID DOOR OH MY GOD IM GONNA DIE AND
I have to stop. Panicking won’t do anything to help me. I’m past help. Have I told you our names? There was me- Curt, and then James, Alan, Josh and Chris.
Writing down facts help me calm down. Just bear with me. I’m almost there.
We went in the door. That was a mistake. In the room, was an ancient chair, and a threadbare rug. Not much else, except a table full of disturbing instruments. And a calendar. The calendar was old and faded, and a dark yellow, but I could just barely make out dates in the faded ink.
The calendar was dated for 1903. Over a hundred years prior.
The table had what looked like torture tools set on it. I recognized a thumbscrew. Josh cut himself on some kind of twisted knife-hook-thing. Hammers and nails. I shudder thinking of what some of the other instruments were used for. There was what looked like the remains of a skeleton on another table in the corner of the room.
A rectangular table with Metal rings at each corner, and decayed ropes through those metal rings. I felt sick.
We decided then that we needed to get out, but Alan tripped over the rug and kicked it to the side. There was a trap door under it. Again, curiosity got the best of us, and we opened it, against James’s protests. It was pitch black down there. An old ladder led down, but that was it. We shined our lights in, and there were several things that might have once been human remains, but were now nearly dust.
At this point, something came over James. He climbed down the ladder into the hole, against our protests. After a moment, his light flickered and then died. Nothing but silence from down below. We were just beginning to panic when he casually walked into view.
He smiled up at us.
His eyes were just empty bleeding sockets.
We all just stood there in stunned silence, and then our lights wavered and flickered out. Mine flickered back on for a split second, and we saw some THING standing behind him. I don’t know what it was. Yes I do.
It was IT. The thing that’s been hunting me and my friends.
It looked very angry. It looked horrifying. It was dead blue skin and decomposing face. I could see its skull through its cheeks. It looked female. It had long decayed hair, and a bony frame. What looked like slashes in its dead cheeks, and gashes around its empty sockets. It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I think, that if I would have seen it for more than a split nanosecond, I would have gone insane. Gone insane or dropped dead.
The light lasted for a fraction of a second, a fraction of a second that has haunted me every minute of every day since then, and then everything was dark and James was screaming. I ran. Everyone else ran too, but I was the first. We scattered. Floundering in the dark, in the unknown. I don’t know how long I was down there. It felt like centuries.
Eventually, I made it to the surface. It was pitch dark in the dead of night. I remembered that we had gone in during the early morning hours.
I went home. It was four o’clock in the morning. All I remember is turning every light in the house on, blasting Looney Tunes on the TV, and then passing out.
The next day, I found out that only Alan and Chris had made it out the previous night. We went to the police and they organized a manhunt. Twenty people went into the sewers that night. Me, Alan, and Chris were not among them. We vowed to never step foot in those tunnels again. The manhunt never found that room.
We never told them about it. We agreed to tell them that we had found a section of sewer that we hadn’t explored before, and gotten separated and lost.
The search was unsuccessful. After a week, the police were forced to call it off. And the rest is history. Over the next several months, everyone who went into those sewers has disappeared, without a trace. Alan, Chris, gone. I’m the only one le
Oh fuck I think a light just went out. The darkness is coming, and I think I can see her or it whatever the fuck it is shit
Im the only one left you cant go into the sewers. They need to find the room and SHUT THE TRAPDOOR and SHUT THE OTHER DOOR so it cant get out
oh god the lights are going out oh shit oh fuck fuck look for my camera and shut the doors PLEASE YOU HAVE TO
**********
Police found a dropped camera deep within the sewage tunnels. No one has spoken about what footage is on the camera, and all to see the footage have committed suicide soon thereafter. Police are currently working with city records to conduct a coordinated search of the sewer system to find the location spoken of in the file….
**********
Detective Alexander Sherridan sits down in front of the television. He had requested a copy of the tape that has so disturbed anyone who has watched it, and now he has it. He feels apprehension building. Should he watch this? Some think it is cursed. However, Sherridan is not a superstitions man. He puts the tape in and presses play. A young man comes on the screen, the same from the picture. He is screaming, while behind him the lights are rapidly going out, moving in sequence towards him. What he is screaming is mostly incoherent, and what Sherridan is able to make out is simply more of the same of what he said in the word document– “close the doors.”
Suddenly the last lights flash out spectacularly, and there is a small glimpse of the laptop before the camera goes dark. What ensues are some of the most horrifying screams that Sherridan has ever heard, but he only barely registers these. He refuses to believe what he thinks he saw. To be sure, he rewinds the video, and plays it again. And again. And again.
Finally, he pauses it and goes forward frame by frame, until he sees the image he feared. Just as the lights flash for the final time, there is a woman grabbing the young man. Except he is not sure that she is a woman. It has no eyes. They look like they were gouged out at some point. There are slashes in her face, or what is left of its face. It is mostly decayed bone, with some skin stretching over it. The teeth are worn nubs. Sherridan averts his eyes. He can’t look at this thing anymore.
He notices at that moment, in the background, stand other things. People that have disappeared. All decaying. All with no eyes. They seem to be looking directly at him, accusingly almost. He tells himself that that is impossible, as they have no eyes. Then he notices motion.
The woman holding the young man pulls her face in some caricature of a smile. Then, she begins digging her fingers into his face. He begins screaming, as she literally rips his eyes out of his head. Sherridan runs forward and presses the power button on the TV. Nothing happens. The woman/thing continues to rip the eyes out of the man’s head, and Sherridan begins screaming with him, as he feels his sanity begin to slip. He rips the plug to the TV out of the wall.
Nothing happens. He retches as the thing pulls the remains of the eyes out, and begins pressing them into her own sockets. He turns and runs full force towards the wooden baseball bat mounted on the wall. He grabs it. He intends to destroy the TV. As he runs back towards the television, the he raises the bat. Just as he’s about to swing and destroy the screen, the thing winks at him with its new eyes.
Whatever vestiges of sanity that are left in Alexander Sherridan shatter at that moment. He drops the bat and stumbles backward into the next room. All he knows is that that thing knows where he is and how to get to him. And he knows that he doesn’t want that to happen.
As he presses the barrel of his police issue Glock into his temple, he vaguely recalls some urban legend or quote or something he’d heard somewhere about how if someone dies a violent death, their spirit stays there, angry, forever. “Fuck that,” he says out loud, before squeezing the trigger.
On the television screen, all that is seen is a terrified young man in a bright flash of light. Nothing more.

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Her Protection :
In every major town and city, there is a house of which no official record exists, and whose windows have been boarded up for longer than anyone around can remember. The previous occupants, if there ever were any, are untraceable, and no organisation or individual will ever lay claim to the plot on which it stands.
Nevertheless, when you break in–always through a back, ground-floor window; you must never touch the outer doors–you will see amongst the dust the signs of inhabitants long gone. A flattened cardboard box, an overturned child’s cot, balding patches on the carpet where the pile has been worn away. Invariably there will be an orphaned double mattress in the master bedroom. What you will not see, however, are rats and cockroaches, or animal waste. Vermin know better than to come here.
These are Her sacred spaces.
The first time you visit, bring only what you need to help you enter the house. Then locate the master bedroom, stand in the centre, and draw an unbroken circle in the dust around your feet. Make it about a metre in diameter to be safe.
Face the doorway and say aloud; “I wish to make a sacrifice. Will you welcome the offering?”
Then leave as quickly as possible. You must not return until night has next fallen.
This time, bring nails, a hammer, an empty litre bottle, a sharp, sturdy knife, and a torch. Enter the same way you did last time. Remember the mattress in the master bedroom? Someone will be sleeping there. Don’t worry about waking them up; She has taken care of that for you. Turn the sleeper over onto their back and cut their jugular vein, making sure to collect as much blood as you can.
You will need to pour a little of the blood onto the floor of every room, including this one, but make sure you have some left at the end. When you’ve finished, leave by the same way you entered, and close up the boards again. (This is what the hammer and nails are for.) Walk home. Speak to nobody on your way. When you get there, tip some of the remaining blood into your right hand and smear it over your door handle before you enter. Then go to bed.
If there is any blood left, you must pour the rest of it onto any pavement in the city, but do not allow it to be poured down a drain. The knife you must never use again, and should bury. Do not trouble yourself with covering your tracks. When you next leave your house, the blood on your door will be gone, and the murder you have committed will have no repurcussions. From the moment you leave Her temple, DNA evidence will never again implicate you; law enforcement will creep around your footsteps without touching them. On cameras, your face will show up a blur.
You are under Her protection now.
Just make sure you get the right house.

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The Veiled Girl :
In 1998, I was in grade 7 of school and undergoing a disorienting move from Manitoba to a small town on the boarder of Arkansas and Oklahoma. I wasn’t used to the lack of buildings, and in turn, lack of places to go. The town’s main road led straight through it’s center and consisted of a few restaurants, a shanty motel, and some shopping centers. Beyond that, the only source of entertainment was a bowling ally and a movie theatre that always seemed a few months behind.
My refuge as an only child from my parents were the mounds of dirt and half-built houses that were strewn throughout my developing neighborhood. I would jump from hill to hill as a giant monster or act like I was on the moon. The houses served as secret lairs, caves, and space stations. Every day was a new adventure and going home was simply a reset. The next day always held new things to discover. I tried to enjoy this as much as I could because I started school the next week. I wasn’t sure why my family had to move in the middle of March break, but at least I got a fresh start.
That Saturday, we invited over the family across the street. The dinner my mother spent an hour on consisted of a roast with vegetables. We all happily enjoyed it. I sat in on the conversations that conspired later that evening. The family involved the mother and father of a recently adopted child, a girl of 12. She stayed home due to the fact that she was still adjusting to her new life. And that was the end of it. They went home without a word more of the mysterious girl as if they were offended in her mentioning. One would think, an adoption is something worth talking about. No such case.
Sunday came about, and church came with it. A morning where silence and good behavior were expected and I had to wear my scratchy, button-up shirt. We sat in the third pew on the left. The family we met yesterday was there. They sat in the back corner against the wall keeping their heads down while constantly surveying the room. Between the two of them sat a third, smaller person. They wore a short yellow dress and little black shoes that shimmered from the light coming in the window. It was the girl, or so I assumed, she was covered by a white, embroidered blanket over her head and face. I continually looked back at them tying to be as inconspicuous as possible to get a good look at them. The couple seemed to be clenching the wrists of the girl, restraining her from getting up, though she wasn’t struggling to break free. She didn’t even seem phased by the sheet that segregated her from the world. She just sat, stone still. I heard murmurings from behind me saying she was a demon spawn, but I disregarded this, it being church and people can be overly superstitious. They didn’t twitch as the congregation left the chapel. They were waiting to see the priest for something. As I walked by, however, I took a final glance at them. The mother was looking at the front of the church, the father stared at the ground, and through the sheet that separated us, the girl was looking at me.
After dinner that Sunday, there was to be another hour of light and my mother allowed me outside for a short time. As usual, I ran to my favorite house. It was different in that it’s spindly frame supported a solid ceiling and thus an attic I could climb up into. There were a few cracks between the plywood boards that sealed the attic from the cooling Spring air, allowing razors of light inside. I had only found it two days ago, but I hadn’t been anywhere since. Upon my initial entry that Friday, it was a little creepy having so little light inside as opposed to the other houses, but it quickly became an atmosphere where my imagination could run ramped.
This day, however, returned me to that initial feeling of something watching me in the dark expanse. This was partially due to the time of day, but mostly the days experience with the girl. Her hidden stare gave me chills from the thought of being seen by one who could not be seen. I would not sleep that night, not because of what happened but what was to happen yet. I went to the attic. It was dark, very dark. There were slivers of soft blue light that entered the cracks and they obstructed my view of the opposite side of the room. However, without the visual evidence, I could hear something  across from me. It was the sound of… squishing, crunching, popping.
At my feet, there were shreds of white cloth crawling around my feet in the eddies of wind. I backed against the slanted wall on my left and began to get closer. My visibility slowly grew stronger as I approached, one by one breaking through the moonlight walls. I couldn’t see fully until I was only a few feet away. I passed through the final beam of light to reach the dark corner. I should have ran away from the start to shield myself from the evil I was about to witness. But how was I to know? The thing that was there in the corner was small, yellow and had long black hair running down it’s back. I call her a “thing” because she did not look fully human. Her face was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen, and to this day. A wide, darkly rimmed mouth was spread across the bottom half of her head. The lower portion of her nose was gone; ripped off and gushing blood. And above this mess, lay two gaping holes where her eyes once rested. Disturbing further was her lower half. Her legs, her legs were gone; torn from her body in a brutal manner. It was horrible that someone would do this to her. At least, I wished someone had done it contrary to the horrible fact that she did it to herself.
That sound I initially heard had stopped the moment I saw her. Between her chewed-off fingers was a leg, one of two. As it dripped and oozed it’s blood in a shimmering pool, the girl was turned away from it. She was looking at me again. Hollow head. Smile wide.
I don’t know how long I stood there, but I ran home. I didn’t utter a word to my parents as I charged by them to my room. I just went to bed and cried. The paper the next morning reported a maimed girl being found.
The story was altered, but I knew the truth.

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The Scuttler :
This is the first time I’ve ever shared the story I’m about to tell you. Sometimes, in the still of the night, it runs through my head on a loop – so I feel the time’s come to put it out there in the hope that certain demons can be laid to rest.
It all started with a dare – like many unspeakable things do. I mean, when Gemma and I initially took up the challenge to stay in the old Chantler house overnight, it’s not as though we hadn’t heard all the stories about the Scuttler – we just didn’t worry too much about them. Girls of logic, that’s what we were – and no amount of crazy stories could shock us or put us off. That’s not to say that the old house wasn’t spooky in its own way. It had been abandoned years previously and, as with all empty, decaying houses, it had an air of melancholy about it that wasn’t entirely pleasant but certainly didn’t appear threatening or other-worldly in any way.
Well, I’m sure you know how it is; a group of university friends sitting around after an evening’s revelry, bathed only in the glow of blossom scented candles, tanked up on a little too much to wine and up way past our bedtimes. Naturally, the conversation turned to ghosts and ghouls and all the other rubbish that people like to talk about when a good spine-chilling session is in order. It was Roger who first introduced the topic of the Scuttler, and not for the first time either. Ever since we’d taken up residence in our own house in the second year of our degrees, Roger had shown a keen interest in the subject, not least because we lived almost opposite the old house. It wasn’t an obsession exactly, more of a vague amusement combined with a certain degree of wide-eyed belief. So, once again, he broached the subject on the night in question. The assembled company groaned audibly when the topic of the Scuttler was raised and Gemma, stubbing out a cigarette with a bored yawn, grumbled, “Here we go again…”
“No but really,” said Roger, “it’s such an odd story that it could almost be real.”
“Yeah, almost but not quite,” I said. “That is the point of urban myths, Rog, to sound believable when, even underneath it all, you know they can’t be true or ninety percent of it is made up.”
“I agree,” said Sophie, “it’s like that stupid story about the man who hammered a nail through his penis for a thrill, split it open, poured Coke over it to stop the bleeding and then passed out.”
“So, what’s unusual about that, anyone would pass out if they’d just split open their most prized possession,” commented Roger.
“No, that’s not the end,” continued Sophie. “Apparently he came round hours later and when he looked down his lunchbox and, by that, I mean the entire ensemble, it had been entirely eaten away, as had part of his lower intestine. It’s said that rats were attracted by the smell of the Coke and had gnawed the whole of his tackle away.
“That’s absolute nonsense,” laughed Gemma.
“Well, you don’t know for certain,” said the ever-believing Roger.
“It is such nonsense,” Gemma giggled, “everyone knows rats don’t drink Coke, they only like Pepsi.”
“You can joke about it all you want,” grumbled Roger, “but I wouldn’t dismiss it so lightly if I were you. And I wouldn’t dismiss the tale about the Chantler house either.”
“Why not?” Gemma said, “it’s not like I ever have cause to visit the place. It really doesn’t affect my life one bit.”
“Yes and I’ll bet you never would visit the place either,” said Roger, in a tone which indicated he thought he’d proved his point.
“Well I don’t need to visit it, so I probably never will but I wouldn’t be scared to.”
Roger held Gemma’s gaze steadily for a full minute before licking his lips, raising an eyebrow and challenging her to prove it.
Gemma, brazen as ever, lit up a new cigarette, inhaled deeply and told Roger that, if that’s what he needed to prove it was all a crock of shit, she’d be perfectly willing to do so. But only on the understanding that, after she’d spent a full night there, he would never raise the subject of the Scuttler again.
Feeling it unfair to allow Gemma to go on her own, and eager to prove Roger wrong, I offered to take up the challenge with her. And, so it was, that we prepared ourselves to spend a full night in the shadow of the Scuttler the following weekend. My joy knew no limits.
So, perhaps now is the time to fill you in on the story of the Scuttler. Legend has it that the house was inhabited by the Chantler family in the early nineties. Said family consisted of a mother, father and two of the most gorgeous children you could ever hope to meet; a blue-eyed, blonde haired dream of a girl and her strikingly handsome brother who, at ten years old, couldn’t do enough for his younger sister.
Life jogged along in a merry old fashion for the Chantler family, with all the obligatory visits to the zoo and Disney World and skiing holidays in the Alps during school holidays. Life was fine and merry for the family. Merry, that was, until one summer morning in 2000 when nine year old Rosa was playing in the driveway of the house, jumping from square to square on a hopscotch board that she had chalked onto the gravel.
She was so engrossed in her game, long blonde hair swinging like a golden sheet in the sun, that she only registered the sound of the car when it was inches away from her. Frozen to the spot, she was unable to move quickly enough before the car reversed over her, crushing both her legs in the process.
Hearing her screams, Mrs. Chantler came rushing out of the house, to be greeted by the unenviable view of her daughter trapped beneath the wheels of her husband’s car, covered in blood and convulsing violently. Her beloved son sat in the driver’s seat, hands still gripping the steering wheel from where he had reversed it out of the garage.
After that the Chantlers’ lives changed considerably. Young Rosa had both her legs amputated above the knee and spent the rest of her childhood in a wheelchair. But, apparently, that wasn’t all. In the time it takes to reverse a car, poor young Charles had gone from being the hero of Rosa’s childhood to being an antichrist. Heart filled with a burning rage, Rosa began to create ways to make her brother’s life a nightmare. Hell-bent on vengeance, she would terrorise him in every way she knew how.
Knowing that he hated the sight of her useless stumps, she refused to learn to wear the prosthetic limbs the doctors had made for her and insisted on making her brother come face to face, on a daily basis, with the results of his actions. Of a night, Rosa would roll out of her bed and, using her arms to move, would scuttle towards Charles’s room where she proceeded to inflict her own injuries on him.
When Charles’s mother commented on the cuts and bruises that had suddenly started to appear on his body, he remained silent or told her that he had simply tripped over, fearing the new-found power of the little girl who plagued his every waking moment. Of a night he would lay rigid in his bed, ears straining for the telltale scuttling sound that marked his vengeful sibling’s approach.
Like all good victims, Charles continued to keep quiet which, in the end, was the biggest mistake of his life. In fact, it was the last mistake of his short little life. In the wee small hours of a cold winter morning, some eighteen months after her accident, ten year old Rosa sneaked into her brother’s room for the last time. Wielding a large steak knife, which she had requisitioned from the kitchen earlier in the day, Rosa set about cutting her brother into small pieces. She ripped so much flesh out of his body that by the time she was finished, the knife was allegedly blunt and there was barely an inch of the room that wasn’t covered in blood.
Now here’s where the story starts to get really silly. Having done away with her brother in the most grotesque manner, Rosa scuttled away and, squeezing her small body through an old service-hatch in the wall, disappeared into the dark crawl space of the house, never to be seen again. Except, of course, on the odd occasion that an unwitting tramp decided to bed down in the abandoned Chantler house, when Rosa would put in an appearance, never getting any older mind, and scuttle over and slash the poor old bugger to death. I mean, have you ever heard such nonsense in your life?
Anyway, armed with a few bottles of wine, an emergency supply of chocolate that would have sent a dietician into a fit, and a carrier bag of large candles, plus a strong torch, and a few blankets, Gemma and I crept into the abandoned Chantler residence. Belief or no belief in spooky tales, it wasn’t a pleasant place. In fact it was rank. It stunk of years of decay and you couldn’t tread on a floorboard without it making some form of protest.
“Yuck. Remind me why we’re doing this again?” said Gemma, untangling a cobweb from her long, fair hair. Usually in pristine condition, I wondered how long it would be before it started looking a bit ratty from all the dust in the house.
“Don’t go blaming me, you agreed to it,” I reminded her, delving into the carrier bag and lighting a few candles.
After a quick reccie of the place, armed with our trusty torch, everything appeared to be Scuttler-free and rather normal – well, as normal as you could expect. Coming down the stairs, my legs gave way slightly and Gemma reached out and grabbed roughly at my sleeve, in order to save me plummeting head first down the wooden staircase.
“Christ, be careful,” she said, a flutter of concern in her voice. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, brushing her off and reclaiming my sleeve. “You know what a clumsy cow I am, and these mouldy old stairs don’t help much.”
“You’re too bloody clumsy if you ask me,” responded Gemma huffily and then her face broke into a mischievous smile as she reminded me of the time I had tripped over and landed face-down in Roger’s birthday cake.
“Well, this is fun,” I said after a while.
“Sure is,” Gemma replied, breaking open a bar of Cadburys Fruit & Nut and taking a huge bite. “I sort of wish I’d never agreed to it now,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate.
“We could always go back.”
“Oh right, and have Roger laugh at us for being cowards. He’d never believe it was just because we missed our creature comforts. No, I reckon we’ve got to stay or we’ll never hear the last of his Scuttler stories.”
So saying, we settled down into a companionable silence, of sorts – the silence bit was total but the companionable part was a little questionable. Gemma and I, although we used to get along fantastically and were still reasonably good friends, had experienced problems in the past; a long story involving her nabbing a tall, hunky post-grad that I’d had my eye on for months. Although we made it up in the end, things had never been quite as rosy between us since. It was during times like this that I always feared she would bring it up again. Silent, all-girls-together times which generated topics of conversation that I just couldn’t deal with. It was not my way to talk problems out and I hoped that she wouldn’t raise the subject that night, because I knew myself well enough to be certain that it would work me up into a temper again. And then where would we be? Back to square one, with a disagreeable atmosphere in the house and people tiptoeing round us.
As bad luck would have it, Gemma managed to last a whole fifteen minutes, roughly the amount of time it took her to polish of a Mars Bar and half a Kit Kat, before she mentioned the hunky post-grad.
“Look Emily,” she began, twisting a strand of hair around her index finger, “I just want to let you know again how sorry I am about all that business with Adam.”
“Don’t mention it,” I responded mildly, trying to stop her before she got going.
“It’s just that I still feel bad about it…”
“Really, don’t mention it,” I said, cutting her off and hoping she would take the hint. No such luck. For the next half an hour I was subjected to the spectacle of Gemma’s guilt. On and on she went until, at about half past one, we heard a scuttling sound from above. Both of us froze and I immediately strained my ears to try and catch the sound. Then it came again, a slow, scraping sort of a noise like a sack, or a very small body, being dragged across the floor.
“You don’t think it’s the Scuttler do you?” hissed Gemma, her eyes wide with fear.
“I doubt it very much, it’s just a story,” I replied. Nevertheless, it certainly sounded like someone was up there.
The noise continued, moving over our heads and then making its way slowly, slowly down the stairs. Bump, scrape. Bump, scrape. Gemma and I stared at each other, mouths slack with fear. Licking my lips, I heard the noise approach the lounge and shrunk back into the shadows. It couldn’t be the Scuttler, I mean it was just a story, right? A pile of crap. But, nevertheless, something was in there with us. Suddenly the door banged open and Gemma and I screeched, grabbing each other in a fear-induced embrace as an old tramp lumbered in, a half-finished bottle of Gin hanging limply in his hands.
“Whaa yer doin’ ‘ere?” he slurred, as his glassy eyes tried to focus on us.
Gemma and I, still catching our breath were unable to answer.
“Bloody treshpassers. Bet you’re lookin’ out for Scuttler,” he said and giggled manically. “Well, I hope she fin-findsh yous,” he scowled and, with that, he shuffled out of the house, letting the front door bang loudly behind him.
Gemma and I looked at one another and then her blue eyes crinkled into a smile and she started to laugh in relief, lightening the atmosphere somewhat until, that is, she insisted on raising the issue of Adam again five minutes later.
By half past two I was in a blind rage with her. The girl didn’t know when to drop an issue. Above us, a floorboard creaked again and something scuttled in the murky depths of one of the rooms. Probably just a rat, I thought. I tried to convince myself that the Scuttler didn’t exist anymore. Perhaps had never existed but, as Gemma flicked back her long, blonde hair and surveyed me with cool, blue eyes that knew too much, I instantly sensed that the Scuttler was amongst us. Hidden all those years, she had been right there without my even realising.
As Gemma’s eyes looked fearfully at a point just beyond my shoulder, as though assessing the chance of escape in the presence of the damned, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise and a cold chill fill the hollow of my stomach.
Suddenly there was blood everywhere. Before I knew what had happened, there was a snapping sound inside my head, or maybe it was one of Gemma’s bones because, in that instant, Gemma was being torn to pieces. I watched the whole thing, as though standing outside of myself – saw the gelatinous, viscid gore that eased out of her body and matted her hair. The glutinous pop that her eyeballs made as they were ripped apart and the shocked, rictus grin that her mouth made as she realised the truth and, through it all, the shadow of the Scuttler hung over us, terrifying me more than anything ever had before, driving me into a demented, petrified panic.
And then I was running along the pavement with all my might as I sought to gain the sanctuary of my own house on the other side of the street and outrun the spectre of the Scuttler. Twice I stumbled and fell, and twice I clambered unsteadily to my feet, looking behind me at that house of horrors before I lurched forwards again towards the warm lights of the student house. Screeching through the door, I was met by the aghast faces of my friends as I told them that something, I knew not what, but something unearthly had attacked Gemma.
Unable to stop them, I watched as they ran across the road towards the old Chantler house and, slowly, I ascended the stairs and made for the quietness of my own room. Once there, I surveyed myself in the mirror. Quite a lot of Gemma’s blood had made its way onto my fair hair, tingeing it with ruby-red highlights. As I sat down on the bed, I contemplated once again the strange myth that had attached itself to the house. My, I thought, as I ran my hand over my aching thighs, how people liked to exaggerate. How things get changed over the years. As if a small girl would refuse the use of artificial limbs, preferring to scuttle around. And as if a girl would beat and bruise her brother, and then to think that she would kill him and slip away forever into the bowels of a house, living there even after it was long abandoned. No, that would never happen.
A girl would run to her parents, confess what she had done but they would understand. In time they would understand. Her brother had taken away her life and, in turn, she had exacted her revenge but not in a gory display, just with one swift motion of the knife; one exact, precise thrust into the heart of her once-loved sibling. And, surely too, she would be given proper psychiatric care allowing her, eventually, to live a normal life.
Yes, apart from the occasional bout of anger her life would be normal, almost boringly normal. Perhaps she would even go to university and try to get herself a degree, change her name and, at some point, forget the past – just so long as people stopped stirring up that buzzing nest of anger in the pit of her stomach. Yes, I though, as I bent down and ran my hands over the length of my artificial legs – legs that I had become so adept at using over the past ten years that, apart from the odd bout of clumsiness, nobody would ever guess I wore them – that’s the way it would happen.
I should know, because that’s the way it did happen.

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Debut :
I.
Well, I’ve finished my education and learned everything there is to learn about singing, and despite the difficulties, I’ve found myself at the heart of Music City and struggling to get my material out there. I haven’t been able to meet with any labels and I’m barely surviving on gig money. I have an audition at a new place that’s opening down by Broadway Street. It’s a Vegas style night club, very yuppie. I can sing, but I also have to dance with the other girls. My first song will be “Moulin Rouge.” They were impressed with my audition, and they may pay me for some choreography ideas. Maybe I can get some hours there. Regardless, times are hard for everyone right now. Any day that people hear me sing is a good day. My voice is lucky, and I’m so excited for the future that I simply had to start writing my feelings down in something other than song form.
II.
I learned to bartend and made some good tips this evening. I also sang with the band, and even though everyone there was drunk, I think they really liked me. The more I sing, the more I feel like I was put here on this earth to make people happy with the sound of my voice. I’m not trying to be conceited. I am forged through the sweat of my brow to make beautiful sound. I also make a pretty good vodka martini.
III.
My boss, Bobby, thinks he’s Brett Michaels. He keeps going on and on about how he’s going to make me a star and how much money Alleycats is going to make with me singing at the helm. People applauded after the girls worked through my dance today. I told Bobby that he should tie cat collars with rhinestones around our necks and buy us hair extensions to attract more clientele. He went for it. I’m excited. I’ve never been able to afford hair extensions before. The last song I sang before I went home this evening was amazing. I saw a table of drunks in the front row who appeared as if they were crying. That’s the best feedback I could possibly ask for.
IV.
Some of my teachers came by today because it was my day off. They’re quiet, mostly, but they expect what I promised them four years ago. I always thought I’d be able to get my education and disappear without going through with it, but they’ve found me. They want results, and I only have a month. Even though they paid my way and coddled me through learning the art of vocal performance, I don’t think a piece of paper on the wall is worth this. It doesn’t matter. I can’t back out now, and I’m destined for the big time.
V.
Bobby is interested in more than helping me promote my career. I was flirting with a local blues singer in the lounge tonight after singing, and he flipped his shit. Said that I couldn’t afford to have a boyfriend in this business and the only person I’d be hooking up with was him if I wanted to keep my job. I noticed that The Better Business Bureau is right across the street when I left today. I’ll keep that in mind if he gets out of hand.
VI.
More teachers came to see me, except they came to the bar itself. I would have been ashamed, except they didn’t talk to anyone, so no one knew that they were there for me. They wore the black robes in a night club in the middle of the city, so they obviously care little for outward appearances. They focused on me so intently when I was singing that I got scared. I did well, but they’re giving me the message, loud and clear. I have to fulfill my part of the bargain or I’ll lose my voice. If I lose my voice, I have no future. I’m scared.
VII.
I had an audition with a major record label on Music Row today. Bobby was pissed that I called out of work, and apparently the regular alcoholics were requesting that I sing a song before they left. One was so adamant that he was arrested for disorderly conduct. I tried to push it out of my mind and focus on the music. They said I had a beautiful natural voice and that with some “commercial influence,” I could be a star. I’m excited. This is bigger than my graduation or my future wedding day. I’ll never forget this day. Even if I tried, the teachers won’t LET me forget. They have to remind me that I’m only here because of them.
VIII.
Bobby threw me a party tonight to celebrate my big break. He drank too much and so did I. I drove him home and he tried to kiss me. He smelled like bourbon and cigarettes and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I screamed, and before I realized that he’d stopped trying to grope me, he was screaming WITH me. His eyes were glossy, like a windshield that needs a defroster on max. He had this sort of grimace, like he was in pain, but couldn’t do anything about it but stare at me and scream and scream. I forced myself to shut my mouth, to stop making any noise, and he collapsed in to the passenger floorboard. I got scared and left him there. I’m hoping he’ll remember it as an awful hangover and nothing else. If not, there’s always the Better Business Bureau. I can’t afford to have some stalker ruining my chances of a Grammy.
IX.
They’re here permanently until I deliver on what I promised. They remind me why my voice sounds so sweet, and how they can change it in to a terrible force at any time. They asked me if I liked what happened to Bobby. They asked me if I want that to happen to everyone else I sing for. There’s nothing I can do to stop this, but as soon as I get it over with, they’ll leave me alone forever. They just want their payoff.
Someone stopped me on the street today on the way to my car. He really scared me when he said that he knew who was in my apartment with me. He was a relatively big guy, and he looked dangerous, like one of those UFC fighters or a bouncer or something. He told me to get it done and be done with it — that the consequences of going back on them were worse than taking one person’s life. He said he’d been swindled by them before, too, and it was the only way to end this. I hope not. I don’t think I can bring myself to kill someone, even at the cost of my own gift.
X.
I almost went through with it tonight, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Everyone in front of the stage looked like they were having fun, enjoying the company of their friends and boyfriends and girlfriends. They came to hear me. I couldn’t betray them. I’ll be forced to, soon, and I might lose it all. It doesn’t matter. I refuse to kill anyone because they want to listen to my voice.
XI.
Tonight was the worst night of my life. They’ve been staying in my room, standing over me as I sleep, hissing in my ear. Deliver. Deliver. Deliver. They held me down before I went to work and replaced the rhinestone Alleycat uniform collar with some kind of choker. It has one red stone on it, and it glows when I sing. It felt good. I wondered if I had their approval until I got on stage. I started singing, and they all started screaming. Jake, the bartender. My friend Jill. The entire drunken audience. I couldn’t stop the sound once I started. My voice soared high, strong, powerful, through the door, out on to Broadway. It brought more and more people in. I saw throngs of people walking through the door, their faces contorted with pain, but it’s like they were forced to stand there and listen. I don’t know any other way to write this, but I knew they were in the worst pain of their lives. My voice was causing it. All of them screamed until their voices were raw and they had gristled sandpaper in their throats.
When I hit my highest note, the entire room was a maelstrom of suffering. People’s heads burst open like overfilled balloons. Their skin peeled off in layers and heaped on the line-dancing floor like party streamers. The ones who still had faces died with a smile on their face, as if death were a blissful escape. I drove home naked. There was too much blood on my clothes. Bobby was out of town, but he comes back tomorrow, and he already knows. He’s too stupid to realize what happened the other night, and thinks someone fired an assault rifle in the middle of the club. Je’s naive. I’ll never be able to go back to work again. All I have now is this record deal. I was lucky that the police didn’t stop me for questioning. The story is on the local news as “the Music Row Massacre.”
XII.
They took off the collar when I got home and they’re sitting behind me, watching me write this. They know I have to find their sacrifice to have any hope of recording with the label tomorrow. They said what happened at Alleycats is my fault. They expect me to get up and go right now, or the choker goes back on. They’ve turned my own voice against me.
I have to use it as a weapon, one last time. I also have to convince Bobby that I want to be with him. The thought makes me want to throw up.
XIII.
I didn’t have to report Bobby to the Better Business Bureau. He left me a voicemail as they carried him off, and I know he was only able to speak because they let him. They have a cruel side to them that is unrivaled by any human being. They paid me one last visit, of course. They polished his skull like a fine piece of jewelry and delivered it to me in a box. They said as long as it stayed in the same room with me that I’d sing beautifully. They want to remind me that I killed someone to make it big. I wish I could take all of this back, but I wouldn’t, if given the choice.
Tomorrow, I record my first album, and nothing will stop my big debut.
-Credited to Violent Harvest

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That Night In The Mirror :
I’ll tell you right now that my story doesn’t have any dramatic climax or any cathartic resolution. Don’t bother reading it if that’s what you’re looking for. My story is of one very specific moment in my life. One which, try as I might, I cannot negate as a trick my exhausted brain played on me, or a momentary lapse of reason and subsequent plunge into childish fears.
I think a fear of mirrors must be fairly common, in this day and age. I remember when I was young I saw one of those compilation TV horror shows. The ones where there’d be a different short scary story between commercial breaks. In retrospect it wasn’t the scariest thing in the world, and if I saw it again today I would probably invite friends over and we could quash our collective fear by mocking the bad acting or ridiculous storyline.
All I remember of it is that in the story a man was being constantly tormented by a disfigured, murderous psychopath, but he only saw him when he looked in the mirror. The whole story was a typical song-and-dance of the man catching his stalker in the mirror behind him, turning to face him and finding nothing there.
Maybe the reason I remember it so well is because it was so shortly after I heard my mom die. I say heard because I never saw her body. I was watching TV (a different show) when I heard what sounded like porcelain breaking, followed by a loud thud, coming from the kitchen two rooms away. The sudden noise was oddly unsurprising, but I remember craning my head to see my mom’s legs sprawled on the tiled floor. I couldn’t see any more of her, the doorframe was in the way. Luckily (I suppose), my father ran in first, calling her name somewhat frantically. As I stood up, but did not advance out of what I imagine was fear, I remember him telling me to stay where I was.
The doctors told us a virus had gotten into her heart. I remember my father protesting that he hadn’t even heard of that before. Neither had I, but the concept of death itself was fairly new to me, and I remember being filled with an overwhelming sense of existential fear. As if I or anyone I knew could suddenly crumble into a pile of lifeless dust at any moment.
I don’t think I was a very fearful child, though. Not moreso than most. And even my uneasiness around mirrors didn’t exactly trump my other fears of spiders, or being in cramped spaces. I guess it makes sense that mirrors are a source of fear for people. One of the defining signs of self-awareness is whether or not an animal recognizes itself in the mirror. Maybe we still retain some primal belief that what we’re seeing really isn’t us, but some sinister shadow-self. Not to mention all the scenes in horror movies that use them. A character bends down to splash water in their face, and when they lift their head back up their face is distorted in some gruesome way.
I had just gotten home from a party at a nearby frat house. I lived in an old Victorian house that four of my friends from school and I rented. I was the only one home, having left the party early (if you can call 2:00 in the morning early) and my roommates were all still out. I ran upstairs to my room, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to lay in my bed and feel the rest of the world leave me behind. But I didn’t. In rare form I decided to take a few more steps down the hall to the old, poorly-design bathroom two of my roommates shared with me. It was lit by a single, fluorescent bulb, casting the black and white tile in a sickly, near-green color. I ran a thin strip of toothpaste on my brush and gave my teeth a once-over before spitting the slightly brown spit and foam down the sink. When I looked up I saw her.
Standing behind me in the bathtub with the curtain drawn wide open, my mother’s mouth hung down as if screaming, but without any sound. I could tell it was my mother, but she was a grotesque shadow of how I remember her. Her eyes were either completely gone, or simply black in color. The sockets were vacuums within which nothing reflected. Her skin was so pale it was almost blue, and her dark hair looked drenched in water, hugging her scalp tight and falling in front of her shoulders in thin strips. Her mouth wasn’t exactly screaming, so much as hanging open. Impossibly open, much further than a person’s jaw can extend. She seemed to be wearing a thin white nightgown, drenched, like her hair, and clinging to her emaciated body. Her stick-legs looked like they were going to buckle under her weight, while her arms reached back against the walls.
I must have only seen her for seconds before turning, screaming and falling backwards, slamming hard against the tiled floor. The tub was empty. There had been no sound, and now as the echoes of my cry dissipated I could only hear my heavy breathing. I don’t know how long I lay on the floor of the bathroom. The fluorescent bulb dully buzzing as I became too frightened to even move. Eventually I heard the downstairs door swing open, as a parade of drunk college boys and their floozies poured in for the night. They found me only the floor, and thought it was hilarious that I was so drunk I had almost passed out in the bathroom.
I never saw her again. I never want to see her again, and every day I wish I hadn’t. There are myths of people being scared to death, or being haunted by dreams of a single event for their whole lives. I’ve had dreams too, but they aren’t what haunts me to this very day.
When someone you love dies, you tend to forget everything bad about them, and eventually your fond memories of them just coalesce into a fondness you share with everyone else that knew them. But that’s not how I feel about my mother. I was too young to have endless loving stories about her. Instead all I can remember is her face that night in the mirror.
My story doesn’t end with me taking my own life, or anything dramatic like that. I have thought about it, though. I tried putting a length of rope across my neck one day and squeezing, just to see what it would feel like. But I would never go through with it. It isn’t so much that I want to live. What bothers me the most is that I don’t know for sure what happens when we die. Nobody knows. But what I saw that night in the mirror makes me think I do.
//
Credited to Matt Chatham.

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The Sounds of Love :
Everyone hates addressing “the elephant in the room”. The elephant in my room was the loud creaking, shaking and obnoxious moaning above it. As a graduate of biology, I understand the importance of “getting off”. What I failed to understand is why the tenant living above my apartment had to “party hard” for what seemed to be every waking second of the night hours. The tenant and his wife never used to have sex this frequently, trust me with my cardboard ceiling I could hear spiders having a fun time. I would hear the creaking and moaning once every few weeks. But for reasons unknown, it suddenly turned to a love riot above me.
I met the tenant’s wife once. She was quiet and left me with the impression she kept to herself. She was everything I wanted to see in a woman: soft spoken, red haired, sculpted body. It pained me to see a gold ring on her finger. I would lie in my bed at night looking forward to hearing her moans and groans, I don’t enjoy admitting feelings for another man’s wife but we’re all human. I enjoyed telling myself she was becoming tired of her husband. She had not been moaning and groaning very much. I imagined I would too if a once a week thing became a “once every few hours thing”. It hadn’t had any effect on her husband though. I was able to hear his “sounds” louder than I could hear my own thoughts.
It was 4:21 A.M. I could hear the husband starting his engines. A part of me felt jealous that he was with such a beautiful woman. I would have liked to say that his sounds bothered me, but I would have been lying. What bothered me most were constant reminders of being single, and every moment of the night being reminded of what I was missing out on. I thought to myself “I have to put an end to this”. It was time for me to confront the elephant in the room.
I went up the stairs and knocked on his door. I must admit I expected to hear swearing and fuming. But the husband came to the door and calmly asked, “Is there a problem?” His face was plagued with an almost concerned look. There on the couch I could see his wife in a blanket, only her bright red hair showing. I felt so embarrassed; I didn’t know what to say. I had obviously humiliated this couple. “Why couldn’t I have just gone to bed a jealous bitter jerk?” I asked myself.
As I stared eye to eye with the tenant I noticed a look of sharp fear, a far cry from the anticipated embarrassment. At least five seconds of staring passed before I finally stomached the courage and said with a lop-sided grin, “It’s a little late at night for all this excitement, I’m sorry but I have to get up for work in two hours and am having trouble sleeping”. “My wife and I will keep it quiet”, the tenant abruptly assured. Before I could say “Have a good night” the tenant slammed the door in my face. The situation absurd as it may have been left me with an eerie chill in my spine. As a graduate of biology I noticed the man had a strange body odor, an odor that doesn’t occur on any animal unless…? What if the tenant was having an affair with his wife? Maybe they were divorced. I hadn’t seen his wife leave the room at all recently. That would explain a lot, except I’ve never seen another woman with hair that bright red.
Trying to forget my encounter I walked back into my room and fell asleep. The next morning I called my landlord and requested I be moved to a unit across the street. “Is there a problem? If so you should have notified me. May I ask what the problem is?” the landlord asked. His voice left an implication I was going to have to “deal with it”. Feeling slightly ashamed I finally told him “The tenant above my room has recently gotten into the habit of having sex, sorry for citing a cliché, but ‘ALL NIGHT LONG’. This has been cutting my sleep time in half and I have to wake up early in the mor…” “Jesus Christ, he’s already found another one? That was fast!” The landlord exclaimed. Confused I felt it an obligation to ask “Found another what? I went upstairs and asked him to keep the noise level down and saw his wife on the couch so I’m not sure what you mean by another one.”
The landlord had hung up on me mid-sentence. I tried to call back but got a busy signal. I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. My landlord was acting funky. He usually behaved much more professionally than this. Suddenly I realized I was running late for work, so any questions I had for the landlord were put on hold.
When I got back to the apartment after work there were three police cars outside the complex. Assuming it was just a routine call I attempted to walk back inside only to realize a large African American policeman walking very swiftly my direction. I stopped and when he approached me he asked “Are you the occupant of room number 665?” I stood there and once again in my confused state answered “Umm, yes?” The officer nodded and asked “Can you explain to me your recent encounter with the man above your room?”
Memory clouded, I was finally able to retrieve the one true face to face encounter the man and I had ever exchanged and vehemently said “The only encounter he and I have ever had was when I went up and asked him and his wife to keep the noise level down we only spoke for 30 seconds. I called the landlord and complained about the noises I had requested to be moved to another room in the complex.”
The officer looked me in the eyes took a deep breath and said in an almost forced tone “Sir your landlord contacted us immediately after your complaint, he said you had seen the man’s wife.”
“Yes, I did. She was hiding underneath blankets, but I recognized some of the hair sticking out as hers.”
The police officer turned away from my face and muttered, “His wife died of a brain aneurysm, she was laid to rest one week ago.”

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“Hello.” :
The doorbell rings, and you get up from where you sat staring stonily into space. You already know who is at your door, and why he is there. You open it, nodding numbly to the man. You make a note in your head that the man looks… sneaky, but you assume that must be because he’s a lawyer. You show him into your living room, dreading what is to come. The man hands you a CD he produces from his briefcase, and sets what looks like a birdcage on your coffee table. You can not see what is inside the cage, as it is covered in a blanket of embroidered silk. The man sits as you put the disc into your stereo and press play.
You hear the sound of stressed breathing from the speakers as you take your seat. The lawyer hasn’t said a word, but you know the breathing to be that of your late friend, the last breathes of your friend. You can hear something in the background, behind your friend’s heavy breathes, as if someone, or something, was scratching at a door. You wonder if you’re hearing things, as the sound is barely audible in the recording. You look up as you hear her voice, as if she was in the room with you, as if she was alive.
“The date is September the first of two thousand eight.” Her voice is shaky, every word she speaks is saturated with fear, “This is my last will and testament. Now, I don’t have much time. They’re almost here, so I’ll dispense the formalities and get on with what I have to say. This is the last day of my life, as you have probably already figured out.”
“This began with the death of my uncle. I had never known him very well, only a few times at family reunions and Christmas parties, but he had left me something on his will. I sat awkwardly through the reading of the document until at last, my name was called. I collected a small box of knick-knacks and a covered cage. On the cage was a note saying ‘Please do not unveil the surprise until you are home.’ So I hurried home without taking the silk blanket off of the cage. What was inside the box is of no consequence, but underneath the blanket – I warn you do not take the blanket off until this recording has ended – is an old birdcage. Inside of this bird cage , is a parrot.”
“I was indeed surprised, but there were more shocks to come. When I lifted the blanket, the bird’s eyes were immediately fixed on me. Its beady eyes shone wickedly upon seeing a new face, and it said plainly in a squawky voice, ‘hello’. I stared back at it, and it repeated itself, ‘hello.’ I dismissed it as a cute trick my uncle had taught it. I was very wrong.”
“The next day, when I took the blanket off of the cage, I was not greeted with a ‘hello’. No, on the second day the bird didn’t talk at all. What it did do was breathe loudly, as if it was hyperventilating, or at least copying someone who was terrified. On the third day the bird did not speak, but made the sound of a grown man crying. I was very disturbed, and covered the cage for the remainder of the day.”
“The fourth day, in a voice not unlike my recently departed uncle’s, the bird cried ‘Oh god. Oh god!’ I thought the bird had learned it from listening to the television, and I resolved to never let it hear the television again. I didn’t turn o n the TV all that day, but on the fifth day, when I uncovered the cage, the bird screamed. Not a normal scream, mind you, and it was nothing I had ever had turned on the television. It was the sound of a man screaming in terror and pain. It was, I know now, the scream my uncle gave when he was killed. When the bird screams again it will be my scream as they tear me apart, for even now the bird is listening to me. It stares at me coldly where I’ve barricaded myself in the kitchen.”
“As you life depends on it, do not yet uncover the cage.”
“The sixth day, yesterday, when I hesitantly uncovered the cage, the bird was quiet. Perhaps ten minutes later it cocked its head to the side, as if it had heard something I could not. ‘They’re coming.’ it whispered, ‘They’re coming’. Over and over again he repeated in a haunting voice. ‘They’re coming’”
“Today is the seventh day, and they are here, just as the bird said. I can hear them scratching at the door and crawling in the walls. The bird is waiting to record how I die, I swear, if it coul d grin it would have been grinning from the moment I uncovered its cage. The noises are getting louder, they’ll get in soon, so I’m saying goodbye now. Take care of the bird; I couldn’t think of anyone else to give it to, I’m sorry. You must take care of him till they come for you. You have seven days.”
The track ended suddenly, and you look around you, startled. You must have been entranced by the disc, for the lawyer was gone. You hadn’t noticed him leave. You stare at the covered cage on the coffee table, and wonder if you had just heard on the CD was real, or just some elaborate hoax. A rustling comes from underneath the embroidered silk. Your curiosity begs you to see what’s in the cage. You slowly raise up the blanket.
“Hello.”

Credited to apoisonedlogic.

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Crime Scene :
I walked up to an old house in shambles. It sits in the middle of a farm in rural Wisconsin. The paint was faded almost entirely off the wood paneling of the two story farm house. There were tinges of light red where the rain and weather had not wiped it entirely clean from the face of the wood. The barn over to the side was blacked and charred as only half of it stood after a fire. The ground was relatively barren, mainly dirt around the house, but a field of grass and weeds grew not far beyond the perimeter.
I walked up towards the house and onto the creaky porch. It was a hot, humid day of summer and I took my sunglasses off as I reached the shade of the porch. I looked down at my watch and saw it was starting to get late and the sun would be setting soon, 7:45. There were a set of windows to each side of the centered door. They were covered in dirt and had the look of fragile, antique windows. The door used to be a pale, white door, but now only part of the door remained. It was chipped and splintered from force, and was patched with a large piece of plywood. I grabbed the knob and attempted to turn it open, to no avail. It seemed as though someone had locked it. The fact that the lock worked at all amazed me. It only took a small amount of force to ram the door down.
The inside of the house was just as depressing. It was completely bare. There wasn’t so much as a piece of furniture in the house. There were marks on the wall where pictures were hung, but nothing remained besides the shadow of a previous presence. It was an eerie feeling, realizing how much a part of a family’s life this house must have been. Now it laid empty and rotting. I walked through what I could only guess was the living room. I opened a door down to the basement It was dark and possessed a foul smell. I fiddled through my pocket and grabbed a flashlight. I turned it on and walked down the steps. At the bottom there was a pull string for a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. After a quick pull it glowed and produced a yellow film over the dark basement.
There were small tent cards everywhere on the floor accompanied by chalk lines around red stains. It was a crime scene, and by the looks of it, pretty brutal murders. There were chains on one of the walls with crimson stains around the hand restraints. There was a metal table that started to gather rust in the center of the room with some restraints on it. The wall against the staircase held a work bench with various tools, many of which were stained with blood. There was a bloody bath tub on the far end of the room with meat hanging hooks above it. The concrete floor was red in many places, but it had a strangely beautiful swirling pattern that led to the drain under the table. I walked to the opposite end of the room and saw a sliver of light shining onto the floor. I went to inspect the source and found the cellar door.
I walked up the few stairs and unlocked the hinges. I swung the creaky doors open and saw a beautiful sunset. I sat there for a moment taking in the last bit of sunlight from the orange pink sky. I walked around the house and the night began to take shape. My car sat in the driveway alone. I noticed it looked like it was shaking. I cautiously walked closer to it and grabbed the keys from my pocket. I started to hear a muffled cry. I unlocked the trunk and opened it. I jumped at the sight, he shouldn’t be awake yet.
There was a slender man, tied up with duct tape. He was trying to scream something through the tape that was over his mouth, but only muffled cries escaped. His eyes were filled with true fear as he looked up at me. I curled a malicious grin. I lifted him out of the car and began dragging him towards the house. I dragged him down the stairs and into the basement. I began to restrain him onto the table as he screamed for help. I couldn’t help but grin under the surgical mask I wore. His screams were so elegant and beautiful. Once he was strapped in, I grabbed a knife from my tool bench. I walked back over to the man who was crying as I showed him the knife.
“I rather like the crime scene look the police left here. They should have known the killer always returns to the scene of the crime.”

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Interference :
Let me start by saying that this is a very true story from my childhood, and if you visit the big library in the Nottingham City Centre, and check out their newspaper records, you will actually find information about the events detailed here.
This story takes place around 15 or 16 years ago. I was just 7 years old, and my cousin Dale, was around 9, maybe 10. He was staying with me while his mother was away looking after a sick relative. Since I was an only child, I didn’t have many toys, and my Sega Genesis was busted, and so we didn’t have much things to do that were entertaining.
Our days consisted of watching cartoons on our cable television, followed by Dale teling me scary ghost stories at it turned night-time. My mother, sympathysing with us, and wanting us to do something more active decided to purchase a pair of walkie talkies for us to play with. We had fun with them, journeying to a neighbouring Strelley Village, and hiding far apart in the woods, while the other person would try and find them by using the walkie talkie. Since we were quite young however, we weren’t allowed out of the house for very long, and so we had to be home by 5pm. We returned home later (about 6) and had our dinner. By this time it was around 7pm. We decided we would call it a night, and packed all of our toys away and got ready for bed.
However, we didn’t pack the walkie talkies away. Dale was staying in the spare room, and I had my own room, and so we planned to talk to each other through the walkie talkies until we fell asleep. That’s when we heard the thing that would change us forever. It was about 11 at night, and we had been telling ghost stories over the walkie talkies for hours. All of a sudden, whilst Dale was telling me a story about a monster that supposedly haunts the same woods we had been at earlier in the day, his voice was cut off, and replaced with the usual static noise the walkie talkies produced when the talker had accidently let go of the button used to speak. I waited for a few seconds for Dale to carry on speaking, when I heard a faint mumble coming from the small speaker. “That’s odd.” I thought. The speaker was still emitting static, but I could definately hear some kind of movement and speech. All of a sudden, the sound of crying could be heard through the static. This was very creepy to me, and so I dived out of my bed, and rushed to the room Dale was staying in. He was sat bolt upright in bed, also listening to his walkie talkie, which was emitting the same sounds, if not a second or so behind mine. The crying grew louder. “What is that?” Dale asked. “I thought you were playing a prank.” When I told him I wasn’t, his face dropped. He switched his off. The sound still emitted from the walkie talkie I was holding in my hand, making it impossible for my walkie talkie to be picking up sound from his. “This is creepy” said Dale. The crying and mumbles through the static seemed to get slightly clearer, and louder. I switched mine off too and went back to bed.
All kinds of ideas were flowing through my head. Perhaps I was picking up the sounds of the afterlife? Perhaps my walkie talkie were simply broken and producing weird sounds that just sounded like crying and mumbling? I tried not to think anything of it, and went to sleep.
I was awoken the next day by a massive bang which seemed to be coming from downstairs. It was around 6 in the morning, and I rushed downstairs to find my mother and cousin Dale looking out of the living room window at our neighbours house next door. A large police van had pulled up outside, and our neighbour Jessie was being led outside by several officers. She was screaming profanities and insults, and even tried to run from the officers at one point before being pushed into the back of the van and handcuffed. We were shocked by what had happened, and generally confused. Jessie had been a new neighbour, recently moving into the house next door with her baby after our old neighbour had died of old age. She had kept herself to herself, and as far as we had known she was very quiet, and didn’t seem like the type of person that would be arrested for any reason.
It wasn’t until the next day when we recieved our daily newspaper that we found out what had happened. Jessie had murdered her baby after apparently seeing horrible apparitions of an elderly person in her house that had tormented her for weeks and she had finally snapped and turned loopy. This wasn’t the disturbing part though. The disturbing part was that fact that the baby monitor in the room the murder took place had been switched on during the murder.
My cousin and I had heard everything.

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A Mother’s Love :
One afternoon, a couple was traveling on by car when at a far distance they saw a woman in the middle of the road, waving frantically.
The wife told her husband to keep on driving because it might be too dangerous, but the husband decided to pass by slowly so he wouldn’t stay with the doubt on his mind of what might have happened and the chances of anyone being hurt. As they got closer, they noticed a woman with cuts and bruises on her face as well as on her arms. They then decide to stop and see if they could be of any help.
The cut and bruised woman was begging for help telling them that she had been in a car accident and that her husband and son, a new born baby, were still inside the car which was in a deep ditch. She told them that the husband was already dead but that her baby seemed to still be alive.
The husband that was traveling decided to get down and try to rescue the baby and he asked the hurt woman to stay with his wife inside the their car. When he got down he noticed two people in the front seats of the car but he didn’t pay any importance to it and took out the baby quickly and got up to take the baby to it’s mother. When he got up, he didn’t see the mother anywhere so he asked his wife where she had gone. She told him that the woman followed him back to the crashed car.
When the husband went back to look for her, he noticed that clearly the couple in the front seats were dead, one of whom was unmistakeably the woman who had flagged them down.

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Confession :
All the names – except J.J.’s – are changed, for reasons that should be obvious.
I grew up in Royal Oak, Michigan, about twenty minutes from downtown Detroit. It’s one of those places where the people with money ran to after things in the city went shit-shaped.
I went to high school with this guy I’ll call Nick. We had a TV Production class together, and we both decided that was the kind of thing we wanted to do for a living, so we ended up in a lot of the same film classes in college.
We weren’t that close, and I didn’t hang out with him that much outside of school, but a year after graduation, he contacted me about this show he wanted to make. He said he really liked my camera work, and I was better with editing and effects programs than most of the other students – I’d been playing with them as a hobby since tenth grade – and he said he could use my knowledge for the production values.
Nick was never that great at the technical side of things. Even after film school, his stuff always looked kind of cheap and Youtube-y. But he was charming, the kind of guy who could do great voiceovers, come up with impressive-sounding “artistic visions” (he was great at putting on airs and convincing stupid people his shitty-looking films were actually high art with all kinds of symbolic metaphorical ironic subtext or whatever) and pitch the hell out of any idea, no matter how stupid. So he thought we’d make a good team.
His idea was for this “Real Stories of Detroit” type of show. I mean, That wasn’t what he called it, but it’s a pretty good summary of the premise. His explanation was that people on the outside know this place sucks, but besides all those dilapidated building photos (“ruin porn, ” they call it) and the crime reports no one cares about, they don’t know enough about the very real horror that happens here on a daily basis. In other words, they didn’t see us as human, man, just a big joke.
I agreed with some of his points, I wasn’t finding paying work at the time, and I wanted to help out an old sort-of-friend, so I agreed to do some camera work for him. If anything became of it, I’d get partial credit and we’d split the profits.
During the planning phase, Nick was always going on about how the show would have both artistic merit and social relevance, exposing the darker side of humanity as well as the conditions we overlook right here in America, and hopefully, encourage the complacent masses to wake up and do something about our poverty and urban blight.
It took me about a week to realize that was all bullshit.
In the early days, the material that would make up the meat of our show was hard to find, so we spent hours every day combing through shock and gore sites for whatever we could find that might have come from around here in the last ten years. Over the next several months, my external drive filled up with camcorder videos of rotting corpses people stumbled across, security camera footage of cashiers getting shot in the face by robbers, leaked footage of blood-soaked crime scenes, and every type of forensic photo imaginable.
We called up and interviewed crack whores – the very few who had access to phones and could complete intelligible sentences, anyway – ex-cons, and people who’d confess to any depraved shit as long as we didn’t show their faces.
The “real stories” were never positive, always just the worst shit we could dig up. We never talked to people reading storybooks to kids or tending community gardens or anything.
According to Nick, that was “feel-good fluff” and didn’t “reflect the city’s brutal reality.”
According to Nick, what did “reflect the city’s brutal reality” was a freak show of poverty, misery, and suffering.
We added some dramatic public domain music and somber narration, but that was the only thing “artistic” about it.
Our first episode was too gory for any TV network to touch, or to post on any of the big video hosting sites without it getting pulled within the week. But we started our own site, and Nick posted links on a few of the sites where we’d found our source material.
It took a less than a month for me to start hating it, but when I make promises, I keep them.
I didn’t really want to quit until after what happened to J.J.
We did a lot of shooting on the streets – for both the interviews and for ruin porn – especially in the northeast and Highland Park. If you don’t know, Detroit’s west side is (mostly kind of almost) a normal city. Those parts of town where you hear about the forest reclaiming whole blocks and bears wandering the streets are up Northeast. And Highland Park is the worst of the many neighborhoods that make up crackland.
None of them are the kinds of places you want to walk into unarmed with a camera, so for security, we hired this big guy with tattoos on his face who always carried a 45. I have no idea how Nick met this guy.
One day, while we were out getting footage of the old Grande Ballroom to use as establishing shots for a nearby neighborhood where I think someone set his girlfriend on fire, we met this old homeless guy who went by “J.J.”
He was a drunk, but at least he wasn’t on anything harder, and for a drunk, he was surprisingly friendly, lucid and intelligent.
For a few dollars an hour and some hot food, he’d show us around his stomping grounds and point out some of the more interesting sights. There was one time when he showed us a house where whoever lived there had left their doll collection behind when they moved out, for example.
Whenever we were on set, Nick was really adamant that I not only turn off my phone, but leave it at home. He wanted to make sure I didn’t sneak and start texting or something while we were working.
I didn’t know why he was so paranoid about it at the time, I mean, it’s not like he was even paying me by the hour, but it started to make perfect sense about two weeks later.
One day we were filming on Robinwood St. – just getting some shots of garbage and burnt-out houses to fill some space between videos of murders – when J.J. told us he used to squat over here, and he knew an abandoned but still pretty solid two-story house where you could get to the roof through one of the upper story windows. From there, we could get a shot of most of the neighborhood. I didn’t think it was safe, even with my lightest camera, so he volunteered to go first just to show us nothing would collapse under his weight.
Well, he caught his foot on something, lost his balance, and fell right off the roof and landed in (what was left of) the concrete driveway. Both his legs snapped under him.
We both kind of panicked. Mostly because we couldn’t afford to pay any medical bills or risk having anyone sue us. Nick was very adamant about that.
So we left him there.
Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that.
It quickly dawned on us that if anyone came around and found him, he’d talk to some kind of authorities as soon as he was back to civilization.
Or at least I think I think that’s why we decided to do it. It was hard to hear each other over all J.J.’s screaming and crying. I’d never heard a man make that much noise.
So Nick had our bodyguard hold the guy’s arms while he shoved a rag into his mouth.
We used a clean one. We’re not animals.
Then he duct taped it shut. Nick and I put on our gloves, so we wouldn’t leave fingerprints. When we’re out shooting, we carry thick work gloves everywhere we go. There’s no specific reason, just that when you work in abandoned buildings, and sometimes around human waste and dead bodies, gloves are always a good thing to have. I didn’t know why Nick had duct tape. Maybe it was in case he ever had to do something like that.
That muffled the screams were enough to the point where no one more than ten or twenty feet away would hear them, but Jesus, his eyes. I still have nightmares about his eyes. Bloodshot and wild with pain and terror, just begging us not to do that.
Then we bound his arms behind his back and wrapped his hands in cocoons of duct tape. Then we picked him up and moved him into a nearby abandoned house, and because he was still thrashing around, we “accidentally” let him fall down the basement stairs, so he couldn’t wriggle his way out to the street.
Then we left him there.
We’d thought about having our guard just shoot him, but we all agreed that would make too much noise, and we’re not murderers, we’re just… Refusing to take responsibility for J.J.’s reckless actions. Yeah, something like that.
“What if we get caught?” I asked Nick.
I imagined myself trying to explain this.
The duct tape was because he was drunk and trying to attack us, officer. Had to restrain him. We’re so sorry we forgot to call you, but we were just terrified.
He just looked at me like he couldn’t believe my stupidity and told me they’d never investigate this. As far as they’re concerned, a homeless guy just pissed off some thug who broke his legs. Happens all the time around here.
Being a human with a functioning soul, I was freaked out the entire time, and I told Nick I wanted to quit. He just shook his head.
I looked behind him, and our bodyguard was just silently staring at me, with his shirt pulled up so you could see the gun and this look devoid of any recognizable emotions on his face. He just stared me down for thirty seconds straight without breaking eye contact before I just mumbled that maybe I’d keep working here, but I’d like the rest of the day off.
Would we actually have had to pay J.J.’s hospital bills or risk a lawsuit from this man who obviously couldn’t afford a lawyer? In hindsight, I don’t know, and I’m pretty sure Nick didn’t care.
When I got home and checked my phone, I found a text from Nick saying “SEE YOU TOMORROW.”
Caps his, not mine.
I knew what that meant. I wasn’t going anywhere. Nick and our bodyguard had voted down my decision, and they knew where I lived.
We’d come back a few times over the next few days just to… Check up on J.J. It took about three days for him to stop moving.
After that, we went right back to making the episode, and many more after that, like nothing happened.
We developed a cult following. Teens loved what we were doing. They passed it around on Facebook, used it to gross each other out. So did that specific set of gorehounds for who slasher movies are just a little too fictional to be scary. And violence fetishists. We got a lot of comments about people jacking off to parts of our shows I never wanted to know anyone could possibly jack off to. …And even more from people who just thought this kind of stuff was “what those ****** deserve.”
This went on for almost a year without incident.
…Until, a few weeks ago, I finally admitted one of my friends in private that I’d never wanted any of this shit and part of me had always thought just moving to another state and being done with it. I’m assuming she told someone who told someone else until Nick caught wind of it somehow, because two days later, he told me we’d be filming something special.
He took me into this abandoned school in one of those neighborhoods with like one building left per block. Our bodyguard was waiting there for us, as well as about ten of his friends. They were all wearing matching colors and bandanas that covered their faces.
When I came in, Nick had set up a tripod for me, about ten feet in front of something under a filthy sheet that squirmed from time to time.
Our bodyguard pulled off the sheet, and there was this terrified kid bound, gagged, and tied to a chair. Looked like he was in his mid teens, definitely not older than twenty. He looked kind of like my little brother, and maybe that’s why Nick was so enthusiastic about making me film this.
This boy, our bodyguard told us, had been talking too much, and these guys wanted to make sure the world knew just what happens to people like that. The whole time, Nick was just staring vacantly at me with this empty half-smile on his face.
I pointed the camera at the kid, turned it on, and just watched. I knew what was going to happen, but for some reason, the part of me that usually triggers fear just didn’t go off.
One of the bandanas was slowly circling him, tapping a baseball bat on the floor. I think he was the leader, so he got to go first. With every tap, the kid would almost shit himself, which was the point.
Finally, after about three or four minutes of that, he swung it right into the kid’s gut. They started low so he wouldn’t pass out.
After they’d worked over every part of the kid’s body besides his head, they finally handed it back to the leader, and he took one hard, climactic swing that splattered red and bits of meat across the walls. Then several more, just to drive the point home.
By the time they were done, his face wasn’t recognizable as human, I could see the white of the inside of his skull, his brain was lying on the floor looking like a raw hamburger dropped off a building, and there was a river of blood running across the floor.
The strangest part was that I didn’t cry or anything. I guess that by that point, I’d just kind of checked out mentally. That was probably the moment I learned where Nick and our bodyguard got those weird stares.
When we put the footage in our show, we told everyone a gang member had anonymously dropped it in our mail slot after he heard about the kind of show we were doing.
“The following video is real, and extremely graphic. Viewer discretion is advised.”
Everyone knows that just makes you want to watch it more.
As soon as I got home, I opened my email to find one from Nick saying “SEE YOU TOMORROW.” That’s just his way of rubbing it in.
But he didn’t need to, because I wasn’t really planning to quit anymore. It’s just something I bitch about sometimes.
See, Nick might not have a conscience, but at least he’s been unusually honest through this whole thing. He made good on his promise about the money and the credit. I’m now half-owner of what looks like it’s going to be an online empire. Nick knows a lot of people, and these days, I’ve started to, too. Through these people, we get material.
A lot of the things it used to take us hours to dig off the internet, now… I’ll get an anonymous phone call, drive out to some abandoned building where guys in masks or bandanas are waiting for me, and film, silently and without empathy, myself.
People send us even more, too, from grainy cell phone videos to almost professional-level Canon TSi work. Beatings, rape, stabbings, execution-style shootings, and some things much more creative.
It’s not hard to find our site on your own, if you haven’t already, but I can’t link you to it. I can’t even tell you its name. Nick’s kind of a narcissist, and he Googles it all the time to see what people are saying about us. The site is down right now anyway. We’re moving to a bigger server. All the views keep crashing it.
Local newspapers slam us and the tourist board clucks their tongues, but we bring in enough ad revenue to pay for a middle-class lifestyle for us both. One night while we were out drinking, Nick started raving about “This is what the news was talking about, the ‘user-created content revolution.’ We’re a fuckin’ Alger story, and watch, people like us are going to run the media in the future.”
And it’s true.
People like us will bend public opinion to our will, tell you who to vote for, and train you to love watching what we want you to see.
We’ll raise your kids.
People love us. They’re imitating our format all over the place. First just in this country, in places like Newark, New Orleans, and Chicago, but I’m seeing it from other ones, too. They send me all the links. Today, I watched a bunch of Zetas pick up machetes and lay into a housewife as some kid imitated Nick’s narration style in Spanish.
But none of this matters. The only reason I can confess it all here is because you’ll never take it seriously. Even if you’ve seen our site, you think it’s just a spooky story to tell on the internet, and you’ll assume there’s no way I’m not really who I am. People have pretended to be me on the internet before. We’re a legitimate company, you’ll say. We’d never do things like this.
Police have questioned us a few times about stuff we may have seen, but we just tell them we find it on the internet, or it gets sent anonymously to us. No idea where this stuff comes from. Fucked-up place, this city. We have part of our budget set aside to pay off the ones who ask too many questions, and that deals with the problem. They are, after all, Detroit cops.
I don’t care anymore.

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Beware The Dark Figure :
Witness a man in his late twenties, all alone in a two-story house on All Hallows Eve. The trick-or-treaters have long since gone, and now it’s time for him to relax with a mug of warm milk, and watch a horror film. As he sits in a comfortable chair in his basement in front of a large flatscreen, he feels a sense of security from the outside world. But there is one thing at this moment that he must beware of: Me! My name is not important, and it certainly won’t matter to my new friend. According to his ID that I’ve just discovered, his name is Josh. I’m currently hiding in Josh’s bedroom upstairs. What am I doing in this particular house? Just having some fun, of course.
Call me ‘The Dark Figure’, for I dress completely in black. I’m just an average guy you’ve probably seen on the bus heading to work in the big city. When I’m not busy with my 9 to 5 desk job or spending time with my girlfriend, I’m sneaking into peoples’ houses for fun and games. There are no rules for the games that I play, I just like to make them up as I go and be creative. I choose my playmates based on one specific thing: Unlocked doors. You’d be surprised how many people don’t bother to lock their doors anymore. I’ve crept into many houses where the residents were busy watching a movie, just like this man Josh. You should’ve seen the looks on their faces. Anyway, you’d think on a night like Halloween night that nobody would dare leave their front doors unlocked, what with all the crazies in costumes running wild. Luckily, Josh was thoughtful enough to do just that. Now I will have a happy Halloween!
I’ve brought along a toy for this occasion, my trusty pry-bar that I stole years ago from my dad’s garage. It’s long, blunt and sharp. It’s also kind of a pain to carry around, but it has a rusted, menacing look that freaks the shit out of people, which amuses me. Oh, I also have a small bottle of a very toxic, green chemical that I stole from a friend who is majoring in chemistry. To be honest, I have no idea what it does, but I’ll know soon. Before my game starts, I think I’ll help myself to some Halloween candy. I love the Snickers bars and Reeses, they bring me back to my childhood. The sound of the movie from downstairs is shaking the house, but then suddenly, it stops. Perhaps my boots on the floor made too much noise, I should retreat back to the dark bedroom.
Sure enough, Josh is making his way up the staircase right now, but he can’t notice me if I remain in the shadows. He doesn’t see me! I’m standing in the hallway right now staring back at him, and he has no idea! Now he’s going outside with a flashlight to investigate the noises I’ve been making. Perfect! Time to go to work! I wait till Josh is outside, searching around, then I creep past the open door and proceed down to the dark basement which is illuminated by the TV screen. There is a black-and-white horror film he has on pause. The DVD case says it’s ‘Maniac’. How fitting. With no time to waste, I spot the mug of warm milk on a stand next to his comfy recliner. I put several drops of the chemical into the steaming liquid, then retreat into a spare downstairs bedroom at the end of a small hallway. Now I wait and listen.
Getting excited, I hear the sound of Josh returning to his home and closing the door, followed by the sound of him descending the staircase. He sits back into his chair and unpauses the movie. Sounds of maniacal laughter fill the room. All I can hear next is the film’s dialogue with classical music playing. Just then, I hear Josh’s body thud to the ground, followed by a dragging noise. The chemical has made him too weak to stand, and he’s crawling in agony to the nearest bathroom to try and puke it up. Lucky for me, the nearest bathroom is right across from the room I am in. He’s getting closer now. Time to strike.
I step out of the shadows, and Josh is still crawling on the floor. I raise my pry-bar, then impale him right through the head. Blood squirts out and splashes on my black mask. I pull my weapon out of his skull, then take it into the bathroom to wash the blood and brain-matter off of it. Should I have tortured him some more first? Oh well, there will always be another victim. I take a seat on Josh’s recliner and watch the rest of the movie before calling it a night and sneaking out the backdoor. I have to get up early tomorrow anyway for a meeting, but someday soon, I, ‘The Dark Figure’, will return.
Remember, if you hear a strange noise at your door late at night, just tell yourself it’s the wind, that way I can play with you.

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Generation Story :
So a little bit about myself before I relay a little bit of my story and if you guys enjoy it I will periodically come back and tell you a few more stories. Wealth may not run in my family but I sure inherited a lot of ghost stories.
The story/stories I’m about to recount have almost nothing to do with me. They are mostly to do with my grandmother, who was the sole inspiration and caretaker that I had coming from a defunct family. Thanks to her, I am currently in a good University and will be leaving for Japan in March on a full scholarship.
Anyways, before I even begin to tie in where I come into the story (if I ever get that far), I think the most important thing would be telling you guys a good background of my grandmother. My Grandmother was born on December 23rd, 1933, in Gangwondo province which is now a major province of South Korea. She was born to a poor family, her mother a poor YangBang (noble scholar class) and her father a farmer. With three of her sisters (whom live in all parts of the world now), and with my grandmother being the eldest, she was already the next in line to keep the house running (cooking, cleaning, laundry) at an extremely young age (7).
If you know a little bit about Asian history, you would know she was born during the Japanese occupation of South Korea. When my grandmother turned eight years old, I suspect my great-grandfather killed a Japanese MP, and they had to relocate to a different province to prevent my great-grandfather’s execution. During the escape, my grandmother was captured and sent to Japan to what she presumed to be a forced labor worker.
When my grandmother was in Japan, it started a long relationship she claimed she had with what she calls “our other halves.” When she was telling me the story, she told me she was going to take these stories to the grave. She had a strong belief that the same antagonistic nature of spirits would claim those who spread it. However, she came to the United States and converted to Christianity, and thus her storytelling began with a devout belief in Jesus, her protector.
Sorry for the digression. My grandmother was sold out to a disgraced Samurai family, the current head of the household had put down his father’s sword during the time of his country’s war and pursued academia and business. Therefore, while he had money, he was exceedingly looked down upon by his fellow countrymen. He had resorted to living with his wife in the middle of nowhere.
My grandmother was one of the three women workers the Head had purchased as labor workers. My grandmother was the youngest of the three, and was looked upon with great favor by the Oksan (Madam) of the house. She was barren according to my grandmother, and was glad to have her around the house, albeit it was never quite a true mother-daughter relationship, due to the racial implications.
However, the trouble began when one of the older women workers started to have an affair with the Head. During this time of Asian history, especially with war raging and Confucian values and morality taxing people’s consciousness, a good wife would have kept her mouth shut and simply accepted the fact her husband enjoyed a little love making on the side.
The only thing that bothered the Oksan greatly was the fact the Head was infatuated with the worker. The head started to neglect the Oksan, shun his own room, and would instead lie with her in her slave’s quarters. This infuriated the overly emotional Oksan to no end, and it finally blew over when the worker became heavy with child.
When the worker realized she was with child, she immediately tried every primitive trick to abort the fetus. She sat in cold water for a long duration during the early months, and when the swelling started to appear, she ingested a near lethal dose of poison to try and abort the baby.
The baby refused to be aborted, at this point, even my grandmother knew it was simply not possible for the baby to be alive any longer. What was growing in her fellow worker’s stomach was a stillborn if they were lucky, or at the very worst severely deformed.
However, the Head had caught the mania of having a child under his name. He promised to elope with her in Kyoto, and forge her Japanese citizenship papers as long as she bore him a child.
The Head had let his intentions known too late, and the damage was already done. The stillborn continued to grow in her stomach, and she did not have the heart to tell him of the acts she had done, certain that she would of been cast out to die when discovered.
The Oksan certainly was not a stupid woman, and a month before the delivery, no matter how much the worker had bind her stomach, or put on many layers, she was discovered.
The Oksan’s rage is one of my grandmother’s favorite thing to tell, she was so angry that it was the closest my grandmother saw to someone dying of a heart attack out of anger. Grabbing the Head’s father’s ceremonial sword, she dragged the girl to the middle of their large yard, where a well was kept for the little livestock they had.
Cutting off her hands, the Oksan cast the girl with the stillborn in her womb, over the edge of the well.
The Head was heartbroken, and in an era where divorce did not exist, he left alone for Kyoto permanently. Sending back home money every now and then to keep his estate running. According to my grandmother, this was where the “other” problems started to happen.
When the few other forced Korean workers tried to hold a small ceremony in the girl’s honor, the Oksan flew into rage again, and threatened to kill all of them if they tried to throw as little bit of rice into the well as offering. Fearing the now crazy disgraced Oksan, the forced workers including my grandmother hastened to obey.
The first problem began with the small puddles of stagnant water that started to appear around the main wooden porch near the well. A scuffle happened between the yard/garden worker and cook about who was leaving water behind on the walk, but ended at that. My grandmother being the youngest and weakest at the time, was charged with mopping the water up. She says she vividly recalls a long black strand of hair being in one of the stagnant puddles, but dismissing it as her own or one of the worker’s, and continued on with her day.
Weirder things began to happen as winter turned into spring, and many of the Japanese servants who worked the estates were spooked very badly and left. The slaves had no choice but to remain on the estate as long as the Oksan lived.
Stagnant water started to appear everywhere throughout the house. My grandmother was hard pressed to clean up all of the stinking water that the other slaves refused to touch. My grandmother was too young to full grasp what was fully going on, and instead just followed orders.
Already the slaves believed the girl who was killed heavy with child was beginning to haunt the estate, however everyone including my grandmother knew better than to talk aloud about it. She continued to work and mop up after the puddles.
One night as she was headed to bed, the Oksan ordered her to sleep with her. The Oksan made her lie next to her and held her like her own daughter, according to my grandmother, and this caused my grandmother of then to weep. The Oksan for the first time in months acted gentle toward her and helped her fall asleep.
However my grandmother’s sleep was cut short when she heard a light thud on the side of the paper screened wooden door. Believing it was all in her head or a stick thrown up in the breeze, she was about to head back to sleep when the paper screen at head level of the door started to darken. The paper had started to soak up water.
My grandmother, believing she was completely dreaming, walked to the door and opened it, to discover her fellow worker standing before her, her hands missing, and completely drenched in water, while still showing signs of being with child.
My grandmother began to talk to her now deceased friend, only to be met with silence. After my grandmother gave up talking, her friend only pointed with her stump to the Oksan. My grandmother rushed to wake her up.
Upon waking, the Oksan looked toward the door and gave a shriek, clutching my grandmother in both her arms and screaming bloody murder. My grandmother blacked out from the shock, as well as her grip.
When my grandmother came to, she claimed the Oksan had now retired to her own room, and had fallen ill. Over the course of the next few days, a few doctors and medicine men visited to no avail. There was nothing that could cure her illness.
Up until the day the Oksan died she was tormented, she claimed everything she drank, from the pricey plum sake the doctors tried to get her to drink, as well as water from the communal water stream tasted like dirt. Whenever she was alone, she claimed when she lifted her lids off her bowls to eat there would only be wet matted hair in the bowls. This apparently never happened when others were present.
The Oksan passed away, and with no one else to boss the workers, and with all the Japanese servants gone, my grandmother and her workers lived off of the estate’s savings until the Americans dropped the A-bomb and liberated North East Asia. My grandmother was one of the first people to get on the boat to return to Korea to find her family.
Now, I understand this story has no closure, and is almost childlike in quality, but there is where I would like to present the part that gives me chills and terrifies me to this day.
I heard this story when I was 10, and my grandmother’s ghost stories never quite scared me (as I’m sure it does nothing to you as well), there were better scares to be had. Sleepyhollow was more frightening to me at that age than my grandmother’s tales.
However, when I was 15, I was watching a Korean summer program that was running that summer. Every summer, a Korean broadcasting company would air a little creepy hour segment of scary shorts depicting urban myth and legends. It was your basic junk, don’t look up in the shower, never leave a little kid by them-self, etc etc.
However, a segment I watched that year made me take my grandmother a little bit more seriously.
One of the hour specials was dedicated to Japanese urban myths and spooky happenings. It was still the same junk, different names. Akai-Onna, scissor woman, bed monster. Etc.
However, if I remember correctly, there is an apartment complex in the Shiga prefecture of Japan, that is haunted by a very different ghost.
Every night, if you try to get on an elevator by yourself, the doors will be just sliding shut when a woman will call from just around the outside corner of the elevator, asking you to hold it. If you are quick to react and manage to hold the elevator, the woman will get on with you.
People on the show described her as a young lady who was obviously pregnant, and is soaking wet. A few people claimed she politely asked the person on board with her a floor (usually 5, fellow Asians in here knows what that means) and will get off before or after you depending on which floor you get off. She will always pick a different floor according to the people on the show, so you never step off with her.
Those who discover something is off with the woman drenching wet when it wasn’t raining aren’t so lucky apparently. Although it didn’t say if anyone directly started a conversation with her based off on her state of appearance, I can’t say. However, the victims on the show constantly said they had nightmares when they were aware of the girl’s “other” status during the ride.
I certainly got chills watching this, hunched over my computer in my hot summer room, with my grandmother sleeping in the next room. But rationality seeped in, and I relaxed a bit. I mean, it’s not that crazy, the chances are high of this type of shit happening, right? Right.
However, what came next sucker-punched me in the gut. Apparently, the “haunting” got so bad that the building superintendent himself went on a mission to find out what the hell was going on, after being plagued by a series of nightmares himself.
The segment went on with more and more information, but I could have recited it from memory. It used to be a noble estate, there was a disused well in the basement that was now overfilled with stagnant water and is hazardous to excavate. The Head left the estate to Kyoto, and they believe someone might have died in the well and the haunting may continue to this day.
I understand in the world of creepypastas and stories saying “this is a 100% true” doesn’t go far. But I have tried my best to relay all I can recall in the most concise manner from memory.
Bitters, out.
P.S: I can’t take full credit for any of the stories I contribute to this site or /x/. I simply transcribe what I heard from my family from memory, and will give credit where credit is due in my works (if people ever want to hear more. Hah).

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Chemical :
If you asked me how long we’ve been down here, I wouldn’t know. We don’t see the sun, and nobody seems to have a watch. It doesn’t matter anyway; we don’t have anywhere to be. For all we know there isn’t anywhere left to be. The surface has surely been overrun with death and decay by now.
There are six of us left. Until just recently there were seven. Her screaming has stopped now and I feel relief. It was hard to sleep with those agonizing screams and the banging on the steel door. Huddled in my blankets, I look around at the other survivors; four men and a woman, all of us unkempt and haggard. At one point we all worked here, but since the accident it’s become our prison. The painfully low amount of food is in a pile in the center of the room, so we can all keep an eye on it to make sure nobody is taking more then we’re allowed per day. There’s enough food for three, maybe four meals. None of us want to think about it. We just stare.
There are no beds, just piles of blankets and paper that make crude sleeping areas. There’s one bathroom at the far end of the complex and it has running water. There are three other rooms, rooms we used to work in, filled with computers and lab equipment that has accumulated a fine layer of dust. We still have power somehow, so all the security cameras and lights still work. Unfortunately none of the computers work because they’ve been shut and locked, as per emergency protocol. Any contact with the outside world is non-existent.
We worked for the military, doing basic chemical research. Somewhere along the line a chemical was leaked, and the results were fatal. People who came into direct contact with the chemical succumbed to vomiting, mild at first, then intense, until they had nothing to excrete except for their own blood. Nobody lasted more then a couple hours once they had touched the chemical. It also spread through saliva, bile and blood, so those with the misfortune of coming into contact with even a single drop are doomed. We had to toss that woman out because we caught her vomiting in the toilet. She said she was pregnant and that it was only morning sickness, but you can’t be sure. Her fiancé, Barry, tried to intervene, calling us animals. We clubbed him over the head, then tied and gagged him to a thick pipe at one end of the room. He strains against the bonds and screams into the gag occasionally, a fierce and wild-eyed look on is face. It’s for his own good and the good of everyone here. He might hurt someone. He needs to be untied and fed eventually, but nobody wants to be the one to do it. So we just sit and stare at the pile of food on the floor that gets lower with each rationed meal. He’s another mouth to feed that we can’t afford.
Everyone is on edge, twitchy and jumpy. Every movement is watched intently, with suspicious and unrelenting eyes. Nobody talks anymore. They just stare. We all know we’re going to die, it’s just a matter of time before hunger or the chemical gets us. It’s all in the backs of our minds, eating away at our sanity.
It’s been awhile now since the incident with the sick woman. Barry died while I was asleep, and our food supplies have run out. I draw the blanket over my head and drift into a fitful sleep, filled with hunger pangs. I’m awakened some time later by the sound of whispers. I can see three members of our group huddled in a circle and identify them as Marcus, Daniel and Eileen. My stirring causes them to look over, piercing me with savage eyes. They start moving towards me with a hungry look on their faces. Their intent hits me with a sudden burst of fear, and I scramble to my feet. Marcus grabs me by the collar, and it tears as I break loose from his grip. Daniel grabs at my blanket and I shove him hard against the third attacker, Eileen. They go sprawling and I spring past them and into the computer room, locking the door as fast as I can. Dragging desks and cabinets, I make a crude and hopefully secure barricade. I see them banging themselves against the door and the windows, glaring at me with feral eyes. Something catches their attention down the hall, and they stop, heads snapping sharply in the direction of the bathroom.
The fifth man, Jackson, must have finished using the facilities, unaware of the intent of the other three. He approaches and peers into the window, a puzzled look on his face. I try to scream a warning, but all that escapes my throat is a hoarse rattle. It’s too late anyway, and his face is smashed against the glass by one of the others. I stare in horror as his face is smashed to a pulp, each thud resounding through the room like a slow heartbeat. Then his body is taken away and there is silence.
They’re gone for now, but they’ll be back. Hunger gnaws at my stomach and I search frantically for any morsel of food. With extreme luck, I manage to find a candy bar in one of the desk drawers and hungrily devour it, thanking whoever it was who had the sweet tooth. My bliss soon passes, and the hunger pains return. I try to sleep, but even the slightest sound jolts me awake. I have no idea how much time has passed but suddenly they were bashing the blood smeared window with a pipe. They’re going to get in, and I will need to defend myself.
There’s an emergency axe in one corner of the room, inside a glass case. I smash the glass and retrieve it, and it makes me fell a little better. My anxiety grows along the spider web cracks on the window with each passing moment. After God knows how many attempts, the window finally shatters and the wild, barely human face of Marcus peers in. I sit in a chair, with the axe out of view, and wait. I’m going to die anyway, so I might as well go out fighting. He climbs in, followed by Eileen and finally Daniel. They approach slowly, in a mini skirmish line. When they get close enough, Marcus raises the pipe for a killing blow. Before he has time to bring it down, I swing the axe and slice him in the chest. The pipe clatters to the floor and as I spring to my feet. Eileen lunges at where I was and crashes into the now empty chair. I swing the axe, catching Daniel off guard and delivering a blow to the temple. His blood showers me and stings my eyes, blinding me. Eileen lunges for me again and tackles me around the ankles, sending me to the ground. I managed to hang on to my axe, and as her hands clasp around my neck I slash her throat. The hands grip tighter for a moment and then loosen, and her lifeless body crumples on top of me.
Pushing her off, I stagger towards Marcus, gagging from the strangling I had just received. He was still alive, dragging himself through his own blood towards the fallen pipe. I stick my foot on his back and swing the axe onto his skull. My heart racing, I stumble backwards and am grabbed by hands from behind. The axe is wrenched from my hand and I feel a sharp prick on my neck. I lose all muscle control and slump to the floor. Through blurred vision I see men in hazmat suits all around me. I hear the sound of their voices, but they seem distorted and far away. Then the man nearest me speaks and the words register into my brain with horror.
“The experiment has gone on long enough,” he says, before I sink into total darkness.
Credited to Kilkenny.

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The Text Message :
Driving home from a friends house, you sit at a red light when you hear a familiar tone from your phone, sitting in the passenger seat. A text message. Probably from your friend; you always leave things at their homes. Being a responsible driver, and the light still red, you open the message and wait for a moment for the image to load. Suddenly, a photo pops into view. Red, obscured, strange contrast. And no text accompanying it.
But the light is green, so you close your phone and go back to driving, wondering vaguely what that was, and who would have sent you it. Perhaps someone accidentally took a picture of the inside of their bag or pocket and sent it to you. You’re still caught wondering as you pull up to the next light, also red, and another little tone from your phone. You flip it open, hoping for an apology from a friend, but find yourself waiting as another photo loads on the screen. This one, still mostly red, but textured now with scraps of blue, yet still indiscernible. This time, it takes an impatient honk from behind you before you realize you can pass through the light and be on your way home. Closing the phone, and continue on your way.
You sit uncomfortable now as the tone rings again, at yet another stop signal. You pause, hesitate, and then open the phone. The picture now is suddenly much more clear. That scrap of blue seems to be the ragged edge of a bit of denim, half blood soaked and laying across a pile of entrails, torn straight through the back of a human torso. You can only see from the bottom of the shoulder blade to the tops of the thighs, but its unmistakably human. Blue-white spinal bone smeared in blood, tubes of intestine trailing out between ragged looking spinal tissue and going out of the frame of the picture. You choke back a throat full of bile and throw the phone back into the passenger seat, happy to be on your way again, and dreading the knowledge that you won’t be able to not look as you hear that tone again.
There is some relief as you realize there are no more stoplights before you reach your home. But as you pull up to that red stop sign, the bottom of your stomach drops out and you feel a cold sweat build on the back of your neck. You have already picked up the phone, even before that tell-tale little tone has told you there is a message. The cell vibrates in your hand as you flip it open, your mind gone on auto-pilot, driving home with your eyes on the screen as the newest photo loads. Intestines piled almost artistically to the side of the body, scalp ripped free and no hair discernable, and that sickening contrast of darkening red on blue. For some reason, you expected that, even as you taste bile on the back of your tongue.
Its not as close or obscured. Flesh torn apart by God knows what means, torn denim, and blood soaked so far into the threadbare fabric of a hand-me-down couch. The one you have in your living room. You pull your car into park, hands shaking as you make your way up to your front door. You can’t stop yourself now, your body’s just doing as it normally would, but your finger frantically scrolls down the screen, finding no name, no phone number, and a time dated on the message three minutes from now.
You put the key in the door as you try shrug off your denim jacket.
Credited to The Flea!

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Branches in the Wind :
Finally, I’m home. After working a late night, I finally finished a project that my boss pushed on me. It was all worth it though, because I had a great day ahead of me. The part I was most excited for though, was seeing my son. I finally won the custody battle against my ex-wife, so now I actually get to see him. I fixed up my old spare bedroom for him, although it looked bland in all white. I figured we would have some spare time later and we could make any changes he wanted. I lumbered up the stairs, and when he finally heard I was here, he quickly called me into his room.
“Daddy, I can’t sleep, there’s a monster in the window!”
Monsters, huh, that’s original for a kid.
“Oh don’t worry about that, it’s just the tree’s branches blowing in the wind, see?”
I pointed and showed him the branch tapping against the window pane. He trusted me enough to calm himself down, and I kissed him good night. Finally, time for sleep, I could hardly even see straight at this point. I walked across the hallway, and collapsed into my bed. I had too much on my plate to be dealing with monsters. I had to go with him to school the next day to get him signed up in our district, I had to buy him school clothes, I couldn’t even think straight. That’s when I heard him calling again. Man, I love the kid and all, but I needed some sleep!
“Daddy, the monster is back again!” he shrieked.
I looked to the window: nope, nothing but the tree’s branches. I walked over, and to prove it to him, I opened the window and turned back to him.
“See, it’s nothing but the tree, I told you, now go to sleep, you’ve got school in the morning.”
He was still a little startled from what I could see, but what could I do, I was just too damn tired. Again, I fell into the comfort of my bed. Then I heard a cry, and I had just had enough.
“Fine, I’ll just sleep in your bed with you, if you see any monsters, just hold tight to me.”
I walked back into his room, pulled back his red blanket, and lay next to the kid.
While I lay, eyes closed, my mind started wandering. Didn’t I buy white sheets for the bed? I looked at my son’s slit neck and realized my mistake. That’s when I heard the monster, except it wasn’t tapping at the glass; it was the footsteps from the opened window. I couldn’t help but laugh, how didn’t I realize I had no trees in my yard?

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Facebook Chat :
I met James Vickers when we were both about 12. We were next door neighbours, and I had been out in my back yard playing soccer by myself, kicking the ball against the fence. It was at this point I met James. It took me a little while to notice his little spectacled face peering down at me from his bedroom window. When I spotted him, I waved. He waved back and opened his window to talk to me.
We spoke about lots of things. Interests, favourite food, favourite video games- all sorts. I asked James if he would like to come to my house and play soccer with me. He politely declined, and told me that he suffered terribly with Asthma- among other illnesses, and that his parents absolutely refused to let him out of the house, or let anyone in. He instead asked me if I had a Facebook account and said he would add me on that.
I checked my Facebook later that night, accepted James’ friend request and we got chatting. And from that day, that’s pretty much how our friendship went. I would head off to school in the morning, finish up, come home and get straight on Facebook to speak with James. That’s the way it was for about 5 years. Unfortunately though, James’ illnesses got the better of him one day, and he grew very sick.
The inevitable happened though. I hadn’t spoken to James on Facebook for a few days. I had spent some time in my back garden too, waiting for him to open the window and let me know that he was fine. He never did. Instead his father came to my house one evening and presented me with a small invite to a funeral. “He told us about how much you both had in common.” His father told me. “You were his only friend as far as we know.”
The funeral was very touching. I did my best to hold back my tears, but completely lost it when Fields of Gold by Sting was played as they took James’ casket away. After the funeral in his honour still dressed in my suit, I had a bit of a kick around with the same soccer ball I had when I first met James and had a beer in the back garden. It felt weird knowing that the room he used to speak to me from was now empty and unoccupied.
As sad as I felt, I knew he was in a better place. A place where his afflictions would no longer bother him. His death had come so sudden though. The funeral just hadn’t done it for me. Perhaps I needed some kind of closure just to let me know that James was truly gone, and wasn’t coming back. So that night, I logged on to Facebook once more, opened up a chat box to James’ account and typed “Hello James”. At this point I realised how silly I was being, and promptly deleted the message before settling down in bed. I left the computer on, just in case any of my other friends sent me any messages.
Something then happened that sent a chill up my spine. The only light in the room was being emitted from the computer screen, and as I peered across the room at James’ still open chat box, I saw the words “James is typing…”

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Mess :
I awoke with a start as I heard a loud bang out in the street. I HATED noise before 8:30 AM. I have OCD, so the tiniest things can set me off.
Annoyed, I pulled on my bathrobe and walked out the front door to see what the commotion was. I stopped to fix a flower that was drooping to the wrong side. Immediately, I was assaulted with the world’s imperfections. I gave a silent yell as I surveyed my block; it looked like a disaster zone. A house down the street was on fire, and people were running out of it, screaming. Overturned trash cans and makeshift sand bag barricades lined the sidewalk. I gave a small “humph” and turned on my heel back into my house, locking all 4 of the bolts on my way in. I checked to make sure all my windows were boarded properly; everything seemed ok.
I moved over to the living room, grabbing the orange juice container and pouring myself a glass before I sat down on the sofa. I flipped on the television, and the hum of the backup generator kicked up as power usage increased. For the 4th straight day, the state’s emergency broadcast system was airing. I sighed, and returned to the kitchen to make myself a piece of toast. I was tired of the broadcast. I was hoping they’d be back on schedule with the morning news soon.
“The governor has issued a state of emergency. This broadcast has been tailored to your area.” A short pause. “Residents of San Diego and Imperial Counties are urged to make their way to the Red Cross centers in San Diego and El Centro. If you are unable to leave your home, lock and barricade your doors and windows. Arm yourselves with any weapons you can. Firearms are most effective, especially when aimed at the head. Remember to stay hydrated if infected. The CDC has so far been unsuccessful at finding a cure, but it is noted that staying hydrated keeps the immune system functioning properly. If an infected has already passed and returned in your household, do not hesitate to euthanize them. We repeat, DO NOT HESITATE. Remember, the Red Cross has centers in San Diego and El Centro. The military has camps throughout the state. Please stay safe.”
I recognized those closing words, and switched off the TV to conserve power. Another loud bang could be heard outside. I jolted, alarmed at the noise. I swore under my breath, I straightened the sofa pillows as I stood up, making my way back to the front door. Another bang. Looking through the peep-hole, I saw a disgusting figure knocking its head into my front door. It was one of the zombies, with rotting gray skin and yellow eyes. There was a festering wound on its neck; its dirty, blood-stained clothing accentuated its repulsiveness. Horrified, I stepped back. I had only seen the zombies on the television, never in real life. I wasn’t sure what to do.
Suddenly, a gunshot roared across the street, ripping into the zombie’s skull. It fell immediately, its brain and blood all over my porch. I nearly fainted. So much mess. I heard a loud whoop, and then the rippling sound of a motorcycle engine. I realized that I wasn’t safe in my home anymore. But with OCD, I found safety in what was familiar. The crowded, dirty city was not familiar. I knew it was foolish, and later I regretted it, but I chose to stay home.
I could hear the zombies becoming restless outside later in the evening, wailing late into the night. A few times I heard screams as the living tried to escape. One sounded like Mrs. Avery from two houses down. Another like Mr. King from around the corner. I vowed to try to escape while I still could the next day. With the thudding of zombies against my door, I fell into a fitful sleep.
The next morning, after gathering everything that would fit in my car and my Smith & Wesson, I backed out of my driveway for the last time. The air conditioning in the car cycled in the putrid stench of decay and vomit. The smell was overwhelming. I glanced around, trying to see if there was anyone nearby. Only zombies. They rushed over to my car, banging their bloody fists against my beautiful Lexus. One smeared entrails all over the window. I gave a small yelp, and floored the gas pedal to get away.
Minutes later, I was driving down the freeway. Overturned cars littered the road, with a few struggling bodies trapped in the wreckage. I hoped that those struggling were the undead. I passed a hospital with a large, crude banner reading “No help here, Try Mercy,” written in black paint. I shuddered at the thought of hospital patients, trapped in their beds, as the undead came limping down the hallway. I was amazed that everything had gone to ruin so quickly. Pent up inside of my perfect house, I had no idea what the rest of humanity was facing out in the world.
All of a sudden a zombie came trundling out in front of my car. Noticing it, I instinctually swerved to avoid it, which proved to be a mistake. I slammed into the center divide at about 65 miles per hour, flipping a few times before coming to a stop upside-down. My arm was twisted in a less than glorifying position, and I had multiple gashes and cuts from broken glass. Worst of all was the fact that I couldn’t move my legs. I didn’t know what was wrong. There was blood all over the place, gushing like a fountain. So much crimson, disgusting blood. I began to hyperventilate, and soon I was hysterical.
“Help!” I screamed. “Oh, God, someone help me! Please!”
Bad idea.
The zombies, hearing my loud cries, began to migrate over to my car. Where I couldn’t move my legs. Where I was defensless.
I screamed more. I wildly attempted to get myself free, but I simply couldn’t. Eventually, as the first zombies began to reach in through the window, I accepted my fate.
Delirious with blood-loss, I found myself with a childish grin. I felt dizzy as I said my last words.
“Just don’t make a mess.”

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The Hitchhikers :
There are stories about a certain kind of hitchhiker – they only ever appear at night on quiet roads, seeming to flicker into existence in the very edge of headlights, never carrying a sign, always with an expression of deep despondency on their faces, swathed in a heavy coat and long pants, usually with gloves. If you stop, they will seem cordial enough, polite, but hardly chatty. They will assure you that the next town or city along your route will be a fine spot to leave them. Normal enough. Unless you try killing them.
They die easily enough. But look underneath their clothes, and you will see that their skin is marred with lines of scars, forming repeating patterns that are unsettling to look at, and even more unsettling in the context of their skin. They have no wallets, no identification. If you slice their belly open, however, they’re different inside. There’s no blood, no muscle, only a hollow cavity containing a single object. The object varies. Examples include a single coin, heavy and golden and engraved with runes nobody could ever decipher. A diamond gem with fractal edges that slice bare flesh to ribbons. A small vase, quite unbreakable, that smells of the ocean and is always damp…
Once you possess a hitchhiker’s object, you’ll find yourself always driving the quiet roads at night. You’ll never mean to, but somehow, you just will. The lure of possessing a second one will hum quietly in your head. You’ll strain to catch sight of a figure appearing in your headlights, try to resist the impulse to stop, and sometimes you might. But sometimes you won’t. You’ll try telling yourself that this is just a normal person on an adventure, someone who ran out of petrol. The logical part of your brain will scream at what you’re doing. You’ll smile and nod and they’ll get into the car and you’ll slowly, casually, reach under the seat or across to the glove box…

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In the Wall :
I had moved into a new apartment with my girlfriend about two years ago. It was pretty small; it had only a kitchen, one bedroom, one bathroom, and a living room. All of the rooms might have been small, but the rent was good, and we didn’t really care. Neither of us made enough money to move out of the place, so we tried to make the most of it. One of the oddest things about the place was that the left wall was completely hollowed out, and the right wall was rock solid. I didn’t even notice when we first moved in. Our neighbors were always quiet and kept mostly to themselves. When we moved in, the only neighbors we had were the Whites. The Whites were to the right of us, and they were an elderly couple. They were nice to us. When we had first moved in, they brought us a “welcome to the building” present, which is what they do for all of the new people who had moved in to an apartment in the building. It was a small apple pie, which was actually quite good. About five or six months after my girlfriend and I moved in, there was a new guy that had moved into the right of us. I remember first meeting him. I had just gotten back to the building with some groceries, and as I climbed up the stairs to my apartment, I accidentally bumped into someone.
“Sorry, excuse me Mr…” but I didn’t know who this guy was. Our building is fairly small, and just about everyone knows everyone else. The man I had bumped into was middle aged, probably in his mid-fifties. Something about him was odd, though. He had deep wrinkles, pale white skin, and long greasy black hair that were unkempt and around his face and back. He looked rather sickly, like he needed to see a doctor. His eyes were a solid dark purple, which is something that I have never seen before in my entire life. “Peters” the man said with a grin that stretched ear to ear. His teeth were disgusting. They were un-brushed and looked like they were rotting away. I can still smell his putrid breath, which seemed to reek of old decaying meat. All though his appearance was a little bit creepy, he seemed nice enough. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Peters. My names Matt. Are you new to the building?”  I asked. Mr. Peters smile grew even bigger. I don’t know how he, let alone any human could smile that wide. “Yes, I am moving in. And I’m going to be living right next to your apartment.” He said as we both walked up the stairs to the top floor.
When we reached the top floor, Mr. Peters pace increased as he quickly walked to the door, opened it with his key, and shut the door behind him. It was odd, though. He did it so quickly, it was like a blur. I sighed to myself. “Great, now I have a freakish neighbor.” I thought to myself as I turned the handle of my door. It was about 4:00 P.M. My girlfriend, Sandra, was still at her job. She’s a hair stylist, and I’m a chef at a local Italian restaurant. I usually don’t get off until later, but because business was slow that day, and nobody was coming in, we closed early. I put the groceries down on the kitchen table and start to unload everything into the refrigerator. I didn’t have much with me, only about one bag. Quart of milk, a few sticks of butter, ground hamburger meat, and a box of cereal. I then got a text message from my friend, Tyler. “Bro, I just got my hands on the new Red Dead Redemption game, and you need to go out and get it so we can play together.” Was what the message read. Now, I wasn’t much of a gamer, but Tyler is one of my closest friends that I have. We’ve been best friends ever since middle school. I did have an Xbox 360, and Tyler and I would play games together from time to time. I didn’t really have anything better or more interesting to do, so I texted him back saying I would go out and buy it. As I was just about to leave to go get the game, I heard a lot of banging coming from the wall. It was weird though, because it was so clear. I went up to the left side of the wall and gave it a light tap with my knuckle. This was the first time that I realized that for whatever reason, the wall was hollow like a log. I went to the right wall, and repeated the process, only to be greeted with a thud. This wall was solid. I was puzzled on why in the world the builders of this place would make one wall solid, and the other hollow. I was also curious as to what Mr. Peters was doing to make all of that noise. I just shrugged it off. “Probably just moving things in or something.” I told myself. But, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t have anything with him when I saw him. I shrugged it off, and left to go get the game.
I got back at around 5:00 with my new game, and I was glad to discover that the banging from Mr. Peters ceased. I was happy with this. I didn’t really care what he was doing, as long as he did it quietly. I popped the game in and put my headset on. I have a pretty good headset, it blocks out most sounds. It was nice and tight around the ears, and I loved it. Tyler and I played and talked for almost three hours straight. I would have gone longer, but Sandra came home at about 8:00. I told Tyler that I had to go, and that we could play more tomorrow after I was done with work. Tyler didn’t have a job. He didn’t need one. His father was a rich man who owned some oil company or something like that, I don’t really remember. But I do know that he spoils Tyler rotten, giving him tons of money for doing absolutely nothing at all. I powered off the console and got up out of my chair to give Sandra a hug. We talked about stuff like how our days went, and things like that. I then I remembered Mr. Peters. “Did you know that someone was moving into the apartment right next to us?” I asked. She told me that she was unaware of a new member joining our building. Weird that she didn’t know of Mr. Peters. I decided that I would go ask Mr. and Mrs. White tomorrow morning. They know everybody in the building. They probably already have a pie baked and ready to send over to his apartment.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I had an insane dream about Mr. Peters just standing over my bed, my girlfriend beside me. Smiling that terrifying smile. I was going to do something, wake up my girlfriend, run away in fear, anything. But I was stopped when he simply put his finger over my lips and quietly said “Shhh” in a soft, friendly voice. It didn’t feel like a dream, though. Everything was so clear, and I can remember it all so well. It’s impossible that it was real, though. That’s what my therapist told me, at least. After a long sleepless night, I took a quick shower and was going to get some food for breakfast. I also noticed the banging on the wall from Mr. Peters apartment. It was softer this time, and more… creepy. After my shower, I went to my kitchen. Only, something was off. Quart of milk, a few sticks of butter, ground hamburger meat, but no box of cereal. I looked everywhere, thinking I just misplaced it by accident. Sandra woke up thanks to me frantically looking for the box. “Sandra, what’d you do with the cereal?” I asked her while still looking in the various shelves in my kitchen. “Didn’t you put it in here?” she asked while pointing to the spot where I swore that I put it. “I could have sworn that I did, but I don’t know where it went. Please tell me that you took it,” I said. Yet she continued to deny the accusation. I thought it was her regardless. What else could it have been? A burglar? No. What burglar steals boxes of cereal? I didn’t pay much attention to it, though. I just said, “Guess it just grew a pair of legs and walked off.” and forgot about the whole ordeal.
I went over to the Whites and knocked on their door. I was greeted when Mr. White answered. “Hey there, son. How are you this fine morning?” He asked with his typical happy-go-lucky tone of voice. “Hey there Mr. White. I’m doing well, thanks for asking. But I came over to ask you about someone. Have you heard of a Mr. Peters?” I asked. Mr. White frowned when I asked. “Well, no. Sorry son, can’t say that I have. Who is he?” He questioned. “He moved into the apartment right next to ours. I’m surprised that you don’t know who he is. You of all people in this building would know if someone new was moving in.” I said. Mr. White then smiled and said, “Well we should go and see how’s he’s doing, then.” I think about it for a second, and took him up on his offer. The two of us walked over to his door, and Mr. White knocked on the door. We stood there for a little bit, only to returned with silence. I found it odd that there was no response what so ever. We didn’t even hear any noises from the other side of the door. “Hmm.. He must be sleeping, still.” chimed in Mr. White. I found it to be a reasonable for the lack of sounds coming from the other side of the door. “Well, how about we come back later to see if he’s awake?” I ask Mr. White. He agrees to the offer, and says that he’ll have a freshly bakes pie ready for when I get back from work. We part ways, and I go about my day as normal. Then I got back home.
I changed my clothes, and then went to the kitchen to grab something to eat really fast before I went over to see Mr. White. I grabbed a chocolate bar, and went to the refrigerator. But when I opened the door, I saw no milk quart. Now I was starting to get an annoyed. Was Sandra just pulling a prank or something? I got home before her again, so I decided to just go see to Mr. White and talk to Sandra when she got home. I knocked on the door, and got something I wasn’t expecting at all. Mrs. White answered the door, tears running down her cheeks and red irritated eyes. “Hello, Matt.” She said through her crying. I was completely caught off guard by this, so I simply asked what had happened to out her in this state. “It’s George. My poor, sweet George.” She said. Now, even though Sandra and I just called him, “Mr. White”, we both knew his first name was George. “What happened to him?” I asked. “He’s gone! He just disappeared!” She said through her now heavy sobbing. My mind rushed to one conclusion; Mr. Peters. “Follow me, now.” I told Mrs. White.
I rushed down the hall to Mr. Peters door. I pounded my fist on the door. “Mr. Peters! Open up right now!” I was once again returned with silence. Complete and utter silence. Mrs. White came running down the hallway and caught up to me. “Have you called the police about Mr. White?” I asked. She nodded. “They came over and I told them what happened. Now, why are you banging the door? Who’s Mr. Peters?” I explained everything to her, and she too had never heard of him. Concerned, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Mrs. White and I waited for the police to arrive, but before they could get to us, Sandra came walking down the hallway. “What’s going on here?” She asked us. I told her about everything that had happened. Mr. White and I coming over, the missing milk, and Mr. White’s disappearance. Sandra waited with us for the police to arrive.
They finally got to the apartment, and I yet again explained my story. They both looked at each other, and knocked on the door, also to be greeted with silence. They went to go talk to the building manager to see if they could get some more information, but he said that there was no Mr. Peters who lived in that apartment. Both the police and the building manager returned to the door, master key in hand. The door then swung open. Nothing. It was just a normal empty room. We all walked in, confused, me more then the others. Then I remembered. I walked over to the wall, and gave it a light knock with my first. The hollow walls made its standard sound. I called everyone over, and showed that the wall was in fact hollow. What went from two police officers quickly escalated into ten. It took about three hours, but Sandra, Mrs. White, the building manager and I all waited for the police to finger out what to do next. After some discussion, the decision was to knock down the hollowed wall, and what I saw next would change my life forever.
It was a terrible sight. Mr. Peters lay quietly next to the dead corpse Mr. White, his stomach messily flayed open. It looked as if Mr. Peters used his teeth to grind a large slit in his stomach, and then used his fingers to pry it open. But that wasn’t the worst part of it was that in his opened up stomach, was a pit of milk, cereal, and blood. There was so much blood.. All over both of their bodies. Mrs. White didn’t take it well. She was hysterical, and started to vomit. Some of the policemen vomited as well, and even though I felt like I was going to, I resisted. Even though that the sight was hooraying, that still isn’t the worst part. The worst thing of the scene was his smile. He had that same ear to ear grin as he did when we first met. The police had their guns drawn, pointed right at him. But he just smiled, straight at me. Straight into my eyes. His gaze sent chills running up my spine. He got up and stepped away from his body, his eyes never leaving mine. His smile never losing its size.
The police brought him out to the apartment, and put handcuffs on him. Other officers took Mr. White out of the hollowed wall, Mrs. White crying all the way. I feel for her, really I do. If I found Sandra in that state, I don’t know how I would react. Mr. Peters was taken away, and he was given the death penalty. I saw a therapist not long after the ordeal, and I still see him once every week. I’m writing this right now, just to warn everyone out there. When you hear banging at you wall or roof, or are just hearing “house noises”, you might want to give it a closer inspection. It probably just is normal “house noises”, but after this event I never took the chance. I’m still incredibly paranoid. I remember one night at around 3:00 in the morning; i heard some banging coming from my kitchen. I got up as I always do, but this time was different. I saw Mr. Peters smiling at me, his teeth dripping with a crimson fluid, which had to be blood. I turned on the light, and he simply vanished into thin air. I don’t know why this is happening to me. I don’t even believe in the supernatural or anything, but I know what I saw. He was just standing there, looking right at me. Smiling that terrifying smile.

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Seventeen :
Edgar raised his head up from his chest; back pressed firmly into his favorite recliner, his entire body drenched in cold sweat. He stared into shadows at the edge of the living room, eyes welling with tears as he lifted the revolver slowly and deliberately to his temple. “Seventeen”, he whispered to the darkness.
The index finger of his right hand had already found its perch on the trigger during the weapon’s ascent, during which he had hesitated no more than a second, his only concern ensuring that the angle he chose would prove fatal. He clenched his left hand into a fist at his side, steeling his will. He inhaled sharply. And with further need of neither breath nor will, he clenched his right hand.
Darkness flashed brilliantly to light from the barrel of a .38 Special, as the gunshot’s dull thunder echoed around the room. The remains of Edgar Freeman slumped sideways in what had once been his favorite chair. The other man with him in that chamber smiled softly, the one in the shadows who had been briefly illuminated by the muzzle flare, that sallow man in the dark suit with the pale blue eyes. He smiled as everything turned gray.
Edgar flailed his way to a sitting position, ripping the covers off the bed as he always did when waking up from that goddamned nightmare. After the fourth night in a row with the same dream, he had taken to sleeping with his bedside lamp turned on. After the sixth night in a row, his frenzy upon waking had sent it crashing to the floor – bulb broken and shade cracked by the impact. Tonight had been the eighth night, and as he recited every vulgarity he could recall into the inky darkness of his bedroom, he swore that today he’d find the time to go purchase a box of light bulbs.
Involuntarily recalling the stranger in the dream’s inappropriately sweet smile, he reminded himself to ask the clerk for their highest wattage.
After a warm shower and a few minutes collecting his thoughts on the side of the bed, Edgar set about his day. Nearly-tasteless scrambled eggs and coffee which would have been merciful if it had been tasteless comprised his breakfast, and his thoughts turned to how absurdly better Haley’s morning meal would have been. Whatever other problems they had, Haley’s cooking had been beyond reproach. He would regularly wake to the mouthwatering aroma of a nutritious breakfast which she had prepared for him – usually egg whites on a wheat English muffin with a tall glass of orange juice – at least before the morning sickness had started and kept her occupied in her prayers to the porcelean goddess for her first waking hour of every day. All this, he reminded himself bitterly, was in the past now.
As the Vice-President of Marketing for the second largest athletic apparel company in the country (and, as he thought of himself, a reasonably attractive man) Edgar was more than used to the occasional flirting – both casual and aggressive – from young female interns and employees within his department. It came with the territory, and it was never anything he couldn’t brush off. Thoughts of either taking it further than flirtations or reporting it to Human Resources very rarely crossed his mind; the former on account of his pregnant wife, the latter on account of the ego boost it provided. One month ago, however, Edgar began an affair with a particularly buxom college intern named Samantha. Above and below the brassiere, she had been nothing special; just a warm body to quell the urges to which Haley had been unwilling or unable to tend after entering her third trimester. Even the sex was unremarkable.
Their first rendezvous took place in a motel a few blocks away from the office, the type of place with bay windows overlooking less than scenic freeway overpasses, and even the roaches use black lights before scurrying under the unmade bed. As a cursory nod to legitimacy, the establishment stopped short of offering rates on a per-hour basis – a fact known because Edgar had inquired upon checking in.
After that first encounter, the two grew bolder and less discerning in their indiscretions. Edgar’s office came next, and that time had been a little more satisfying – a combination of the danger and the skirt Samantha kept on at his request. But boldness turned quickly to carelessness, and Edgar was an apprentice of infidelity less than two weeks before Haley discovered his betrayal.
Whether it was a whiff of unfamiliar perfume or a phone call from one of Edgar’s jealous rejects who had spotted the two of them around the office, his adultery with Samantha was soon the topic to which Edgar returned home from work. The accusation was on her face the minute he walked through the door. He had come home late from a particularly wild romp with Samantha, and the words from Haley’s trembling lips quickly disclosed exactly how much she knew.
It would have been pointless to lie – she had too many details and he too little imagination – so Edgar confessed, and made a perfunctory effort to justify his behavior. She cursed him with a severity and intensity which Edgar had never seen from her before, and in her final words to him she made it clear that she was leaving, and that she would make sure he would never in his life have a role in raising their child. Despite his heartache at the prospect of losing Haley, Edgar had spent too long in a cutthroat business to take threats passively, even from his wife. He laughed bitterly, and reminded her of the quality of the lawyers within his means. When he was done, Edgar said with words he instantly regretted but found himself powerless to silence, she would be lucky to get weekends and a few holidays with the kid.
That was a lie and he knew it, but at the time his main objective was to get off the defensive and regain the upper hand in the fight – maybe even make Haley reconsider her choice to leave. He would happily cut some hefty checks to a marriage counselor if it saved him from the much larger ones in the form of alimony and child support. But something in the way Haley was smiling at him suggested that he had misunderstood her intentions. And as he realized far too late; if he had been more observant, he might have noticed an empty hook on their key caddy, and connected it to that sardonic grin she was wearing.
She hadn’t left right away, like he had expected. Isn’t that always the way it works in the movies and on television? The guy comes out of the bathroom or back from the bar a little while after the fight to find the gal’s suitcases dusted off and bulging with all the expensive clothes he bought her over the course of their relationship? Her haughty and defiant, him prostrate and pleading?
Edgar would have never played the latter role in his life, but he had fully expected the former from Haley. Instead, an hour after he walked away from their screaming match to take a much-needed shower, he stuck his head into the living room to find her sitting in his favorite chair (what a bitch) staring off into space and rubbing her (Goddamn is she ready to pop) pregnant stomach.
As far as Edgar was concerned, that was the end of the first of presumably many arguments on the subject. He ascended the stairs quietly, and slipped into bed. The day had been long enough, and she clearly wasn’t going anywhere or she would have left already. Haley never came to bed, but neither did he hear the front door slamming behind her before he drifted off – so it seemed she had decided to stay at least for the night. All will be well, Edgar told himself as sleep overtook him. But I doubt she’s going to fix my breakfast for a few days.
The noise which ripped him out of that deep slumber came just after five o’clock in the morning, according to his alarm clock. By the time consciousness took hold, the sound had died as quickly as it came. He stood reflexively, and scanned over the bed with eyes barely awake enough for even that simple task. Eventually determining Haley’s side to be empty, Edgar shuffled out the bedroom door and down the stairs to determine what caused the sudden clamor.
He didn’t need to reach the bottom of the staircase, or allow his eyes further time to adjust, to know that she had decided to leave him after all. One glance into the living room cleared up any doubt on that subject. There were no bulging suitcases, or haughty looks – just an unlocked and opened gun cabinet, a crimson splatter on the wall, and a steady trickle of the same beading down the side of his favorite chair and pooling on the hardwood floor beside it.
After a moment of shocked paralysis, Edgar lunged for the house phone in huge, desperate strides. The rapidity was not for the sake of Haley, through whose newly-ventilated skull he could clearly catch glimpses of the televised presidential debate at the far side of the room, but for her blameless passenger of seven and a half months. He gave all the pertinent information to the infuriatingly indifferent emergency control room operator, and waited in the hallway with the front door flung open wide.
The gunshot had drawn a crowd of early-waking neighbors to the driveway in front of the Freeman residence, a phenomenon bred not out of bravery in the face of danger but from the casual ignorance of danger reserved exclusively for neighborhoods peopled by the wealthy and sheltered. They eyed him accusingly, none with less than dawning suspicion in their gaze. Edgar raged at them for this; first with harsh thoughts, then with guttural growls and impotent flailing. They would collectively step backward when his fury and frustration flowed strongest, and advance again when the yelling waned in ferocity – a human tide of slack-jawed gawkers.
The spectacle was temporarily dissolved by the wailing siren and subsequent appearance of an Advanced Life Support ambulance, from which paramedics rapidly spawned just a few minutes after Edgar’s conversation with their dispatcher (another feature exclusive to the type of neighborhood in which Edgar and Haley Freeman resided). The crowd made way for the emergency vehicles, but soon found a new vantage point on Edgar’s lawn.
The paramedics discovered Edgar’s wife slumped over in his recliner, and strapped her lifeless form into a gurney. Once she was properly secured, they wheeled her rapidly out of the house and into the back of their ambulance. Edgar jumped in as well, and there was no time to either ask or answer any questions before the crew slammed the bay doors and sped off toward the county hospital.
Between checking vital signs and attempts to keep oxygen pumping into the corpse of his wife for the sake of her unborn child, Edgar noted the cautious glances being shot his way by the Paramedics – as well as the blue flashes from multiple police vehicles following close behind the ambulance. I didn’t have anything to do with it, he wanted to say – to scream – but in the back of his mind he knew that was just a degree or two away from being precisely the truth, and so he remained silent.
He had thought they would throw the handcuffs on him as soon as they arrived at the hospital, but instead the throng of police officers just explained they would wait with Edgar while the doctors did what they could for the baby – and maybe get some information from him if he felt up to talking. Edgar nodded assent, largely because the officers bore all the mannerisms of men who intended to get some information from him whether or not he felt up to talking.
They stood outside the operating room, lined up in the viewing area. The officers gave Edgar his space; his face mere inches from the glass, taking occasional breaks to wipe the window off with his sleeve after frantic breaths had fogged it to the point of opacity. They questioned him hesitantly; he answered them hastily and with little regard for the words he used. His concerns were elsewhere, and he knew there was nothing he could unintentionally blurt out to incriminate himself. He watched as the surgeon made a large incision into Haley’s lower abdomen (at least she’s sedated for this, Edgar thought insanely) and set about removing the baby from her womb.
Within a few minutes, everyone in the viewing area knew everything they needed to know. The officers knew that Haley had apparently died at her own hand (the autopsy would either confirm or deny that), that she had likely done it as a result of her husband’s infidelity, and that Edgar had seen little or no warning signs leading up to the suicide. Edgar, meanwhile, knew that the baby was alive but fading fast, that the baby was a boy (they wanted the gender to be a surprise, one of the few things on which he and Haley never disagreed), and that the baby was being placed in an incubator as a last-ditch effort to save its life.
Edgar stood outside the room, the police now keeping an even more respectful distance as he watched his infant son die. There was little commotion about it, and little the doctors could do to prevent it. The child’s eyes opened once the entire time, and the next thing Edgar knew they were pronouncing the time of death as 5:46 AM. They just cut him out of Haley at 5:29, Edgar thought frantically. My kid – my son – was alive less than half an hour. I didn’t even have time to name him. A girl and Haley names him, a boy and I name him; that was the promise we made since we couldn’t even fucking agree on names. Edgar slammed his fist against the wall, and distantly felt his knuckles grinding. As he fell to his knees, his hand hurt far less than the scalding hot tears welling behind his eyes.
That was two weeks ago. Today, Edgar ate nearly-tasteless scrambled eggs, and drank coffee that would have been merciful if it were tasteless. Eight nights now he lived with the nightmare of killing himself destroying any semblance of sleep. Eight nights now he lived with the man in the shadows of that nightmare smiling at his decision to do so. Light bulbs, a huge box of them, highest wattage the hardware store sells, today after work. Edgar again reminded himself of the errand as he threw on his jacket and walked out the door.
Work went much the same as always, only with the added distraction and morbid water-cooler fodder provided by his wife’s suicide. It was annoying, more than anything.
Edgar first became consciously aware of a man’s form standing just outside the threshold of his office’s open doorway when he glanced at the clock to determine exactly how far into the night he had been lost in paperwork. He came to work at dawn and knew it was now certainly dusk, at a minimum. The day had been typical office fare for the return of a bereaved coworker – mindless platitudes and weightless sympathy, empty words from the empty hearts of people paid just enough to pretend to care but not enough to do so convincingly. There was no telling exactly how long the man had been silently standing in the darkness of the hallway, but Edgar recollected the first vague feeling of being watched a few minutes prior. Everyone but the night shift security guard had left hours ago, giving him a welcome respite in which to concentrate and catch up on missed work. Or so he had thought, until this new interruption.
“Hello?” Edgar hesitantly greeted the interloper, fearing the inevitable next in a long line of ham-handed jabs at emotional consolation.
“Evening, sir.” the reply came, grating and phlegmy. His eyes still attempting to adjust to the drastic change from the brightness of his office to the hallway illuminated only by the ambient moonlight leaking in from sporadically-placed windows, Edgar judged by the unfamiliar voice that this was either a stranger – a vendor, perhaps – or a colleague with a particularly nasty cold that he’d better not be spreading around.
“Step inside, I’ve been burning holes in my retinas under this lamp for the past two hours, I can’t see a damned thing out there.”
“Really can’t stay,” the man intoned, practically gargling, “just passing through”.
“Yeah, I know what you mean; it’s been quitting time for hou… have we met?” Edgar’s eyes had begun to adjust, and he grew uneasy. The stranger was still dim and blurry, but clearly wearing a dark suit of indeterminable quality. Another minute and it would be clear if this was some sort of tight-assed internal auditor from the 14th floor, or another detective sniffing around after Haley’s death. Whoever it was, the suit betrayed him for a stranger. Fridays around the office were always Casual Day, when even the senior executives wore polos and khakis. The man was showing no signs of leaving, so Edgar made his eyes’ next mission determining whether or not he had one of those idiotic access badge lanyards they all had to wear around the building.
“I’m new. I’m a messenger. I’m here to deliver a package.”
Edgar cocked his head, dubious. A courier in a three-piece suit? Pull the other one. No badge, either. Edgar did not reply, hoping the (Process Server? Jehovah’s Witness?) stranger would state their business and move along.
“You work such long hours. Don’t you miss your family, sir?”
A knot materialized in Edgar’s throat, and he sat bolt upright in his chair. After the initial shock wore off, Edgar softened his posture, quickly convincing himself of the question’s innocuous nature. A labor union representative – of course. He slipped in here to try and play on some suit’s delicate sensibilities, blather about unpaid overtime and kids tucking themselves into bed. Just trying to get us to abolish our non-unionizing clause with factory workers. “I receive fair compensation for the work that I do, as does everyone in our employ. So no, I’m fine, really. Thanks.” That should get the point across, he thought with a certain grim satisfaction.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Well…” The stranger turned slightly as if to leave, paused, and leaned his head inside the office for the first time.
“They certainly miss you.”
The words scraped like icicles up the length of Edgar’s spine, gripping his skull with tendrils as cold as the grave. The face was gone from view as quickly as it came – the form of the man as well – but the hideous visage remained burned into Edgar’s brain, and in the recesses of his mind he was acutely aware that it would be etched there until his dying breath. The eyes were of a milky blue so pale and distant they suggested blindness, but met Edgar’s with an unerring gaze that insisted they saw him very well indeed. The rest of the face was unburdened with such signs of vitality. His skin was sallow and sickly, and even at a distance it appeared to be the texture of well-worn leather. The man’s cheeks and eye sockets were sunken, the flesh drooping loose in these places, yet drawn tight against the skull around his forehead and mouth. Gaunt and cadaverous, every feature from the greasy, matted hair, to the quivering wattle of flesh when he spoke was identical to that of the dark stranger in Edgar’s recently acquired nightmares. But everything else was peripheral to the all-encompassing terror which he felt at seeing those damned eyes. There was something unpleasantly familiar in them, something horrible which he found himself powerless to name or explain.
Once he regained control of his frozen limbs, Edgar lunged toward the doorway where the man had stood moments prior. The elevator hadn’t dinged its arrival, and the stubborn latch on the stairwell door hadn’t let out the audible clack customary to every opening and closing. ‘He’s still somewhere on this floor’, Edgar thought frantically. The idea gave him strength, but no real clarity of purpose. He knew only that he needed to confirm that the stranger’s presence here was more than merely a result of his overtaxed mind and guilty conscience. There were no desks, no bathroom stalls, no supply closets left unsearched by the time Edgar’s frenzied investigation reached its fever pitch. Motivational posters tacked to the walls of overbearingly congenial and downright suspiciously diverse businesspeople smiling and clasping hands warmly seemed to be mocking him, silent conspirators against Edgar in his quest. “Sure we know who he is and where he went,” Edgar could imagine them saying, “but we’re too busy leveraging our synergy and engaging in value-added interfacing to dialogue on your initiative.” He dragged both hands through his hair, gripping thick handfuls of it and tugging slightly. His visitor, if something more than a delusion, had departed unseen and unheard. Edgar could feel his heart pounding wildly, seemingly slamming against the back of his ribcage. He stopped only to grab his briefcase before sprinting down the stairs to escape the increasingly oppressive emptiness of the office.
The executive parking deck was windowless, and thus even darker than the building from which he had just departed. It was barren except for him and his Lexus, and likely had been since the security guard made their most recent tour through it hours ago – the guard having shut off all but the emergency lights on the way out. Despite that small assurance, Edgar found himself casting furtive glances over both shoulders, and quickening his pace each time they revealed a total lack of reason to do so. He had never been a superstitious man, any fear of monsters had been laid to rest long ago by the waking horrors which walk amongst men brazenly in the daylight. Student loan debt, insurance premiums, layoffs, mortgage payments – life, Edgar had learned decades ago, sports fangs and claws that make laughingstocks of those belonging to the vampires and werewolves man invented to cope with it. And yet, he scolded himself while fumbling nervously for his keys, all it takes is a little nudge from the imagination to awaken that primordial terror – to populate the uninhabited darkness with things which have no right to exist.
He was five feet from his car and had just unlocked it with the electronic remote attached to his keys when he heard the scream. It was high-pitched, womanly, terrified, and resonated from the office area directly behind him. ‘Did Haley scream that way right before she pulled the trigger?’ Edgar thought wildly. He stopped in his tracks, turned sharply, and saw nothing. Then, as if in response to his silent inquiry, the gunshot came. Edgar snatched the cell phone from his pocket, frantically calling 911 for the second time in as many weeks. He flipped the phone open to his ear, but the operator requesting the nature of his emergency sounded a thousand miles away. The clacking, dragging footsteps coming down the corridor from the sound of the shot and toward the executive parking garage, however, sounded very close indeed. Edgar dropped the phone and practically dove into his car. His foot was on the accellerator as quickly as he could throw the vehicle into gear.
The roads outside the office were illuminated solely by street lights and the occassional flash of a passing motorist’s headlights. The sun had vanished below the horizon hours ago – when people in khakis or sensible skirts departed on a fourteen hour break from pretending to care about each other’s children or gastrointestinal complications, and left Edgar alone with two weeks worth of backlogged paperwork. Stress, Edgar attempted to convince himself, can make you see things. Stress, he rationalized, can make you hear things. Emotional trauma. None of it took any pressure off of his mind or the gas pedal as he sped toward home.
Upon his frantic arrival, Edgar knew something was wrong before he ever burst through the front door. He hadn’t turned any lights off since the nightmares started, much less when he expected to be out past sunset, and yet he found himself fumbling around the darkness of his hallway for the lights. When his blind groping finally brushed across the light switch, there was very little surprise in finding the knob broken off – following the day’s events, it would have been a bigger surprise if the switch had been in working order. Instinct told him to turn and flee the house, but the flashing red number ‘one’ on his answering machine called with an even greater urgency.
Despite his hand’s anxious trembling, Edgar’s finger struck the Play button with unerring precision, a motion he had grown well-acquainted with over the past two weeks. People he hadn’t spoken to or thought about since practically before meeting Haley had seemingly not forgotten him, and had spent the interval between his wife’s death and now calling to offer their condolences. Their concern only served to compound his feelings of guilt with each message – what had he done to deserve such loyal friends? He fully anticipated another instance of the same consolation, when one of the last voices he would ever have expected emanated from the machine.
“Edgar?” the voice’s normally chipper lilt came, tinged with an unmistakable edge of caution. “It’s Samantha. I know I shouldn’t be calling you. I’m probably the last person in the world you want to hear from right now, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what happened.” There was a pause and what sounded like a sob. Edgar thought this was quite possibly the most real, orgasm-less emotion he had heard from Samantha since they first met. “Sorry for everything, really. I… we… we couldn’t have known how this would end. But I know I have no right to call. I’m just worried about you, is all. I laid out of work today because I heard you were coming back, and thought you didn’t deserve to have to bear seeing me on top of everything else… I could only imagine how hard it must be for you right now… and to tell the truth, I was scared to see you. Scared you might point at me every time someone asked, or something… I know, it’s stupid. And selfish. But I came by the office just now to pick up some work to take home with me, and I saw your car in the parking garage…”
Edgar eyed the time of the message on the answering machine. She had called sometime between the end of his frantic search of the office, and before he made it to his car. Which means that she was there right about the time that…
The voice on the machine had kept talking, and Edgar found himself now listening more intently than ever, his knuckles turning white from clenching the kitchen counter so tightly.
“…saw your office light was on, but you aren’t anywhere around. And man… this place looks like a tornado hit it. Someone really tore through here. I thought about you right away, so that’s why I’m calling. I don’t know if this is long overdue, or if I should have just done a quick fade and found another job and never called you again, or what… I mean, what’s the appropriate thing to do here? I can never make things right, but… I’m just so sorry, Edgar. Please call me back when you get this. I miss…”
‘Miss’ was the last word spoken by Samantha – unless one counts a bloodcurdling scream, following which came the sound that silenced whatever would have come next. The gunshot rang out like a thunderclap, and lost none of its horrible potency on the way through the phone lines to Edgar’s answering machine. The ensuing silence was deafening, and Edgar stood rigid in front of the machine, bent forward and staring at it intently – as if he expected it to begin displaying visual clues as to what had taken place. He got audio instead.
“Miss you, yes. You are very missed, indeed.” The male voice, undeniably the same as earlier that day, gargled as it chuckled into the receiver. The machine beeped, and a solid red zero informed him that he now has no unheard messages. But to Edgar the zero represented far more than that. It seemed almost an answer to not just how many messages he had, but to every question that mattered. What, why, who, how? What’s left, what matters, what will tomorrow bring? Nothing but zero, of course. Just a big blood-red negation.
Edgar released his death grip from the counter, and groped his way into the darkness of the living room. He passed another light switch on the way, noted with no real interest that the switch had been broken off of this one as well, then flopped down into his favorite recliner. “I have had”, Edgar whispered into the emptiness of the house that would never again be a home, “a very tough month.” The answer to his presumedly receipientless statement came in the form of a chuckle from a dark corner of the chamber. Edgar felt every muscle in his body go tense, and he lost all control of his bladder. He could not possibly have cared less about the latter, he merely stared into the darkness and waited for whatever must come next as the warmth spread across the front of his pants.
The man in the shadows stepped forward and Edgar winced away, sinking as deep into the plush chair as he could dig himself. The stranger, simply put, had gone from looking like his flesh was preparing to free itself from its Earthly prison – to actually having accomplished the task. Edgar was staring at the face and body of a man who had begun to lose some very respectable chunks of himself. Like butter melting in a warm room, some of it actually sloughed off as he made a methodical exit from the darkness.
“I know you’re wondering why I’m here, and why the past few weeks have seen your life seemingly spiral out of your control. At this point it comes down to fate. Fate is like playing tug-of-war with an adversary significantly stronger than you: There will always be times when you feel the rope inching your way, your heels dug in and your earnest exertions yielding the result you’ve worked so hard for, the victory you know you deserve. But even the times in which you feel the most control, the firmest ground, those are merely your opponent adjusting its grip. But this doesn’t preclude what you might call free will; the choices people make are what set fate in motion, and those are the pivotal moments.” He paused, then seemingly as an afterthought, “Like you, renting that motel room. Very few things from that moment to this one have been in your control, and none of them of any consequence. Your whore is dead now, and killed by your own gun. Her right eye looks a great deal like your answering machine, now. Just a big red zero. No new messages. By dawn, you’ll be in a cell. Your wife found out about you and the whore a few weeks ago. Maybe she took her own life, maybe you had a role in that. The whore, though… she was murdered. There’s not a jury in the world for whom your guilt is anything but a foregone conclusion.”
“Why.” Edgar breathed the inquiry flatly, incapable of inflection. He had never felt so tired – so completely drained and hollow – in his entire life. With each word the pale stranger spoke a deep burning emanated from every muscle in Edgar’s body, and yet the frantic scurrying of his mind remained as strong as ever, desperate to place those eyes he felt he knew so well.
“Why what? Why did you stray from the wife who once loved you? I couldn’t help you there. Not that knowing would change anything for either of us. But that isn’t the most important ‘why’ for you, is it? You want to know why this is happening to you, why I’m doing this. But for some reason you’re afraid to ask me who I am, the true question behind the ‘why’, to which I can only say that you must answer for both of us.”
The stranger resumed his lumbering gait towards Edgar, halting and awkward as he tottered ever closer. Edgar’s mind was drawn deep inside of itself to access the half-recalled memory of something he saw years ago in a mid-dawn walk across the parking lot on his way into work. A tattered salt-and-pepper moth, deceased at the base of a light pole; a coroner’s inquest doubtless would have revealed an acute case of banging one’s self repeatedly into a domelike miniature plastic electrical sun. Then came a stiff breeze which sent the moth airborne, flapping and tumbling toward Edgar’s path through the parking lot. The breeze settled, and the moth resumed being a body perfectly at rest; as all dead things should, Edgar reckoned, unless acted upon by an outside force. An unseen force, in the case of the moth; and, Edgar again reckoned, in the case of the man now standing before him. Because in his movements, Edgar saw that moth very clearly. These were the movements of something which once lived, and was now being acted upon by an entirely different unseen force – one which could only approximate the mechanisms of the vessel it now controls. The wind had been the name of that force driving the moth back into a perversion of life, but to name the force which could do the same for a man?
After a moment of silence which seemed to stretch for hours, Edgar met the stranger’s pale blue eyes with the last shred of courage he had. “Death?”
Then, a little more confidently: “You’re Death.”
The stranger laughed uproariously, his gaunt frame convulsing with the rhythm of his dry, wheezing cackles. The withered flesh of his face stretched away from blackened gums and all-too-white teeth in the most hideous approximation of a smile Edgar could have ever imagined. After his laughter subsided, the dark man spoke, wiping away tears which were not there. “You misunderstand me. It wasn’t my intention to be cryptic; I was merely requesting that you provide me with a name. This body, I’m approximating. It’s the body I might have had, had I lived to grow into it. But the eyes, they’re the windows to the soul so they say, and I had hoped you would remember mine. I forgive you though. You saw me only briefly, and under duress. But you were supposed to name me. Dying without a name was the worst part.”
Comprehension more horrible than the bewilderment had ever been began to spawn in Edgar, as an icy, all-encompassing chill washed over him. The man clapped him gently on the shoulder, and leaned in close, placing four pounds of cold steel into Edgar’s open palm. “I told you I was a messenger, and now my task is done. Mom asked me to give you that. She says to hurry. She promises not to be too hard on you if you come home quickly.”
Edgar quivered helplessly; his eyes had begun to water and burn, searching for any sign of consolation in those of his son. He parted his lips as if to speak, but could not find the words. His silent plea’s response came in presumably the most compassionate tone manageable by his visitor, “It’s not terrible there, it’s just…” The corpse-thing’s head cocked to the side, a very boyishly quixotic look in those pale blue eyes. “Gray. It’s gray there. Time moves much slower, if at all. They show you things. They’ve shown me all I would have known in the life which your actions denied me.” Venom in that decaying voice now, and Edgar knew that pulling the trigger himself would be the only mercy granted today.
The visitor turned, staggering clumsily into the darkness toward the edge of the room, as Edgar sat and examined the loaded revolver. His would-be progeny had almost completely exited from sight, and spoke without any discernable emotion. “One more thing. After they cut me out, how long did I last on that incubator? She doesn’t know, but I thought you might. I tried my best to hang on, but it couldn’t have been long. Fifteen minutes? Twenty?”
Edgar raised his head up from his chest; back pressed firmly into his favorite recliner, his entire body drenched in cold sweat. He stared into shadows at the edge of the living room, eyes welling with tears as he lifted the revolver slowly and deliberately to his temple. “Seventeen”, he whispered to the darkness.

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Photoslash :
Sean’s house was covered from head to toe in family photographs. Some from family retreats to Ireland, others showing lost family relatives. Most of these photographs would include Sean in them, so it was only natural that he would look at them from time to time. However, one day he noticed something rather strange about the pictures: His mother seemed to have a red face in all of the photos. Rather shocked by this, he immediately ran downstairs to ask if anyone had done something to the pictures. They all answered no; even his mother, whom was quite worried. Later that day Sean’s mother went to the hospital due to horrific 3rd degree burns caused by a grill catching fire for an unknown reason.
Sean’s father decided to stay at the hospital that night and thought it best to send Sean home with his big brother Thomas and little sister Maria. As Sean walked into the house he caught glance of the family photograph in which he noticed the change to his mother’s face, and found that Maria was not in the picture.
He ran upstairs to her bedroom only to find that she was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed by these strange events Sean called the police. Sean informed them that his sister had been kidnapped and that someone was in his house, possibly vandalising his family’s belongings. The phone immediately went dead, and as Sean went to put the phone down he caught a glimpse of an animal in the corner of his eye. He rushed out of the safety of his room to go and find the beast, but what he found was far worse.
The mangled bodies of his family lie in the corridor in front of his room, their faces frozen in a state that almost makes him vomit. And then it struck him. All the photographs had been removed from the walls, except for one which was a picture of Sean, with his face scribbled out.
The next day his two best friends went to visit him, because he was not answering his phone and was not at school all week. As they arrived, they noticed that the door had been left open. So they let themselves in, and were never seen again.

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Spare 10 Minutes – Live A Lifetime :
As I stood outside the entrance to the underground passages, heavy rain falling upon the cobblestone road, ready to take part in the cities famous ghost tour amongst a group of about 20 to 30 people, I felt a sense of nervousness and excitement in the atmosphere.
I’d arrived in Edinburgh that afternoon, travelling light, just enough clothes to last the night and my camera which had hung from my neck all day long, ready to snap up a piece of this beautiful historic city at any giving moment.
Throughout the day, I had took part in the type of activities you’d expect from a tourist in this city. Starting off with a visit to Edinburgh’s zoo around midday, then off to the famous Edinburgh castle that stood towering above the city on a hilltop at around 4pm. I probably didn’t spend as much time admiring these amazing locations as I should have, but, with only the Sunday to take everything in before returning home for university the following day, I knew time was of the essence.
Finally leaving the castle at 7pm after a spot of lunch at the onsite cafe, I got onto a tour bus that brought the rest of the group to the start of the cities famous ghost tour.
So here we all were, waiting for the tour guide to make an appearance and get the evening under way, when suddenly, there goes my phone ringing.
Glancing down at the screen, I saw ‘mum’ flashing on the screen.
“Hi,” I said picking up the phone, “could you ring me back mum, I’m a little preoccupied right now and don’t have much time.”
“Hey son, I’m just calling to see if you’re okay, you know how worried I get if you don’t call, plus, it’s always nice to spare a few moments for your old mum,” she said.
From birth until the age of 18 when I left home to study photography at university, I was never closer to anyone more than my mum.  So I could understand her concerns as I usually would make a note of contacting her on a Sunday.
“I know mum, but I’m 18 now, you don’t have to concern yourself,” I replied reassuringly.
“ I’m up in Edinburgh at the moment, it’s been quite a busy day so it slipped my mind to get in touch, I’m just about to start the cities famous ghost tour”
“It’s okay son,” she said, “it’s just good hear you’re okay, I’ll let you get on with the tour, I feel you’ll be safe now.”
“Safe now?,” I laughed in confusion, “I’m sure I would have been safe even if you didn’t call.”
“Hello?” I said as the line broke up. “Damn signal,” I muttered looking up from my phone.
“ Hmm, that’s weird… Where’s everyone gone?”  I said to myself looking at the empty entrance of the underground.
“They must have started the tour without me while I was distracted on the phone,” I laughed talking out loud this time. “I’m sure I can catch up to them though,” I said entering the gates in front of me that lead to a flight of descending stone steps.
As I made my way down the 30 or so steps, I saw what looked like a distant gathering of people amongst dim lights and dust.
“That must be them,” I said speeding up my pace into a fast walk.
About 50 yards of fast walking down a narrow stone corridor, I was stopped dead in my tracks.
Stepping out from a room to my left stood the shadow of a 6ft man.
To say I was terrified would be an understatement. My heart jumping into the back of my chest, the breath rushing from my lungs, I looked up at the figure in absolute panic..
“Calm down,” came a voice breaking what seemed like an eternity of terror and silence.
“Wh wh wh wh wh wh… who are you?” I asked stammering in shock.
“The names Edward McGregor,” he replied stepping from the darkness to reveal himself.
A guy of about 40 years with long brown shaggy hair, piercing green eyes and a pale skin complexion, Edward stood before me blocking the way forward.
“You’ve been separated from the rest of them, haven’t you?” He asked.
“I just got held up outside on the phone and lost my concentration, so you could say that,” I replied with a laugh of realising he wasn’t some terrifying monster or ghostly apparition as first thought.
“It happens all too often. You’ve missed the first 10 minutes of the tour,” he said, “but it’s your lucky day.”
“My lucky day?” I asked bemused.
“Yeah, your lucky day,” he said again.
“How though?” I replied even more confused.
“The rain that flooded the graveyard above was just too much for the foundations of these old corridors to hold, and now all but you lay dead beneath the collapse of the ceiling. Give my kind regards to your mum for being of great help,” he said walking off back into the dark room he came from.

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Views of a Murder :
It is so dark in here, so dreadfully dark. I have come to hate this darkness for it comes much too frequently. My body is still, as if numbed. The motion I can sense, as I am being carried away, is quick paced and very rough. Where I am is unknown but I do know that I am surrounded by a wall of almost fabric like linings. My imprisoned state is position ever so close to this man’s heart. I can feel its sickly thumps as my bearer strides so vigorously. His breathe comes in impulsive, distorted inhales as he sucks for the God given right to stay alive. I pity him, for it is he who depends on me to do the task at hand. I have become a tool in giving reality to his twisted fantasies. I suppose we must rely on each other, for it is I who fulfills the wishes of the scandalous and he brings meaning and purpose to my creative design.
But now the moment has come, the moment I have relived time and time again in the hands of this cruel minded gentleman. His motion ceases but his heart rate increases. He reaches into his coat pocket and unsheathes me from my hiding place. Free from the burdens of my senseless cell I can now feel the sting of the cold night breeze. My metallic body gleams in the pale light of the overhead moon as it casts its undying rays upon the earthly neighbors below. All else maintains the pitch black that mortal men have come to fear, the uncertainty that waits behind the veil of their blinded eyes. Footsteps now echo down this lonely path, little does this person know, they have just entered a game of hide and go seek in which the loser meets a painful end. My cohort and I have fiendishly placed ourselves behind this unforgiving wall. It seems our victim has been deemed the unknowing seeker. The sound of this person’s presence draws more near to where my master stands who is still clutching me within his firm grasp.
Before I could even brace myself for impact, out sprang the villain with sinister precision of his killing blow. I met the fair lady’s soft and fleshy chest, I could tell it was a woman because of the shrill, feminine scream that managed to escape her tightening throat. My steel pointed end tore through her oh so easily. I merely slipped right in between her blockade of muscle, tissue and bone. All came to I stop. I could recognize where I was now. I was buried inside the now split open heart of the unlucky maiden. I could feel the frantic beats as blood attempted to flee the shattering impact I had made. Such a beautiful muscle, trying so hard to squeeze out every bit of life it could. I swear I can almost hear it praying to the heavens above before it stopped beating completely. When the deed was done and my purpose served, I was drawn back from her chest and I watched as blood spilled down her magnificent left breast.
Down she fell towards the ground, unable to live yet unable to die, caught between this world and the hell that awaited her. I did not know whether I should be in despair for her, seeing as now her fluids coat my razor’s edge. With a handkerchief I am wiped and stripped clean of her meaninglessly spewed insides. Back into the pocket I go and off we walk the murderer and me, the killer and his knife that have taken yet another worthless life.

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The First Admissions Of The Eye :
October 9th, 2006
One day they will catch me. FBI, police, “Men In Black;” whoever the hell it is that comes after somebody like me. I guess when the time comes they will read this; which is precisely the point of this. This is my journal. These are the inscribed thoughts of a man slowly gaining fame one news-station/newspaper at a time. Counties right now, cities soon, statewide panic will follow. In the end, the world will pick up the stories and the tri-county news affiliate that aired/printed the gory details of my first crimes will become a macabre tourist spot. I should have started this earlier. I’ll try to catch up.
My first murder was easy. Rapist. Hung from a tree. Reported suicide. Easier to set up than I ever expected. TV makes it seem so hard to get away with; it’s not.
Second murder, child abuser. The little boy had decent enough family except for the father, so I decided he wouldn’t be too strongly missed. He wasn’t by the way. Turned out after the mugging/fatal stabbing, his wife remarried to the cop that investigated the crime.
Third murder was a murderer. I tortured him first. I wanted to savor the irony. I did. He pissed his pants twice before the gun that killed the brother killed the keeper. That one I didn’t even cover up. I left only a suspected murderer/child rapist as evidence. Even if I had left evidence against myself, the police would have only tracked me down to shake my hand. They probably hoped it was one among them that did it.
First three must be the most important, as the order of events preceding the murders following them are a little fuzzy. Drownings, electrocutions, stabbings, fatal beatings, I killed somebody with a blowtorch once; saw it in a movie. I guess the death toll is roughly 30.
I’ve been doing this for about two months. I watch the news when I can. I don’t see my murders on the news too often; I assume it’s because the people I kill are the bane of the local law enforcement and they don’t want word to spread that they are begrudgingly hunting their invisible best friend. At the same time, you don’t really report somebody scraping shit off the sidewalk as news.
It’s pretty apparent that I don’t have any qualms with calling myself a murderer. I am. It’s also apparent that after my first two murders I developed a taste for torture. I thought in the beginning that murder wouldn’t agree with my conscience and kept it as simple an ordeal to stomach as possible. I learned quickly that murder is as primal and satisfying as sex. Like sex, the second time held no special thrill; which is why for the third, I introduced torture to the primal spectacle. I felt alive in my newly triggered sense of vengeance. When his brother discovered the truth about what his only son went through while in the care of his trusted uncle he was shot dead somewhere between dialing 9, 1 and the last 1. That man had tortured his nephew. That man had foregone spankings for sodomy with a plunger handle. That man replaced groundings from TV for forcing that small child to watch him masturbate to gay porn. And now he had killed the boy’s father right before his eyes. The father and son were never heard from again. For all this he deserved to cry, to beg for his life, to piss his pants as a barrel of empty chambers (save one) clicked away pressed firmly to his newly shattered testicles. That night, my method of deathbed reform was born. That night I began having the regrets I still feel to this day… That I cannot change how little my first two victims suffered.
October 9th, 2006
Pretty warm night tonight for the fall. I’m sitting at a bus stop outside a bar. Downtown Tulsa bus stops have these nice covered benches so I can sit here and write while I wait. Why am I waiting here in downtown Tulsa on an unseasonably warm Monday night? To kill a man.
To kill a man who killed two others and got away with it… For a while. I was walking around the downtown area today waiting for somebody like him to come along. It didn’t take him too long to show up but he was on his way to work. I had to pass the time. Some type of desk job. Giant building downtown. He wore a nice suit. Nearly 10 hours later and he leaves for the bar. Followed him closely. He was too preoccupied with his sick thoughts to notice me. He was also too busy noticing the women we passed by. He was walking, by the way. I don’t have a car and luckily neither does he. So here we are, Courtesan’s Bar; whatever the fuck that means. I’m not familiar with the word and I assume the business types flowing into the building don’t know what it means either. It just sounds professional and pricey so they go thinking their suits will impress. I’m not impressed; but I am wanting a beer right about now. But I don’t feel like going in there and risking losing him in a crowd. I checked the back and side door; both are emergency exits only so I know he is trapped into leaving through the pricey revolving, glass bottleneck. I am growing anxious.
He not only killed two people, he also kills cats. I fucking despise those who torture and kill animals, especially so senselessly; yet I am currently smiling. I am capable of giving the deaths of these poor beautiful animals some meaning. Justifying their death as inspiration is a shallow justification but it’s the best I can do to honor them. I have it all planned out and I am growing very, very anxious.
Philip Harnath
The warm windless air clung like tightly stretched fabric across his sweaty face. Though drunk and walking in an erratic stumble, he still had the restraint to stop himself from wiping his brow with the sleeve of his expensive black suit jacket just inches from his face. He pulled a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his unbuttoned jacket and wiped his face before stuffing it into his pants pocket. His gait became even more unstable as he diverted his blurred attention to unbuttoning the two buttons underneath his collar.
As Philip Harnath stumbled feebly towards his bed, his final resting place, a dark shadow trailed silently behind; stopping at every deep contrasting darkness the cars, alleyways, side-streets and gaps between the old world imitating street lamps of downtown provided. He waited silently in each abysmally hued pocket as his quarry slowly shuffled block by block towards the gates of Hell. There were only two more blocks to go and the anxiety within the shadow dweller grew equivalently greater.
Twelve minutes later, Philip’s heavy footfall rattled through the open air hallway leading to his apartment as he clumsily climbed the concrete flight of stairs leading to the second floor of a large three story apartment building lit in excruciating yellow by hundreds of fluorescent lights humming as loudly as the flies within Philip’s apartment would in three days.
The apartment building was one of three arranged in an open box formation around a neatly kept kidney-shaped swimming pool. Philip entered through the back of the center building. His human shadow had no choice but to wait behind in the parking lot. No matter how drunk, Philip would have had no trouble making out such a dark and menacing figure bathed in bright yellow light. He knew which apartment belonged to his prey; before sunrise it would become his tomb.
Philip had the deadliest vice a marked man could possibly have; repetition. He would drink every night he could at the same bar and stumble home around the eleven-thirty mark to pass out for roughly five hours before waking to wash off the previous night’s excesses and stumble hung-over to work. The hangovers were described to his officemates and employers as frequent migraines and with a little acting he was able to pull off the illusion. It was his life before business college that had marked him. It was his animal torture and constant alcoholism that had sealed his fate.
An hour of silence slowly passed by and the unnatural sentient shadow entered the electric yellow glow and ascended the stairs without making a sound.
A small pressurized snapping sound and a muffled cry awoke Philip from his dreamless sleep. Instinctively trying to sit up, upon the realization that the muffled cry was his own, he nearly pulled his shoulder out of socket and fell back to his bed with a grunt. He was tied down; bed sheets wound around his wrists, waist, ankles, headboard and footboard. He tried to scream despite the realization that he was gagged. The room was completely dark and a small piece of flesh on the right side of his stomach stung. He screamed and struggled himself breathless in less than three minutes. He felt two objects slide firmly into his nostrils; a strip of duct tape soon sealed them in place.
“You have asthma, Phil,” a slightly gravely voice casually informed him in a low emotionless tone. “You might just want to concentrate on drawing as much air as you can through that towel in your mouth.”
Phil kept total darkness and silence during sleep. Heavy curtains blocked out completely the yellow aura outside his bedroom window. He could hear the voice clearly; the objects in his nose must be his earplugs. His heartbeat raced and he whimpered as he panicked to draw breath.
“Red Ryder BB Gun; I used to have one of these. I never shot cats with them. I would never even pump them more than once if there was even a remote chance an animal was near. You pumped it ten times and aimed at cats’ necks or eyes.”
Phil stared into the darkness and struggled to breath. The sharp mechanical intake of air and click of metal on wood caused a new wave of struggling jerks.
“One,”
Phil screamed as loud as he could and gagged when the vibrations forced a ridge of cloth to scratch against the back of his throat.
“Phil, you have night terrors, thick walls and neighbors who no longer check on you. I could ungag you if you like. Would hearing yourself scream make you feel better?” Ignoring the muffled frantic attempts at responding, he pumped the air-gun once more. “Two. This is as far as I’ve ever gone when I was planning on shooting at one of my friends when I was younger. Two pumps is what I hit you with a couple minutes ago. I always wondered about three. Two is just kinda funny from ten feet away but I hit you from about three feet away. I kinda felt bad. I should have backed up a little more, huh?”
Phil no longer responded. His breathing growing weaker as his saliva wetted the towel too much to breathe properly. His entire focus was on staying his panic enough to focus on filling his lungs, but each new casual statement and inquisition from his tormenter, delivered in an increasingly bright and friendly manner, brought with its casual hospitality new waves of terror.
“Are you bleeding Phil?”
Phil’s only reply was a low whimper.
“I wanna know if you’re bleeding,” he stated as the bedside lamp to Phil’s left flicked on. He noticed Phil’s nude semi-muscular body glistening with sweat as his scared brown eyes quivered and his intoxicated pupils slowly shrank. His curly brown hair dripped even more sweat across his already soaked forehead. “You shouldn’t sleep naked, Phil. You never know when you might get robbed or attacked in the middle of the night.”
Phil strained to make out his captor but could only make out a dark trench-coat and long dark hair in the low light of the forty-watt bulb barely penetrating beyond the lampshade. The menacing figure moved back to the foot of the bed where he nearly blended into the darkness.
“Nah, you’re not bleeding,” he began again as he slowly pumped the air-rifle a third time and stated, “Three.” He backed up into nearly complete darkness and raised the rifle’s sight to his eye. “I’m about six feet away when I’m up against the wall,” he stated slowly as he focused on his aim. “Aim is really important, you know. Especially right now. It’s dark; you’re naked. It’d be really easy to hit something your not aiming for if you don’t pay attention.”
Phil’s intent gaze into the darkness cringed away as he turned his head to the right.
“Those tears, Phil? Tell me, would you be shooting those poor little kitties if they knew it was coming? If you saw the understanding of what was coming in their eyes? I think you would. These things get kinda loud once you reach ten pumps. The tenth one, especially, is pretty loud; feels like the lever is gonna snap too. I bet they understood plenty of times. I bet they didn’t cringe like you are. They didn’t cry like you are and that was with ten pumps.” Without warning, he fired into Phil’s right inner-thigh less than a second before finishing his sentence.
A muffled sustained wailing and thrashing erupted, shaking the bed, as thick blood began to pool underneath Phil’s leg.
“Damn, Phil. I never would have thought just one extra pump would do so much. I probably should have aimed somewhere a little less tender though, huh?”
Phil winced and stiffened his body against the pain.
“Settle down, Phil, it was only three pumps,” the torturer said through a sneer as he rapidly pumped the BB gun multiple times. “This next one will be six,” he added as he slowly aimed at Phil’s torso and fired into his right breast.
Phil’s body convulsed as he tightened every muscle in his body and bit deep into the towel. The small puncture slowly began to trail blood towards his sternum.
“There ya go; that’s how a man should face pain. Press against it with everything you have. Screaming just shows lack of emotional control,” he explains over the loud clicking of eight more pumps. “I realize I haven’t made my intentions clear here, Phil,” He added as he slowly stepped forward and pressed the muzzle to the skin an inch below Phil’s navel. “I’m not necessarily here to rob you, though I will take any cash you have.”
Phil’s rapid breathing became thin and wheezy as he squirmed against the muzzle pressed forcefully against his flesh and stared up into the now visible blue eyes calmly looking into his and waited for the words, already mentally delivered, to be spoken. His eyes followed the slightly upturned nose down to the clean-shaven slightly tanned face and slack yet menacing expression.
“Phil, you’re 32. You went to college to better yourself when you were 24. You had the world ahead of you. You only had to overcome one small thing.” The stranger leaned in closer, focusing his weight on the gun and beginning to speak with a gradually growing seriousness to his tone and an increasingly stabbing glare in his eye. “All you had to do is stay off the alcohol. You even made it through AA yet you went back into the same ditch you crawled out of. All you had to do was focus. You just had to focus as intently as you are now. You made everybody so proud. How proud would your mother be now, Phil? How proud would she be to know two separate hit and runs weigh on your conscience, yet you still drink? You think selling your car so it doesn’t happen again made you a better person?”
Phil, crying and wheezing, stared deep into his blue eyes without a single attempt to lie or plead.
“I’m not going to turn you in, Phil. I’m going to kill you.”
Phil closed his eyes as tears pooled over his cheeks and his throat clutched under the weight of his now uncontrollable sobbing.
The stranger slowly stood straight and fired the gun where it rested below the navel. A small pool of blood instantly rose to kiss the barrel.
Again, Phil fought against the tears and stinging pain to reply only with tense muscles and gritting teeth shredding his cloth gag.
“Phil, you knew somewhere in the back of your mind that somebody like me would come along someday and make you pay for everything you were ever ashamed of,” the executioner slowly stated as he pumped the gun ten times and leisurely walked back to the bedside lamp.
Phil’s eyes shot open and stared at the gun aimed for his skull and quietly muttered the only word that had yet to make sense through his wet, shredded gag. “Ten.”
The gun unerringly slammed into Phil’s left eye-socket; cracking bone and forcing runny pink liquid and chunks of white and red tissue to ooze from between the socket and gun barrel as he convulsed and moaned.
“Eleven” he corrected as he pumped one final time, snapping the lever off, and fired.
October 10th, 2006
Didn’t sleep last night. Usually don’t after a murder; no matter how tired I may be. Watched the sunrise through the thick clouds. It’s still morning and it’s starting to sprinkle. Last night’s victim was kind enough to buy me breakfast; Daylight Donuts and milk. Sitting on a bench in Woodward Park and eating; writing whatever the hell I can make interesting. After I’m done I think I’ll take a walk around Swan Lake. Swan Lake is a large beautiful pond filled with different species of waterfowl. It has a couple islands and a fountain in the center. I don’t really know who may end up reading this in the future, but it may surprise you to know that the most tranquil and beautiful places are often the places you are most likely to meet somebody with a guilty conscience. The last time you were at a place like Swan Lake you probably saw somebody standing at the edge of the water fixated solely on the ripples. No matter how noisy or crowded the area surrounding him gets, he remains completely lost in his own reflection. This person is likely a murderer or rapist. He is there to wash away his sins. He is there because the chaotic, unceasing memories of his dark actions hammer away at his conscience and he is looking for anything to dull the pain. It’s places like these that I find one of the most common type of prey; Repentant Offenders. Not all of them deserve the type of punishment I specialize in. Sometimes they just need to be scared. Sometimes they need reality to manifest the fears they try and pretend are simply paranoia.
Philip Harnath, last night’s victim, was one of these Repentant Offenders but it was clear that no consequence, save death, was high enough to sober him up before another died at his hands. It was true that he sold his car, but he sold it out of fear of it becoming all the evidence needed to tie him to two deaths. He would have bought another. He would have drank more. He would have swerved uncontrollably into a child, a young couple or maybe even into a whole family.
Donuts are gone. Rain is lightening up. I think I’ll go gaze into Swan Lake…
October 10th, 2006
People pass by and I wonder why they don’t cut a wide circle around me as they go. Can’t they see the same thing in my eyes that I see in my reflection? Swan Lake is clean today. I saw only one murderer there. He was drowning in the sins he had witnessed. He was staring up at me from the dark overcast sky beneath the ripples. We locked eyes and judged each other. Neither of us appeared to have the strength to carry on.
It gets like this sometimes. The depression sets in. The obscurity of my existence blankets me like a heavy fog. It gets like this whenever I find myself to be the most guilty person within sight. There is only one cure for it; punishment.
I know how it feels to be a vampire. I know the depressing loneliness that comes after a meal and their thoughts are no longer on blood but companionship; once the blood within their prey stops calling to the vampire’s instincts and they can see for a small amount of time beyond the bloodlust that drives them. For that portion of time, they are at their most human and are most likely to feel the remorse and longing that can only be felt by those who have crossed a boundary that can never be returned from. Their struggle to live can only be fueled by denying that right to another. They are forced after every meal to watch as those they long to be go about their lives. They are forced to wish they could be the things that hours later they must kill.
However tragic a vampire’s story may be, mine is much crueler. I am a vampire that can only sustain my life by extinguishing that of another vampire. I am forced daily to witness the vampire long for his former life. It is during this touching scene of remembrance, longing and heartbreak that I slowly set upon and violently disable my prey. The vampire is a great and terrible predator and its death is not often mourned; but when caught in reflection upon its transgressions, the sorrow and repentance is very real. When death is certain, all but the cruelest and vilest show promise of change. However, promise is not a guarantee of change and it is my heart-rending duty to deny that chance and see not the face of a killer upon death, but that of an innocent.
Regretfully, I have become as reflective as Swan Lake’s surface. It would take the discovery of a true monster to restore my determination and focus. I know just the place to find one…
October 10th, 2006
Veterans Park; not the type of place you would have expected me to look for a true monster, right? Wide open space. Near business buildings and an often used road. That’s what you see.
I see a park near a school with a parking lot, a concrete shelter, shady trees and an easy to find location. I see a perfect place to meet your drug dealer after dropping your kids off at school. I see a true monster sitting at a picnic table in the shelter reading a magazine, checking his watch and occasionally glancing around. He’s waiting for someone, maybe more than just one. However many his is waiting for, I will find out.
He is just another guy enjoying a cloudy day at the park. So am I. As he sits and innocently reads his magazine, I will find a tree a couple hundred feet from him, and coincidently within perfect view of him, and read Fahrenheit 451. I always wanted to read it. I wonder if Phil ever did. If so, his copy shows no signs of it…

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Be Careful :
“In recent weeks, a rash of murders has swept the city. Police are calling it the work of a serial killer, but when questioned about this statement, Police Spokesman Daniel Garfield refused to comment. All authorities will say at the moment, is that each victim received a voicemail minutes before they were killed, saying, quote, ‘Be careful’. Once again, ‘Be careful’. Police are still investigating the events, and ask that anyone with information about these murders contact them immedia-”
You shut off the TV, sick of bad news for the night. A glance at the clock on the DVR tells you that its four minutes past three. You sigh. Your wife won’t be home for another hour at least. She’s been working the night shift all week. Tired of waiting, you crawl into bed and fall asleep, thinking of the recent murders. Don’t you have a friend on the police force? You should really call him some time.
Tomorrow morning, you awake next to your wife. She must have come home sometime last night. Poor thing looks dead tired. You decide to just let her sleep. Getting up and around, you flick on the radio in time to here, “-urderer struck again last night. The same message was found on the voicemail of the latest victim. Police are continuing investi-” Off, again, goes the radio. Still raving about that serial killer.
You grumble your way to the coffee machine, when the phone starts to ring. You freeze. What if… no. It couldn’t be. That kind of thing happens to other people. Nonetheless, your hand shakes just slightly as you reach for the handset. You pick up the phone, your hand shaking even worse, now, as the connection comes through. You hear a voice on the other end take a breath, as your blood freezes in your veins.
“Hey, I was starting to wonder if you would ever pick up.”
It’s Jim, your friend on the Police force. You breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God. “Sorry. I was… busy,” you mutter, feeling ridiculous, not to mention slightly embarrassed, for thinking it could possibly be the killer.
“Listen, the force gave me the day off, so I was wondering if you wanted to go out for breakfast. Just us guys, like old times. I want to get my mind off of these murders. But look, my car is in the shop, so if you could come pick me up in ten…”
“Sure, sure,” you agree. You exchange goodbyes, and hang up. It’s about a ten minute drive to his house anyways, so you scribble a hasty note to your wife, and head out the door.
You get held up in traffic on the way, and end up arriving about 15 minutes late. You walk to the front door, mentally preparing an apology as you tap the bell. No one answers, so you ring again, wondering if you hit it fully the first time. Still receiving no answer after a third attempt, you try the doorknob. Unlocked. You twist the cold metal and step inside cautiously, calling for Jim. The smell punches you right in the gut, slightly metallic and sickly sweet. The thick miasma seems to be coming from the kitchen. Following your nose, you step into the room. The walls are painted red with what must be blood, and the floors are swimming with the stuff. Jim and his wife lay sprawled on the floor, their chests, arms, and legs cut to pieces. You throw up, violently, staring around in horror. Then your eye caches something. A red “message” light blinks slowly on the phone. You don’t play the message. You already know what it says.
Bolting out the front door, your only thought is to get out of the house as fast as you can. Forget the cops; you just want to be away from the gristly image of your best friend lying dead on his own floor. You head to the one and only place you can think of: back home. You slam the door shut behind you as you come in the door, tracking bloody footprints across the floor. You reach the kitchen and call for you wife, but you voice catches mid-yell. Your tracks aren’t the only ones. You hear the click of the lock behind you, as your wife’s voice says gently, “I just wanted you to be careful.”

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A Change in Seasons :
It had started in the farthest corner of my apartment; first as only the slightest hint of coppery red, before oozing from the ceiling and down the wall. I stumbled towards it, tripping over a laundry hamper and knocking it to the floor. It was funny looking, really. Against the yellowing wall paper, it looked almost like a rookie’s graffiti, still fresh and drying. I lifted a hand to touch it, but thought better. Up this close, the stench was overwhelming like when the sink clogs and you pull out the stopper to find an enormous glob of hair. A smell mixed between bile and ammonia, a nauseous wave swept over me attempting to pull up last week’s dinner. In a panic, I ran to the window and was alarmed when it wouldn’t open. Furiously, I scrambled to unlatch the lock and rattled it up for the first time in years. As I swallowed the tastiest air I’ve ever had, I could only think, At least I know where the smell is coming from now.
One month ago had been a party for me. I’d gotten home early from my job mopping floors at a hospital and had even had time to pick up a pizza on the way back. Now, I don’t live in the best of areas, I’ll admit; and whenever I pull into the unpainted parking space of my building, I always get that feeling that something bad might happen that day. The apartment’s at least two hundred years old and it shows. From the chipped red bricks to the way it tilts slightly towards the top, “The Queen”, gives a sense of both unreliability and experience. And I’m sure it’s experienced a lot.
I push though the front glass door, complete with a head-sized hole, and begin the solemn march to the eighth floor and my room – number 48. I say solemn march because that’s what it is; I don’t want to see or talk to anyone here and that’s best done by staring at the floor as I walk, my face suitable blank. The first person I come across seems to have the same idea. He’s wearing cheap plaid over a greasy t-shirt and doesn’t even look my way as he slips into number 9: The Queen’s nightly brothel, if I’m not mistaken. The Queen’s a classy place.
I cross up the stairs past a room that has smelled heavily of curry since I moved here, the same screaming rock music playing like a theme song. The door is open and I see a huddle of kids shooting up heroin or cocaine or maybe even bleach mixed with water. Who cares? I certainly don’t. The walls up here are covered with what could either be mud or human excrement and I try my best to guide the bulky pizza box up the stairs without touching anything.
I see old man Taylor wobbling up the steps ahead of me. He’s got his veteran’s cap on again and he’s humming some sort of oldie under his breath. I feel bad for him, I really do. It’s hard to watch as his arms shake each time he releases the railing to climb up another step; his legs moving slowly with arthritis. Luckily, I’m on my floor now so I won’t have to wait thirty minutes before getting to my room.
“You having a pardy t’night, boy?” His voice is raspy from smoking and muddled from time. I turn to have a look at him, hooking the box under my arm.
“Every night’s a party,” I remark, failing to come up with anything better, “Why, what are you doing tonight?”
“Not’ing, I just want to say hello. No one says hello an’more.”
I smile to him and nod, thinking about how cold the pizza must be getting. He smiles back, a toothless thing before returning to his journey upward as I jingle the keys into my door’s lock. Inside, I smile when I see the pile of DVD’s on the coffee table, the humming fridge with various appointments and magnets stuck to it and the window overlooking the sleeping town. I’d survived another day.
I throw the pizza down on the side of my mildew streaked couch and turn on the TV. The television is older than Christ and doesn’t have cable but none of that matters. I put in my favorite television series, “That 70’s Show”, and begin the party with my best and only friends.
* * *
My parents came for a visit three weeks later. The first thing they said when they walked in wasn’t about how messy the room was; it wasn’t about how I hadn’t called them since last Christmas or how they thought I could do better than this dump. They complained about the smell.
I blushed and pointed at the sink full to the brim with soap water and old dishes, but they were sure that wasn’t it. “It smells like something died in here”, they said. I fought back the urge to reply, “Ya, my hopes and dreams”. Honestly, I couldn’t smell anything. Needless to say, they didn’t stay long and I was alone again.
That night, lying in bed, I began yearning for the past. I vividly lived through my childhood for what must have been the eighth time. I saw all the mistakes I had made and all the chances I never took. I saw her again. Standing by the pool, waiting for me; but I’d never show up. I had told myself it was because I hadn’t wanted to get my hair wet at the time. Now, it felt like self-sabotage and I investigated every what-if scenario that could have happened if I’d gone.
There was a sudden crash above my bed as if a television or even a small bookcase had been kicked over. I was jolted out of my self-pity and back into reality. The crash was followed by a much smaller thump that was somehow more rattling than the first. That old man lived above me of course; he might have fallen over for all I knew. And yet, I did nothing. It all went downhill from there.
* * *
The next night I was haunted by what was the unmistakable sound of dripping. It was hard to hear, impossible during the day, but at night, when everything was quiet, that excruciating sound would begin. Like the ticking of a clock, getting louder and louder, never missing a beat. I envisioned a puddle of blackness being filled by an unnatural cloud; within, my loved ones were drowning. I would turn to my static strewn friends, but still the dripping continued, taking bits of sanity with every drop.
And the smell; that horrible yellow smell, like a portal into hell had been opened. I was reminded of when I found my parakeet trapped behind the couch as a child; its rotting flesh and fecal fumes leaping off its carcass. I had cried for my parents then as I did now. But what could they do? I was enveloped in this travesty and I had shut them out of my life.
Desperately, I searched my prison for the source of this evil. I pushed through all the toxins under the sink, scattered the mothballs under my bed, and checked the vents for dead creatures. That’s when I found something odd. It seemed as if the source was coming through the vents themselves and not from my room at all. Immediately I bought a roll of duct tape and sealed off every vent I could find with three layers of tape. Gradually, the air began to clear and I could finally begin to think rationally again. To finish the job, I sprayed air freshener into every corner of every room, and that’s when I noticed the spot.
A single, crimson red drip was gathering in the very corner by the window. Building in size like a blister, I watched as the bubble popped and streaked five inches down the wall. Several other red stalactites appeared and grew in size before following it’s comrade down towards the floor. It was bizarre; they began to take the shape of an upside down tree, its branches a glaring sea of blood. I felt dinner begin to rise up my throat and I hurriedly shoved the window open, gasping for breath.
I was even more shocked by what I saw below. There was a group of at least ten men in bulky, yellow hazmat clothing exiting two white vans and running into the apartment. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I pulled my head back inside to look at the growing red mark as it began to reach and soak into the carpet floor. I jumped back in surprise before the spot could reach my toes and headed for the door. Already I could hear the men as they charged up the stairs past my door, towards – my heart skipped a beat – old man Taylor’s apartment.
I slammed open the door and waived down an approaching hazmat man. I could tell he was out of breath without even seeing his face.
“Please, exit the building, sir,” he gasped.
He didn’t wait for me to reply and so I did the only thing I could – I walked down the stairs with everyone else into the cold night air; on the eve of winter.
* * *
Old man Taylor had been found dead, I was told later. It turned out he’d hung himself over a month ago; and there he had stayed, like clothes in a closet or beef on a meat hook. No one had even noticed he was gone. His family never called him, nor he them; he didn’t have any friends to speak of because he’d never speak a word to anyone. By all accounts of the few who knew him, he was a lonely man because he never took the time to be anything else; either he felt he was too busy or he just didn’t care. And he died that way.
After a month of hanging there, his head had separated from his body. The crash was the body hitting the ground and the following thump – the rest of him. Everything inside him had flooded out and dyed the white carpet around him red before soaking through the floor to repeat the pattern in my room. The only reason he was noticed missing was from the smell and a missing payment for his rent.
I look back on this and realize with horror that we really weren’t so different. I had shut myself off from the world into a cold loneliness I’m sure Taylor was very familiar with up until the bitter end. I’ve started going out more as a result. I’ve shut off the television and sold all my DVDs. I even called her again. I almost didn’t, at first. But during the past month, I’ve learned that life is too short and sanity too fragile to lock myself in my room anymore. In the search for change, I’ve put away my noose for good.
– Based on a true story –

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The Tunnel Run :
It was 9:30 P.M on a Sunday night and I had only just left work. There was a mountain of paperwork sat at my desk that had to be completed for Monday morning, but I knew that it couldn’t be done. I’d already given up my entire weekend, so it was difficult to find the energy to worry. I had grown bored of my job now anyway, so I didn’t really care what my boss said; I just needed a beer. I wandered out of the office doors, through the car park and made my way down the darkened road. Then like that, I was free. I was 21 now and had reached the age when I believed I knew everything. I had long grown used to living on my own and doing what I pleased, so I assumed I’d eventually just find a new job and be fine. My only regret that night was making the walk home.
Seeing as there is only two ways to reach my flat and one of them is a longer trek than the other, I could see no reason for taking the ‘scenic’ route; so I set off along my usual path. The journey home usually consisted of trudging down a miserable, lifeless road in which various holes had seemed to swallow up parts of the ground; and it was the same old walk for a little while, well, until I noticed a cut-off. It was a street that I had clearly passed every day on my way home, but I had only just noticed now. Feeling slightly confused, I decided to wander over to take a better look and hopefully refresh my mind. Smiths Avenue it was called. With it being a small, homely street, I expected it to be somewhat pleasant; but it wasn’t. It was surrounded by rotting monoliths and huge trees, making it look centuries old. At the very bottom, there was an abandoned ice cream truck that had been absorbed by the plants, while next to it was a pitch black tunnel. There was no light coming from anywhere in the street, just a silver glow from the moon to guide my eyes. I didn’t feel scared, nor did I feel the need to run away; but the street seemed very familiar and that made me feel slightly uneasy.
I was about to turn and get back to walking home when I realised how I knew the street. Eight years ago, I had a friend named Eddie Burscough. We used to play in the same street that I was now looking at, but it looked a lot different when I was a child. Back then I lived with my mum and dad, a happy life as I recall; but I lost them at a young age and seemed to block out a lot of memories. Maybe that’s why I forgot about Eddie and the street? I wasn’t sure, but I knew that I had to go and take a look around.
Straight away, my mind was flooded with memories – mostly of looking out the window and seeing Eddie playing out. I remembered kicking a football around all day, eating ice cream in the summer, riding our bikes in the sun with no worries at all; but my strongest memories were that of the tunnel. Even back then, in the light of my mind, the tunnel was just as dark as it looked to me now. So with our childish minds, we took the opportunity to create a game. ‘The Tunnel Run’ we called it. The game was simple: we each took turns to run down the tunnel and see who could make it the farthest without getting scared and turning back. There was one catch though… neither of us knew how far it went. If I remember rightly, neither of us ever made it all the way to the very end either. Not long after I lost my parents, I was placed with a foster family and I never saw Eddie ever again. Judging by the condition of the street now, it’s safe to say that he doesn’t live here any more.
I made my way to the tunnel at the far end of the street and stood on the edge of darkness. I felt the urge to try the tunnel run; for old times sake. I took my phone out and dimly lit a foot or so in front of me as I made my way inside; I walked this time. There was nothing but silence with me in that tunnel and I think that’s what compelled me to keep moving forward. I carried on walking until I got so far inside I couldn’t see anything at either end; but I wasn’t scared. It seemed peaceful.
After walking for what seemed like twenty minutes or so, I was stopped in my tracks when I could see a dim red light at the far end of the tunnel. I had to reach it. Was this the end that I had never reached? That Eddie had never reached? I had to find out. I kept on walking and walking until the light slowly came into focus and looked a lot brighter. At this point, I could make out something standing next to it, shuffling about and breathing. Then the smell of smoke hit me and my body tightened; I stopped walking. I then began to step backwards so I could leave, so I could make a run for it. When out of nowhere I heard someone mumble “Beat you to it”. It was Eddie. It had to be him, I could just tell. I moved towards him and couldn’t believe my eyes. It was definitely him, but he looked different. Not just older, but scarier. His features seemed twisted and a wry smile sat upon his face. He was stood next to a huge metal door, almost like a bouncer at a night club. He stared for a moment, winked at me and muttered “Come inside”.
I needed to talk to him and he clearly needed to talk to me too; so I followed him through the metal door. My stomach was turning, this all seemed like a dream. Once I was inside, my vision blurred for a moment. When it came back into focus, I was sure that my eyes were deceiving me. We were in my bedroom from when I was a young boy. It wasn’t a place made to seem like my old room; it was my exact room. The smell, the warmth, the memories all filled my being. I smiled. That’s when Eddie turned to look at me “Do you remember what your childhood was like?” Though confused, I replied “Well I remember some of it. It was good”
“Was it?”
“From what I can remember, it really was. Playing in the summer, ice cream, footba-”
“So you remember everything being fine do you, everything was perfect?” Eddie snarled
“What do you mean? I remember what I remember. It wasn’t all good, no. I remember my parents dying and going to a foster home – never seeing you again, you just disappeared. Before all of that though, I had a great childhood. My teenage years were great too, even my foster family were nice people”
“Did you forget what your mum and dad were like? They were fiends, disgusting people, they used to beat you up and down; kick you, punch you, put cigarettes out on your arm. Did you forget all of that?”
I realised that I had. I had completely forgotten. Everything came back to me at that point, all at once like huge wave. All of the pain that my parents had put me through emerged from the darkness; and I knew then, exactly why I blocked out my childhood.
“How did they die?” Eddie said
I mumbled “I, I can’t remember”
“What do you remember? Take a look at this, it may look familiar”
My old bedroom suddenly changed and I was in another bedroom. I could tell that it was in the same house but it was completely charred; burnt to a crisp. I remembered that bedroom, it was very familiar, but for some reason I didn’t know why.
“That’s my bedroom” Eddie said “I remember, one night after we had taken our usual beatings, you came into my room and whispered to me that we needed to do something. We needed to get out of here. A moment before you left, you threw a box of matches on my bed and told me to set fire to my bedroom; you said that we could make it look like an accident. I was young and naive, so I agreed to do it. You told me that if I did it correctly we could leave and be happy with another family; but you left me. You ran out of the house and left me screaming in my bedroom. The fire spread so fast, I didn’t know what to do; I just called out my brother’s name but nobody came. You didn’t just leave our parents to die in that fire. You left me”
I could see the pain and sadness in his eyes as he told me the whole story. My little brother didn’t seem so scary anymore. I placed my head in my hands and cried more than ever. I just couldn’t believe it, I remembered everything. My abusive parents, my younger brother – the only good part of my childhood – all dead, because of me. I blocked everything out from my younger life but kept hold of the good memories. I got a new family, inherited every penny from my old life and changed my name to start fresh, nobody knowing what I had done – the authorities called it an accident. I lifted my head up with tears streaming down my face to apologise but he was already gone. At that moment I wanted to die.
I had tried to bury my past and move on but it didn’t work. It was bound to find me sooner or later. I didn’t deserve to start a new life; Eddie would never get to. I looked around at the empty room to see if he was anywhere to be seen, but he wasn’t. It was just me and my tears. I stepped forward and opened the huge metal door; then with a rush of light I was right back at the top of Smiths Avenue. I glanced down the street and it looked exactly the same as it did back in my childhood. Except for one house at the end which was completely burnt. I turned away and left that street, I don’t think I’ll ever go back there again; but I remember everything now and I will never forgive myself. I just wish I could speak to my baby brother again.

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Black Forest, Red Hood :
“Over the river and through the woods,
To Grandmother’s house we go.”
A great plague had fallen upon the land, and with it came famine. Many families had perished throughout this terrible season, and those who survived were subject to melancholy or madness. Not even my homestead escaped the plight of others, as the sickness had left me a childless widow. The reaper had seen to take the life of my husband; a woodsmen and a fair hunter. I thought myself damned to a cruel loneliness, that was, until the messenger brought to me a letter from my mother’s mother, who had in these grim times fallen ill in her cottage on the far side of the Black Forrest. In her note, she requested that I bring to her both medicine and provisions, as she was far too weak to tend to the farm. Although not outright, the words conveyed a sense of urgency, and being of able bodied kin it would be my duty to see to this task. With no other to call family, I studiously gathered necessities for my travels; food and medicines for my elder mother, as well as utilities to serve my own purpose, such as a torch for light and my late husband’s wood axe, under the prescience of what dangers may await me in the dark forest. Lastly, I donned my hooded cloak of red, which many of my village would often mention with envy. It would bring courage for the journey to come.
The first moments of my departure were measured in joyless footsteps. Although it was still daylight, the sky had gown dark with soft rain, making it far too wet to properly lite my torch. Never the less, I proceeded with haste towards the mouth of the vast Black Forrest. Few ever set foot into these woods, and even the bravest of men prefer to travel along safer paths. It has been said that the Black Forest is home to both thieves and fearsome beasts alike, and rumors of unmarked graves circle amongst the village tavern. The more superstitious of the townsfolk would often speak in hushed whispers of a witch’s curse placed upon the forest generations ago by a woman hung for devil-worship.  I was never one to fall prey to such myths, but even still I bowed my head in silent prayer before entering the dreaded thicket.
It is worth note to mention that naming the Black Forest such was well placed. The tangled branches overhead obscured most of what little light remained, casting the ground in a pale glow. Bleak surroundings aside, I was able to make my way unhindered for the most part. The few brief moments I strayed from the path were of little consequence, and I was able adjust myself due East.
That was until nightfall.
Dusk came suddenly and without warning, but fortune had dried the air for my torch. I resolved to travel without sleep, taking only brief rest when fatigue took hold. ‘Tis a foolish folly to let down ones guard, even when thought alone. I made a small fire with my second torch, to keep my cold flesh warm whilst I enjoyed a modest meal of shortbread and jam. Under such woeful circumstance I managed to feel at ease for the first time since before my journey. I even began to scoff at the dangers that gripped so many others in fear, as I, a mere girl of nineteen, had traveled more than half of the Black Forrest in a single night. Other forces, however, saw fit to cut down my pride.
Not long into my rest I began to hear the baying of wolves in the distance, and sounds of some poor creature being torn into ribbons. Starvation had not been limited to man, and wolves were known to become extraordinarily vicious when deprived of sustenance. Knowing well enough not to stay in one place, I quickly gathered my belongings and moved on, putting as much distance between myself and those horrible noises. As the trees became dense, I lost track of the path at some point, but continued regardless. A thick fog was forming over the ground, and my brisk walk was matched by unsure footing. Many times did I stumble over some unseen root or stone, and my knees showed bruises as proof. As sore as they were, I could not halt my stride, lest I wished a brutal death. A shriek from above startled me, but  ‘twas only an owl, and yet another reminder to train my ear. Moving my legs at a more rapid pace did little to mask my scent, as not before long I heard those feral beasts from behind, and the beating of war drums bellowed in my chest. Frantically I tried to outrun the howls, cracking twigs beneath my feet and wafting mist around my cloak. Sometimes the barks and growls fell from far off, other moments they came from just outside of sight. The twisting path of the splintered trees seemed to be what kept the snapping jaws at bay, because it was not until I slipped my footing into the clearing of a forgotten cemetery that they were upon me.
At first they simply circled around me, sniffing at the air and lapping their tongues. There were three in all, each large and fierce, but showing clear signs of malnourishment. My gaze met the largest of the three, its eyes glistening in the moonlight huge and wide, all the better to see me. It barred its teeth in a snarl, the others doing the same. I griped the sharpened axe of my lost husband and hoped that his spirit would see me to safety.
The first wolf lunged itself towards me, but I stepped aside and heard its pained yelp as it fell into a headstone. The second brute snapped for my throat, but I saw to it that it would only taste the heat of my torch. The fur of the beast had been caught aflame, and I lashed out with a kick to steer it away. Just as I turned to run, I felt an agony from my leg where one of the wolves had clenched its jaw, and I fell to ground, extinguishing my torch in the damp soil. As it began to drag me, I tightened both hands around the axe, and with swift vengeance I brought the blade down upon the foolish creature’s neck. At once its teeth released me, just before the last of the three leaped down. I stopped it a hair lengths from my face with the wooden axe handle, but its hunger was persistent. It drooled for the thirst of blood, its hot breath reeking of death, but I would not allow myself to become this monsters prey. With a forceful push I found myself liberated, and with another I buried the axe head into its spine. As it lay dying I heard a ravenous howl shrink to a soft whimper.
Victory was short, as I could hear another starving pack from a ways off. My travels would have to continue. I limped my body through a thornned brush, leaving the violence that was behind. Unfortunate that at this moment, my injured limb gave way to a hillside slope, descending me into an unwanted slumber.
I awoke just before dawn to the sound of crows. Perched in the trees those little devils awaited my untimely fate, but no carrion flesh would fill their bellies this morning. After tending to my wound I was made ready to further myself from the accursed wood. Resuming East, I found the path and exited the Black Forest before first light.  In good time after I had reached my dear grandmother’s cottage. How overjoyed she would be when presented with medicine and good tidings! Not wanting to startle her with my already most unladylike appearance, I set down my sweet woodsmen’s axe and wiped the dirt from my brow.
It became apparent in a quick fashion that good tidings would do little for my elder, for when I entered the cottage I heard bangings and stifled grunts from her bedroom. When I opened her door, I felt a terror in my heart as I saw a thrashing beneath her sheets, and presumed a seizure had taken hold. Throwing away the blankets I learned that epilepsy was not the case, but rather, a wolf had broken through her window and was currently in the act of tearing my grandmother limb from limb.  A ghastly sight indeed. The wolf took notice of my presence, and turning to face me, its blood drenched snout appeared almost a grin. The last sight I can recall was my own blood running across the floor boards, running as red as the hood it had soaked.

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The Gift Of Mercy :
!MESSAGE BEGINS
We made a mistake. That is the simple, undeniable truth of the matter, however painful it might be. The flaw was not in our Observatories, for those machines were as perfect as we could make, and they showed us only the unfiltered light of truth. The flaw was not in the Predictor, for it is a device of pure, infallible logic, turning raw data into meaningful information without the taint of emotion or bias. No, the flaw was within us, the Orchestrators of this disaster, the sentients who thought themselves beyond such failings. We are responsible.
It began a short while ago, as these things are measured, less than 6^6 Deeli ago, though I suspect our systems of measure will mean very little by the time anyone receives this transmission. We detected faint radio signals from a blossoming intelligence 2^14 Deelis outward from the Galactic Core, as photons travel. At first crude and unstructured, these leaking broadcasts quickly grew in complexity and strength, as did the messages they carried. Through our Observatories we watched a world of strife and violence, populated by a barbaric race of short-lived, fast breeding vermin. They were brutal and uncultured things which stabbed and shot and burned each other with no regard for life or purpose. Even their concepts of Art spoke of conflict and pain. They divided themselves according to some bizarre cultural patterns and set their every industry to cause of death.
They terrified us, but we were older and wiser and so very far away, so we did not fret. Then we watched them split the atom and breach the heavens within the breadth of one of their single, short generations, and we began to worry. When they began actively transmitting messages and greetings into space, we felt fear and horror. Their transmissions promised peace and camaraderie to any who were listening, but we had watched them for too long to buy into such transparent deceptions. They knew we were out here, and they were coming for us.
The Orchestrators consulted the Predictor, and the output was dire. They would multiply and grow and flood out of their home system like some uncountable tide of Devourer worms, consuming all that lay in their path. It might take 6^8 Deelis, but they would destroy us if left unchecked. With aching carapaces we decided to act, and sealed our fate.
The Gift of Mercy was 8^4 strides long with a mouth 2/4 that in diameter, filled with many 4^4 weights of machinery, fuel, and ballast. It would push itself up to 2/8th of light speed with its onboard fuel, and then begin to consume interstellar Primary Element 2/2 to feed its unlimited acceleration. It would be traveling at nearly light speed when it hit. They would never see it coming. Its launch was a day of mourning, celebration, and reflection. The horror of the act we had committed weighted heavily upon us all; the necessity of our crime did little to comfort us.
The Gift had barely cleared the outer cometary halo when the mistake was realized, but it was too late. The Gift could not be caught, could not be recalled or diverted from its path. The architects and work crews, horrified at the awful power of the thing upon which they labored, had quietly self-terminated in droves, walking unshielded into radiation zones, neglecting proper null pressure safety or simple ceasing their nutrient consumption until their metabolic functions stopped. The appalling cost in lives had forced the Orchestrators to streamline the Gift’s design and construction. There had been no time for the design or implementation of anything beyond the simple, massive engines and the stabilizing systems. We could only watch in shame and horror as the light of genocide faded into infrared against the distant void.
They grew, and they changed, in a handful of lifetimes they abolished war, abandoned their violent tendencies and turned themselves to the grand purposes of life and Art. We watched them remake first themselves, and then their world. Their frail, soft bodies gave way to gleaming metals and plastics, they unified their people through an omnipresent communications grid and produced Art of such power and emotion, the likes of which the Galaxy has never seen before. Or again, because of us.
They converted their home world into a paradise (by their standards) and many 10^6s of them poured out into the surrounding system with a rapidity and vigor that we could only envy. With bodies built to survive every environment from the day lit surface of their innermost world, to the atmosphere of their largest gas giant and the cold void in-between, they set out to sculpt their system into something beautiful. At first we thought them simple miners, stripping the rocky planets and moons for vital resources, but then we began to see the purpose to their constructions, the artworks carved into every surface, and traced across the system in glittering lights and dancing fusion trails. And still, our terrible Gift approached.
They had less than 2^2 Deeli to see it, following so closely on the tail of its own light. In that time, oh so brief even by their fleeting lives, more than 10^10 sentients prepared for death. Lovers exchanged last words, separated by worlds and the tyranny of light speed. Their planetside engineers worked frantically to build sufficient transmission infrastructure to upload the countless masses with the necessary neural modifications, while those above dumped lifetimes of music and literature from their databanks to make room for passengers. Those lacking the required hardware or the time to acquire it consigned themselves to death, lashed out in fear and pain, or simply went about their lives as best they could under the circumstances.
The Gift arrived suddenly, the light of its impact visible in our skies, shining bright and cruel even to the unaugmented ocular receptor. We watched and we wept for our victims, dead so many Deelis before the light of their doom had even reached us. Many 6^4s of those who had been directly or even tangentially involved in the creation of the Gift sealed their spiracles with paste as a final penance for the small roles they had played in this atrocity. The light dimmed, the dust cleared, and our Observatories refocused upon the place where their shining blue world had once hung in the void, and found only dust and the pale gleam of an orphaned moon, wrapped in a thin, burning wisp of atmosphere that had once belonged to its parent.
Radiation and relativistic shrapnel had wiped out much of the inner system, and continent sized chunks of molten rock carried screaming ghosts outward at interstellar escape velocities, damned to wander the great void for an eternity. The damage was apocalyptic, but not complete, from the shadows of the outer worlds, tiny points of light emerged, thousands of fusion trails of single ships and world ships and everything in between, many 10^6s of survivors in flesh and steel and memory banks, ready to rebuild. For a few moments we felt relief, even joy, and we were filled with the hope that their culture and Art would survive the terrible blow we had dealt them. Then came the message, tightly focused at our star, transmitted simultaneously by hundreds of their ships.
“We know you are out there, and we are coming for you.”
!MESSAGE ENDS

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Daddy’s Little Angel :
She has her mother’s bright blue eyes, Daddy’s Little Angel does. And the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. She could melt an iceberg, she could. Everyone that knows her just loves her to death, and I’m so proud to call myself her father. She’s a gift from above, I know it, which is why I must protect her, no matter what the cost!
Some people just don’t understand.
It all started a couple of weeks ago. Some nasty little girl was teasing Katie, my Little Angel, and she just wouldn’t leave her alone. She was saying nasty things, saying how poor she was and saying she was dirty and such. She just had the filthiest mouth; little girls shouldn’t be so nasty. Well she followed Katie home that day throwing dirt at her and telling her to take a bath in it. Well my Katie showed her what’s what, yes she did! And Daddy couldn’t be more proud. I don’t think anyone should hurt a child, even if they don’t mean it! Don’t get me wrong! But Katie never did anything to anyone, and I love her to death.
You’ve gotta understand.
I was only being a loving father when I hid the body. You see we live in a very rural area, and that nasty mouthed little girl clearly had no business following my Katie in the first place. But I know no one would understand, and I just can’t let anything happen to my Little Angel!
Of course that’s when my wife came home and saw that our little girl had a few bruises. Can you believe she actually glared at me? As if I’d ever so much as think of hurting my Little Angel! Of course I was upset, but the sweetheart that she is, Katie set her on track sure enough. She told her how the filthy little girl harassed her and wouldn’t leave her be. And I tell you, that lit my wife right up, she was so angry. I had to restrain her, she was gonna call her parents then and there. It was nine in the evening!
Well, I finally talked her down, even though she was furious with me that I hadn’t handled it sooner. Of course by then she just didn’t trust me to settle it no matter what I told her. I said I’d do it first thing after work the next day but no, no! She insisted she’d call them herself the next day. Even Katie pleaded with her not to call her parents, she said she’d be so embarrassed at school if everyone found out she’d run home and told mommy.
Of course we both knew we couldn’t explain that the filthy little girl had gone “missing” after their little scuffle, now could we? I mean, she’s my wife and I loved her, but she just wouldn’t understand. But she just sent Katie straight up to bed and wouldn’t hear another word from me on the matter, her mind was made up. And she’s a very headstrong woman (it’s part of her charm, you see) so there’s no arguing with her once she’s made up her mind on a matter.
Well after that I went to tuck the Little Angel in and read her a bedtime story, and she begged me not to let mommy call the filthy girl’s parents, but I told her how persistent Mommy is, and that she wouldn’t listen to me. Of course that didn’t sit well with Katie at all. She knew that Mommy wouldn’t understand…and neither would her schoolmate’s mommy, no, especially not her. I told Katie I would think of something, and I promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her…but Daddy’s Little Angel is clever. Daddy’s Little Angel already had her mind made up.
I shoulda understood.
The next day I came home to see my wife lying at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled bloody heap. There was so much blood, and it had long since dried into the carpet when I got home. She had never made it to work that morning. The official story was that she had taken a nasty fall down the stairs and cracked her head open like an egg on her tumble…but as I look into Katie’s eyes, so empty, so emotionless. No, no, no! Daddy’s Little Angel did not hurt anyone that didn’t try to hurt her first! She’s special…
Anyhow, there was a funeral and the whole family showed up. Katie couldn’t have been more bored; she just sat there staring into nothingness as the eulogy was given. When it came time to view the corpse she barely gave it a glance. I like to think she’s coping with the loss her own way. Daddy’s Little Angel loved her mommy more than anything.
It was just before the burial the next day that an investigator showed up at the door. It was Katie that answered as I was rushing to get ready. I rushed to the door as this man was questioning my little girl, gently scooted Katie outta the way and stepped up to the door.
“May I help you?” I asked, trying to sound polite.
“I need to ask you some questions about the circumstances of your wife’s death,” the investigator said.
“Who are you?” I think some of my frustration was coming through, but it might have been my self-consciousness.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a laugh. “Detective Kimble, local PD. I just got the results back from the autopsy, and the blunt trauma your wife suffered, and the bloodstains found on the carpet don’t exactly match up. I was wondering if you could give me a little more insight…”
“Well I’d love to, Detective, but as I told the responding officers, I only found the body when I came home from work. I wasn’t here to see it happen.” The detective tried to speak again, I think, but I cut him off. Frustration was filling me. “If you’ll excuse me, we have a burial to attend.” I grabbed Katie’s hand and walked her out the door, locking it behind me. I glanced back to see that the detective was watching me as we drove away.
Katie was silent the entire trip there and back, and as soon as we got home she retreated to her room. The poor baby has it so rough, all this death surrounding her. I shampooed the carpet the best I could to get the stains out, and fixed up dinner for us. We ate in silence, and it filled me with pain to see her suffering. I’ll never forget, just before she got up to take her plate to the sink she looked at me and smiled so softly. Oh my little Angel has the sweetest smile you ever did see.
A couple days passed, and I thought things were getting back to normal–well as normal as they could be, without my beautiful wife to come home to–when it happened. You see I rush home each day to meet Katie as she’s coming in from school, but yesterday I was lost in thought and took my time getting home. You see, the day before my wife’s sister suggested that she come over and bring Katie’s cousin to visit, and I couldn’t refuse. So I had to get in the mindset…I had to show her we were coping.
The house was quiet when I got there, but that wasn’t so unusual as Daddy’s Little Angel tends to keep to herself and spends most of her time in her room playing with her dollhouse. She’s always so clean, and always so quiet, I couldn’t have asked for a better little girl.
I walked up to check Katie’s room and it was empty. I then proceeded to check the rest of the house and found her nowhere, until I came to the door leading to the cellar. Odd, it was cracked. I pushed it open and started down the stairs. I could see the light spilling across the floor at the bottom of the staircase, illuminating a small puddle of blood just a foot from the bottom step.
“Just hand me the gun,” a voice said softly. “I’ll get you out of here, take you somewhere safe.”
I rushed down the stairs and found Katie standing a mere two feet away from Detective Kimble, who sat bound with rope and bleeding from the head. I approached my daughter and eased the gun from her hands as the detective seemed to eye me with the most dreadful gaze anyone’s ever given me in my life. I took the gun in my hands, and was surprised at how natural it felt, though I’d never held a gun in my life. The exhilaration that filled me as I lifted the gun and watched the detective’s face contort in horror almost sickened me.
“Why have you come,” I asked him as I aimed the gun at his head.
“Your wife’s death was not an accident,” he replied.
“I was at work when it happened, and Katie was at school. It’s been deemed an accident. What did you hope to find here?”
“The coroner stated that she died in the early morning, around the same time you leave for work.”
“I loved my wife!” Unconsciously I began to pull the hammer back.
“If you kill me, the police will know where to look,” Kimble pleaded. “There’s no way out of this. Do the right thing. Do it for your little girl!”
“If only you understood…”
I put a bullet in his head. It’s all I could do. Of course I knew he was right, I knew the cops would come soon, looking for him. I turned to my girl–she stood staring at Kimble, vacantly–and I told her to run and get the tarp from the corner. She did. Daddy’s Little Angel is so good, she even helped me wrap the body.
And I carved.
My sister-in-law showed up that night with her husband and kid, as she said she would…and dinner was ready by eight thirty. I really think they loved it, my new recipe. I think they’ll be back for more.

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Turn Off The Light When You Leave :
In Finland there is an old but still inhabited yellow apartment, situated in a small city near an important railroad. Almost all of the people living there are over 70 years old and in fact it seems that younger people simply won’t stay there for longer than a year.
If you live there you will soon notice several unusual things. In the basement the text “TURN ON THE LIGHT. TURN OFF THE LIGHT WHEN YOU LEAVE” is written next to every light switch. It’s unusual to remind somebody of something so obvious, but here it is of critical importance.
People who forget something in the basement never return to pick it up. If you offer to go and retrieve it for them they will stop you from doing so.
There is one door there, between some storage doors that has no numbers on it. Instead the door has a worn-out nameplate on it. The people in the flat will tell you to leave that door alone. It is said that people who have peeked in the keyhole have seen very unsettling things.
The wires and pipes in the basement look amazingly old, yet still the house has perfectly functioning water, electricity and phone lines.
The laundry room, which is in the basement, must be reserved if you want to use it. If you go there without reserving a time first you will at first get weird looks and some scolding. Then people will more ominously and angrily warn you.
These things may seem minor but those, usually the young ones, who have got too curious or failed to follow the rules have ended up either dead, crippled or insane. Usually people say that these incidents were the result of drug use or alcoholism, but some of the freak accidents cannot be explained by anything.
How do I know this? I used to go and help my grandmother who lived in that apartment and I have seen several times how ambulance has dragged away young people who have missed an arm, sometimes some other parts also. The worst case was when I found a corpse that looked like an explosion victim in the laundry room. His guts were spattered all around the room and his left arm was sitting on top of the washing machine.
Before her death my grandmother told that she knows what’s behind these incidents. After the 2nd world war there was a shortage of apartments and one war veteran who had lost his left arm was given a rudimentary room in the basement for no cost if he would help people to do laundry and help the janitor. He did, but eventually someone insulted him way or another. The veteran killed that youngster and himself. Ever since his spirit has been there, harshly punishing those who fail to follow the rules of his home. After telling this she told me that I should never ever return to the apartment as I knew too much.
As I left the apartment for the last time I could see the figure of an old, old man missing his left arm staring at me, reflected on the large glass panel on the door to the stairway…

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Dirt :
Chapter 1
The sounds of people screaming filled my ears and a dull pain was throbbing in my head. I realised I was lying on a cold, hard surface and I had a faint metallic taste in my mouth. I gave a splutter and opened my eyes; they felt like they were full of needles. I waited for my pain filled eyes to focus as the swirls of colours around me began to form shapes which gradually became more and more detailed. The world lay on its side and I saw broken, half demolished buildings weep fire and smoke. The sky was a dark shade of crimson. The sounds of screaming just wouldn’t stop, but…I couldn’t see anyone that could be making the noises. The surface I was laying on turned out to be the remains of a road, the cracked tarmac beneath me was freezing.
I peeled my face off the frigid ground and sat up, every bone in my body ached and I found it very difficult to move around without a sharp pain jolting through me. I rubbed my throbbing head and groaned. A woman began wailing shrilly above the other screaming voices, but she stopped suddenly and her cries were replaced with a gurgling sound which also cut out and the other screams filled the void. I looked at the raging inferno that used to be Des Moines, the capital of Iowa and stood mesmerised.
How could this carnage have taken place in the few hours I had been asleep? I looked around me. I shuffled around three hundred and sixty degrees on my ass. The entire city was completely destroyed. The buildings were in ruin, the mainframe of the high rise apartment blocks and the office buildings were all crumbling. The windows were broken and fire spewed from them, licking at the air that had been tinted a foul grey. I remember the night before, everything was how it should have been; I recall giving my friend Rebecca a call in the evening to organise something at the weekend, we were going to go bowling…after that I went on my computer for a few hours and watched a horror movie before going to bed, a fact which I’m beginning to regret. With the thoughts of demons and killers racing through my head, I called it a night and fell asleep in an instant (The fear of a murderer residing under my bed had long since vanished). If something was wrong, or if something happened I would have known right away. The apartment I live in overlooks the whole city and the walls in my room are paper thin so the slightest little noise, every scratch, every bump, everything. There is no way this could have happened in such a short space of time without me knowing about it.
Unless…unless I had been asleep for much longer than I thought. Yes, perhaps I was drugged or maybe I had been hit over the head. That would explain me being slumped down on the tarmac. That fucking tarmac was so damn cold. That couldn’t have been the case though, unless I was kept under constant sedative for a very long period of time – which seemed rather pointless to me if I was going to be dumped into the street anyway – there is still no way in hell that the entire city could have been destroyed in the time it would have taken for me to wake up. So what the fuck could have done all this? The screaming never stopped.
With a great strain I crawled on my hands and knees and awkwardly pulled myself onto my feet and that’s when I noticed it; the tarmac around was covered with dirt, I mean plastered, buried, there was just dirt everywhere as far as the eye could see. All except the one little area I had been lying in. I froze in place, for some reason I did not like the look of it at all. There was something, I don’t know how else to say, wrong with it…
The dirt was heaped very evenly as though someone had carefully applied set amounts to set areas of land and then levelled them out with utmost perfection. It must have taken god knows how long to do. How would someone even go about doing something like this anyway? What would they need to put dirt on the ground in a city for? It’s not like any crops could grow in the middle of the road. And, the question that made me shudder the most: Why?
I had a niggling feeling in my head, an instinct if you will, to stay away from the dirt, not to touch it no matter what. I didn’t know why I felt that way, but I usually follow my gut with these sorts of things. I had no idea what I was going to do when I became hungry, felt the urge to sleep, required shelter in the event of a downpour or storm, or when I felt the need to urinate (I felt like not even my piss should be allowed to touch this cursed soil), but for the time being I decided to just stay in my little bald patch of tarmac and sit tight in the hope that someone might come staggering from the ruin looking for help. In my heart however, I knew this just wasn’t going to happen.
I tried stretching my arms and legs in an attempt to relieve myself of the aching in my body, thinking that perhaps I was just hurting from the cold.
Another high pitched scream, what the hell could be making those sounds? There isn’t a damn thing there!
After about half an hour of pacing up and down my few feet of clean land, I began to feel a little better, but a new feeling which was just as bad as the aches and pains had replaced the old. It was an inescapable feeling of total dread, like something was about to come crashing ferociously from behind one of the ruined structures at any minute and tear me apart.
The screams began to get to me, at every cry of anguish I whipped round in a fear filled frenzy to try and identify where each one was coming from each time to no avail. The dread within me grew and grew at every yell, every dull moan, and every screeching voice. I lost track of time, although it felt like an eternity and I was sadly aware that I had developed a paranoid routine from which I could not break:
Scream.
Jump.
Look around wildly.
Tense up nervously.
Relax.
Scream.
I felt like screaming myself, I was beginning to cramp up from being tensed for so long. My fear spewed out of me in the form of frightened yelps, cold sweats and neck hairs that stood to attention profusely. It was at that point I made the mistake of glancing at my feet. I was ankle deep in the satanic dirt that surrounded the dead city. In my blind fear of the unknown, I must have stepped out of my holy ground without even realising. It was cold and seethed beneath me. It crawled up my legs and squelched in my shoes, molesting my feet and corrupting them. Denaturing my toes and seeping into the cracks in my skin. I felt a warm release slip down my leg and I vomited. The vomit rested on the surface of the dirt and swam there for a moment before bubbling angrily, turning black and becoming part of the shadowy mass below. I just stared at where it had been and gave a feeble yelp before the world defocused and I lost all consciousness.
Chapter 2
I awoke with my head once again throbbing madly and to my dismay I was greeted by the sound of blood curdling screams, now louder than ever. It had become very dark and somewhat humid.
Where the fuck was I anyway? There was a faint orange glow coming from somewhere in the distance. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to faintly see by, after a few hours of optical adjustment that is. The glow illuminated what appeared to be some sort of vast underground bunker. The walls were shimmering with what I assumed to be water and the floor was covered with moss and fungal growths. There was a rank smell in the air and it reminded me of the basement below my mother’s house. It smelled of damp.
AAAAGGHHHEEHHH!!!!!
Where is it coming from…?
I tried lifting my head up to look around and felt a sharp tug on my hair which sent a sharp pain through my head. Once again I tried looking up only to be greeted with the same tugging. I went to reach for my head to see if my hair had been caught in some of the dirt when I hit the ground or if some gruesome entity was holding it, but I quickly found my arms were also incapable of movement.
I panicked and thrashed madly at whatever had me and found that my legs and upper torso were also held tight. The black haze before my eyes began to lift and I saw with hazy vision that I had been pinned down to some sort of rack on the wall with great leather straps. I flailed in another attempt to break my restraints, but the straps proved to be too thick, I may as well have been trying to break through a wall. Nevertheless the little spark of hope in my mind told me that if I continued struggling after a while the restraints may begin to loosen, or maybe someone would hear me and find me.
FWAEeeehAAAAaaagghhhh!
Do they ever fucking stop screaming?!
After what must have been the best part of two hours of non-stop wiggling in place I finally gave up. My limbs and torso were red and bloody from where the leather had dug into my skin and I felt a wave of despair hit me like a train and cried tears of terror and anger.
The screams had become louder still and were more fearful. I heard the sound of someone crying hysterically and another voice was shouting out incoherent words and sentences. The only words I could make out were “never leave”.
I felt a dripping coming from above me and a faint sound had begun to ring over the sound of the screaming. It was unlike any sound I have ever heard before, the only way I could describe it was like the clang a hammer makes when striking an anvil, but it was…alive. It sounded as if this “hammer” had a voice to it, its clangs changing pitch rapidly as if something was communicating with something else in some ancient language.
CLAAAaaannng!
I prefer the screams, the screams have structure.
The dripping above me persisted and I tried to crane my neck up to see what it was. I couldn’t do it obviously, but after a while the steady dripping on my head began to infuriate, madden me. I had to see what was falling on my head; it was my goal for the next hour.
When I finally stopped trying to look up at the ceiling all the muscles in my neck were pulled and aching horribly. I looked at the orange light again and noticed it had gotten slightly brighter, like it was moving towards me. I dismissed it and decided to try and get some sleep. That sounded like a wonderful idea, so I shut my eyes and eventually fell into a very uneasy sleep.
In my dreams I heard screaming.
Screaming and clanging.
Chapter 3
I was awoken by an ear-splitting wail, much louder than the other screams and close, very close. My eyes shot open and the light hit me like a fucking train. The orange light had become blindingly bright and I re-shut my eyes for a moment to allow them to once again adjust, this time to the light. I slowly opened them again and saw that it was emanating from the ground. The underground chamber had been illuminated except for the ceiling. I looked down the corridor and I gasped in horror. The whole bunker contained millions of mutilated people who were, like me, stuck fast to the walls. Their insides dangled before them swinging like pendulums in time to their writhing. Many of their ribcages had been forced open exposing their vital organs, the broken pieces of bone digging into their lungs and parts of their livers. A pool of blood had gathered at the feet of every one of them and I saw that the water on the walls was not water at all, but rather blood, blood and various entrails scattering the walls and floor.
WHY?!?!
Why indeed, my unfortunate friend. Why indeed.
I was in shock and awe that every single one of these poor souls was still alive and all the while screaming. Their digestive tracts continued to work as normal, but they had turned black from a lack of oxygen and were spilling out of their bodies in a twisted knot as they shat themselves uncontrollably, their faeces spilling out of their defiled anuses lathering their legs and feet. Their excrement was unusually viscous. These wasted bodies must have all been fed through some sort of drip, but I couldn’t see any tubes or syringes. Maybe they were being force fed, either way it was disgusting. I gagged at how stretched their chewed up limbs looked and how…incomplete they were. And that’s what I decided to call them: The Incomplete.
This slaughter chamber stretched for miles and I wondered to myself exactly how many people were here and how in the name of God they were all still alive. I figured they must have been administered regular shots of adrenaline and god knows how many other chemicals, but the fact that not a one had died was simply too much.
I looked to my left and amongst all The Incomplete, I saw someone who looked totally whole strapped to the wall like me. It became apparent that this was the person who woke me because she was giving choked screams in between great long sobs of panic filled crying, way more audible than the others. I tried to call out to her to try and calm her down. I thought that the sight of a fellow being would give her a sense of some relief, but she was so scared and distraught that she didn’t hear me.
The orange light burned behind my eyes and imprinted itself onto my retinas. It began to shimmer and distort before me and I noticed a large black mass gathering before the poor girl. It was as if all the shadows that were being cast in the bunker were being manipulated by some unseen force and being made to group in front of this terrified young woman. The dark figure that was materialising seemed to slowly suck all of the light out of the chamber the more it grew. As this malevolent black spectre rose to about ten feet, broken looking, distorted limbs started sprouting from it. They were long and seemed sharp even though this shadow had no details as of then, just perfect blackness.
Finally this shadow man stopped growing and began to shimmer, not with light but with some kind of supernatural energy. It’s hard to describe but it was as if something inside of this, whatever this dark creature was, started to pulse and throb as if trying to force its way out. The Incomplete had become eerily quiet and a look of primal terror had come over each and every one of their faces.
They knew what this thing was and they were afraid of it…
Chapter 4
The glow that had once completely lit the entire place had now been completely absorbed by the shadow being and I was once again plunged into darkness. The silence rung in my ears with a static buzz and I tensed in apprehension as to what would happen next. Then after some time, my vision once again returned to me as light refilled this palace of torture. This time however, the light was radiating from this thing that had finally come into complete existence. It was as if every form of light and shadow around us had been focused into this being and had somehow been fused into one enormous…dark light. I know that sounds impossible, but that’s just what it was: dark light.
It continued to pulse with its demonic power and I cringed at its outward appearance. Behind the dark light that it cast was a hideous body. Its bones, if that’s what they even were, had been forced out of its skin at the spine, shoulders and elbows and jutted out at uneven angles. Dark blood dripped off the tips and landed with a little splash on the ground. It hunched over as if in pain and I noticed that it didn’t have any hands. That sharp quality to its upper limbs I mentioned earlier, the reason for that was because it didn’t have any real upper limbs. Where they should have been were large cracked pieces of bone that extended out and formed sharp points at the end. They were also throbbing, but not in time with the rest of this things body. It was as if they were in control of themselves. What I mean is, they looked almost sentient. Its face was contorted into a sick and twisted grin that stretched all the way across to its jaw revealing a set of very wicked, very sharp looking teeth that had been chipped and broken in places. There was blood staining every one. A pair of jagged horns stuck out from its head at weird angles and there were giant splits all over them. Some of them ran from the base all the way to the very tip.
It slowly dragged itself closer to where the girl was anchored. Walking isn’t the right word, its deformed legs were sliding spastically across the ground and it practically had to fight with them to stay upright. Once it became within touching distance of the girl it gave an enormous bellow and the girl screamed with fear and began throwing her weight around again, trying to break free. The creature before her then began moving with extreme speed and soon it became only a blur before me. The girl’s screams became spluttered gagging sounds, similar to the one I heard on the surface and her eyes rolled back into her head exposing the whites of her eyes. I watched in awe and disgust as blood began frothing from her mouth and as her abdomen was ripped open, her organs receiving the same treatment as The Incomplete’s. She gargled and hacked for ages as this being went to its demented work moving with increasing speed.
Pieces of flesh flew all over the place from her tattered body and her stomach was somehow being filled before my eyes making gurgling sounds that rose in pitch the more that was poured in. I threw up all over my chest, it was just too much. I looked away until the gargling stopped, but a part of me wanted to turn back around and I had to focus with all my might to stop myself. When the girl finally stopped making sounds, I looked back and almost threw up again. Her stomach was filled with her own flesh and bones, I could see parts of kidney, liver, pancreas and gall bladder all floating around from the semi translucent exterior of the stomach as it churned and rumbled. I saw her insides being mixed with her stomach acid and she moaned in pain and exhaustion from the loss of blood. Her stomach looked like it was going to burst.
The rest of her digestive system had already turned black. I had no idea why though. Perhaps it was some strange side effect of the demon coming into contact with them, who knows. The twisted creature had gone now and the light had returned to the chamber. The Incomplete were screaming again, but the girl remained silent, just lolling her head from side to side. She had a look of disbelief on her face as she stared at her own organs hanging down just barely touching the floor.
OOOooohhhHHHhhh, IT HURRRRRRRRRRTTSSSS!!!!!!!
I can only imagine.
I suddenly felt extremely worried, in fact I was going fucking crazy. I began breathing faster and faster and I kept asking myself what was going to happen to me.
Would I suffer the same fate as the girl?
How painful would it be?
How long would I stay alive, would it be…forever?
I tried to calm myself down and control my breathing but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I drew in a deep breath, focused my vocal chords and began mimicking The Incomplete.
I screamed.
Chapter 5
I screamed and shouted at the top of my goddamn lungs. I got out all my frustration, confusion and pure terror out of my system by shouting the house down. I screamed until my throat was sore and my voice was hoarse. When I finally decided I had vented all that was to be vented I became quite once more and decided that with nothing else to do I should just go back to sleep. There was no real way of telling how much time had passed here anyway, the lighting never changed much and the screaming never ever stopped. I thought I had been here for a few hours, but in actual fact I could have been here for a few days, or maybe even a week. It was hard to sleep with The Incomplete yelling all the time, but not impossible. So I closed my eyes and drifted into another uneasy sleep.
I dreamt again, this time of the mutated, pulsating aberration that had disembowelled that poor young girl. It was just standing there a few feet away, snarling. Great globs of drool and blood hung from the sides of its wide grinning mouth. And that steady dripping sound filled my head, reverbing all around me, never ceasing. It dragged itself slowly towards me making long scraping sounds as it moved that made my teeth chatter and grind. I wanted to run, but I found myself rooted to the spot and I understood why: I wasn’t out of fear, like when someone gets so frightened that they physically cannot move, nothing like that. It was that even in my dreams, even in my fucking subconscious; I was still strapped to the wall. I moved towards me making those horrific scraping noises until it was face to face with me. I felt it’s stank breath on my face and it sprayed some of its bloody spit all over me as it breathed. I reached out to touch me with those long, disfigured appendages.
I awoke in a cold sweat, tears streaming down my face. I shook myself back into reality and told myself that things would all get better in time. I may yet be able to find a way out of this insane place. In my heart I felt that there was no true way of escaping my loathsome fate, not even in my dreams.
After my senses tuned themselves back into the real world – what was left of it anyway – I felt a wave of powerful confusion wash over me; the lights illuminating the chamber had once again gone out and I was plunged into pitch blackness. There was no noise in the slightest. I held my breath. The demonic shadow creature was returning. It was almost exactly like last time, except the lights had already been extinguished. Perhaps this one was different; one of the shadow man’s many esteemed colleagues perhaps. I waited in suspense. My mouth was dry. I could taste the air around me and it was most foul. I wondered who was receiving the monsters “treatment” this time. Poor bastard whoever they were.
Then it happened, the faint ominous glow appeared in the middle of the room. The glow began to throb and swirl as great strings of colours danced in front of my eyes in great ring – black and white, blue and green, yellow and violet – they all contorted into one another forming shades that I didn’t even know existed. It was beautiful. I found it hard to believe that such wonderful art could originate from such an evil being.
Not long now.
The ball of glowing light majestically began to grow and pulse faster. Just like last time.
Oh shit, why am I sweating…?
It’s presence began to engulf the chamber and I heard frightened gasps echoing around me, but no screams. Just like last time.
Please go away…
Contorted limbs, bent ligaments and exposed bone began to form from the swirls making cracking sounds with every twist and jolt. Just like last time.
I don’t want you to live. I don’t want you to live!
The light emanating off it suddenly gave way to every gruesome detail of this things mangled body. Just. Like. Last. Time…
It existed once more.
It straightened up and raised its head towards the ceiling taking great sharp inhales while cocking its head back and forth. It was trying to catch the scent of something. After a little more sniffing around it apparently found what it wanted and stopped, it relaxed and exhaled deeply. And then it turned to face me exposing its long, sharp teeth. They were still parted in that permanent grin. I understood perfectly.
“Oh no. Oh no! Oh Christ Almighty, NO!”
It took a few lunges towards me, hobbling in that pathetic little dragging way like the previous creature. Not all too dissimilar from its cousin. It continued towards me making scratching sounds with its hooves as it moved. It made my teeth grind and sent cold shivers through my whole body. It made a growling noise in short bursts, it sounded like it was a form of demented chuckling.
“Please, just go away! Pick someone else!”
It chuckled to itself sadistically some more and came closer towards me; I could feel its damp breath on me now. It smelled of rotten flesh.
“Oh God! For the love of God, someone help me!”
Then the creature stopped and stared at me, with a look of malice in its blood filled eyes. It opened its mouth and spoke – I didn’t even think it was capable of speech, human speech that is –it had a voice that sounded like grinding metal. It pulled itself right up to my left ear and I recoiled in disgust, trying to pull away.
“God can’t help you now.” It growled. A blob of warm saliva from the things mouth landed on my shoulder. “What do you m-m-mean?” I asked, trying to stall for time so that I could postpone my bloody fate. It seems useless and almost childish now, but this was when that fucking thing was practically touching my nose and salivating all over me.
The creature took a single step (shuffle) backwards and let out a low pitched sigh. “You should know by now that God hates you,”
“Fuck you…fuck you! I’m not a bad person.” I screamed in its face and spat in its eye. I was trying to make it stop giving that loathsome grin, but it merely grinned wider, wiped the spit out of its eyes and proceeded to ingest it.
A flicker of twisted pleasure shined in the creatures dark, cold eyes and it breathed out with a shudder. This monstrosity seemed to actually enjoy having me spit on it, it was as though my act of hostility seemed to drive the soulless creature to – oh Christ I don’t even want to say it – orgasm. I was revolted. I tried to give a little gag of disgust, but no sound came. It was like a foreign object had gotten stuck in the back of my throat that prevented me from making any sound. It weighed me down. It sucked all the energy from my body.
The demonic entity stood for a while unmoving and then it jolted towards me again, its blood spattered face touching mine.
“Ah, what fun you will be.” it gave a heaving chuckle.
It took one of its great blades that extended from its body and lightly punctured my skin below my ribs. I gasped as a sharp pain bolted through me.
“I’m going to take my time.”
Chapter 6
I began sobbing loudly and the creature laughed in my face as it twisted its bone shards around my abdomen. I felt flesh tear and could feel one of my ribs beginning to protest under the pressure. I tensed up my whole body, trying to block out the pain by focusing on keeping my muscles as constricted as possible, but it was no use. I heard a sudden crack and screamed, the pain was drowning me, there was a little shimmering halo around my field of vision. I could feel my head pounding, I could feel my heart drumming mercilessly in my ears, but most of all I could feel the splinters of broken bone digging themselves into my flesh. The creatures grin was so wide now that it looked like a long curved scar that stretched across its entire face.
Still grinning, it fondled my lungs which caused me to gasp and choke. At this point I was beginning to seriously wonder why I had not yet died. No man on the face of this Earth could endure such brutal torture. With each sharp inhale of air I made, the creature gave a moan of delight. It was sickening. Then without warning, it brought its deformed appendages down on either side of my exposed rib cage and broke them all at once. It was just like how a karate master chopped through layers of concrete, and let me tell you, I knew how it felt to be those slabs of concrete then. I felt the upper half of my body give way and elongate as my heart and lungs fell out of my body and hung loosely before me, I could see my heart beating rapidly in front of my eyes.
The creature took a moment to take in my suffering and cocked its head, studying my reactions. I was now mimicking the incomplete perfectly, screaming my fucking head off. When it was done appreciating its handy work, it shoved its sharp bones into my body again, slightly below my ribcage. I could feel my organs churning and flopping around, now doubt being shredded to bits by its massive arms. It paused for a moment and made a twisting motion, like it was cranking a lever and I felt a rush of warm liquid travel up my throat and spew out of my mouth. At this point I had grown accustomed to throwing up, until I glanced at what was my chest and saw it covered in fresh blood coupled with big blobs of saliva.
I gasped a lungful of air and felt a sharp pain as my exposed lungs jabbed into a shard of bone from my former ribcage. I saw my intestines tumble out of my abdomen and heard the warm squelching slap they made as they hit the ground. Parts of them were still dangling out of me, words cannot describe the feeling. The creature took another pause, breathing heavily, no doubt having another euphoric experience over my mutilation and then it just sighed and walked away.
Was it over? The last part of me that was still sane held on to the possibility that it was. I relaxed and felt the warm liquids drip down my chest. I was becoming very aware of the fact that my organs were becoming very dry and produced a great deal of friction every time I drew breath. Every time it happened I wanted to vomit. The stuff on the ceiling was still plopping onto my head, I didn’t care. Although what followed next makes me wish I did, it might have prepared me a little for my fate.
I think I slept some more because I remember being hit hard across the face and glancing blurrily around to see the ungodly thing sneering at me, a fingers length away from my face. Beside it was an enormous mound of that hideous dirt. There was a steady trickle coming from the ceiling, adding little amounts to the already gargantuan pile. All of a sudden I realised that the ceiling wasn’t the ceiling at all, but rather the ground. I was underneath the fucking city and the blasphemous stuff was leaking down into my prison. I had a chilling feeling that the stuff may even have been sentient.
Before I could ponder on this for a second longer the creature stuffed its bony claws into the dirt. It hissed and fizzed as great heaps of it were picked up, it seemed to cause discomfort to the demon-being because I could see that its leer had been replaced with a look of endurance. The reason for the creatures’ pain became clear when I looked again at the dirt in its great arms. The little remaining flesh was being stripped off of its bones, steaming as it fell away. The creature held its dirt filled bones out towards me, forcing me to breathe the dirt in. The smell was vaguely like a cross between fermented onions and a dying animal. I gagged, and that brought the smile back on the creatures face.
I tried to plead with the thing to stop what it was doing, whimpering and snivelling as it reached into the hole in my stomach and deposited the dirt within me. As soon as the deathly shit was placed, I felt the vastest feeling of depression, anger, fear, loathing and hatred I have ever felt in my entire life. My eyes rolled in their sockets as chemicals in my body shot around in every direction. Memories of my deepest, darkest secrets came flooding back to me. Events that left me feeling empty, cold and bitter all suddenly were relived. Every cuss, mean spirited and spiteful thing, every dirty thought, every injury, and every ill hearted thing directed towards me was reawakened and amplified. They saturated my head, I felt like I was about to explode with negativity. Between all the flashes of images and sounds of suffering I could hear the creature laughing and could feel more great handfuls being thrust into my body, the memories intensifying with every heap. Throughout the entire thing, I was screaming.
Once all the dirt had been stuffed into me, replacing my organs, the memories of every sick feeling in my life were pounding in my head so hard and so fast that I couldn’t feel anything else. It was all that remained; I had no choice but to watch as I was shown every bleak, disgusting aspect of everything I ever experienced. And I screamed.
Watch and scream. Watch and scream. Watch and scream.
To whoever finds this, take it as a word of warning, because I now realise what all this is. This is my eternity, this is everyone’s eternity. It has been every single person’s fate, every person’s reason and indeed every person’s very purpose since the day they were born to face this torment. I understand that I was dead from the start – how I died I still don’t know, but I know it was before all this – and I also understand what the dirt is now: it is sin, it is our sin. And our destiny is to face it, to face every sin we ever committed until the end of time, over and over and over again. My only advice to you is this: Be good to your fellow man and try to avoid confrontation whenever possible.
Who knows, it might just soften the blow.

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In Between :
I’m in between.
One of them bit me. The bastard took a chunk out of my upper arm. The fool probably didn’t even know it was an arm. He probably saw me as a walking turkey leg or something. Oh, but he got his dues. I whacked his useless head off with a crowbar I stole when shit got serious.
It got serious about a month ago, and let me tell you, it happened just the way everyone thought it would happen. Some “contained” little outbreak, then BOOM, everyone I know is staggering around like kangaroos tripping on dextro. Not me, though. I knew I was going to fight it. I did well until about a week ago when Mr. Slobbermouth munched on my bicep.
It amazes even me that I’m so coherent. God, I wish I wasn’t. I’m not like them, but I’m just like them. I have the hunger they have, but I have all the guilt and love of humanity that is going to keep me from surviving.
I’m not even sure that I want to survive anymore. I see them do horrible things, things that are starting to drive me mad, and I either get sick to my stomach or find my mouth watering. I don’t want to live if living means I have to watch the destruction of my kind every day.
But then, this means no more hiding. It’s as if they can sense something in me, like they scan for a zombie membership card and find it on me. They leave me alone. I can walk freely among them.
You know how I said I’m just like them? Well, I’m better than them. I’m smarter and have the ability to gain the trust of humans. I found one yesterday, I know where all the good hiding spots are, you see, and Lord was it happy to see me. It grasped my arm and looked into my eyes, saying it was happy to have found someone to fight with. Making sure none of the no-brains were around, I took it with me and hid with it in a storm cellar. I let it fall asleep, then I broke its neck, busted open its head like a coconut, and tore into its meaty brain. The blood complimented it nicely.
For a few moments, I felt bad for what I had done. I saw his body in that stagnant pool of blood, looking as if he was still sleeping, and felt some remorse for the poor, trusting boy. I wondered about his life before the disaster. Was he happy? Did his family love him? Would he have survived anyway?
That acidic guilt rose in me, a constant reminder of my humanity. But there’s at least one thing zombies and humans have in common: the will to survive. And I’m about to do a much better job than either one of them will.
Credited to Clarissa

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LIARS :
There was once a guy living in our neighborhood named Jimmy, he got picked on a lot for being a confident and funny guy, his mouth tended to get him into a lot of trouble and he seldom learned his lesson. He was just very content with who he was and refused to change it. When people asked him why he let them wail on him for his blunt comedy and wisecracks, he’d smirk and say, “Honesty is the best policy, at least they’re not hiding anything from me and neither am I from them.”
One of the kids he indadvertedly pissed off with a rather crude MILF joke was something of a psychopath with a sadistic streak who didn’t take kindly to the insult. So he rounded up the other guys who didn’t like Jimmy and they cornered him after school in the science room.
“Your mouth got you into this… I want you to remember that.” Brett, the ringleader, told him as he looked into Jimmy’s terrified eyes.
They grabbed some formic acid stored in the lab and threw it in his face. They stood around watching him scream in agony as it ate through his flesh before sniggering and running out, pretending to be concerned and wanting help for him.
When the paramedics arrived and were attending to Jimmy (who was no longer able to scream), the principal asked the boys if they knew what happened. Their leader Brett explained they were walking past when they saw Jimmy skulking around the lab room, by the time they got in there, he was already in that state. The other members joined in and backed Brett up with other fake details as Jimmy tried to protest in silent agony. The principal nodded and told them he would speak to them after he had a word with Jimmy and gotten his side of the story after he was out of hospital.
A few days passed and Jimmy was kept in ICU with bandages on his face, the doctors salvaging what little they could of his face, his vision still intact in one eye and his jaw withstanding despite the loss of flesh. He was still unable to speak and refused to respond to anyone. He just sat there, eyes unblinking & staring at the ceiling, bloodshot and filled with animosity. When he was discharged sometime later, he would not respond to anyone with anything other than the word “LIARS.” His social life gone, unable to smile or even crack a joke anymore, he secluded himself in his room and began planning. Sick vindictive thoughts started appearing in his mind, he would get them all one by one, decimate them, slice them, burn them. He waited patiently until the the group would be vulnerable, late at night when they said their goodbyes and went home separately. That’s when he would strike.

That weekend, Brett received a package in the mail. Curiously, he opened it to find a VHS tape with the words “For You” etched crudely onto the front. He put it in and played it.
It was a crudely recorded home video by an unknown camera man who didn’t speak at all for the duration of the film. It began with the camera pointing at the date on a newspaper, it was yesterday. As he zoomed out, you could see it was in a basement, a single flickering lightbulb hanging above and casting an uncomfortable scene. By the time he’d completely zoomed out, it was apparent this was no normal video. In front of the cameraman & on his hands knees was one of Brett’s friends. He was naked, a dirty blindfold around his face and a crude gag in his mouth. He was covered in blood, horrific burns, lacerations and wounds. One particularly large one on his back stood out that almost looked like a word….
The cameraman, with gloved hands, took the gag out of the crying boy’s mouth and immediately he begged to go home.
“Please, PLEASE let me go man….I…I did what you wanted! Oh god…Jesse, Mike, Keith….you made me fucking butcher them! I just wanna go home man….Please….I’m sorry guys….I’m so…so sorry….”
He just kept repeating it over and over, rocking back and forth as he did so.
Brett’s legs began to shake and he felt the bile rise in his stomach, he could see the burned, mangled bodies in the background. The bodies of his friends. All of them have markings on their body in deep, large cuts.
The cameraman reached out for the boy’s chin and lifted it up, encouraging him to stand. He did so obediently as he was slowly led to a door off screen, whimpering. Brett can see what’s been cut into his friend’s back now. It’s the word “LIAR”. The camera cuts out temporarily.
When it restarts again, they’re no longer inside. They’re instead out in the cold snow on the outskirts of the woods and it doesn’t appear to be the original man holding the camera anymore. It’s Brett’s friend. He’s whimpering and shivering as he holds the camera in one place for 30 seconds, pointing at some trees in the distance, hearing footsteps draw ever nearer.
“WHERE ARE YOU MAN? YOU SAID I COULD GO MAN! YOU SAID I COULD GO!”
The boy is screaming and crying, frightened out of his mind as the sound of crunching snow draws nearer from seemingly every angle.
It stops.
He turns around to see the mangled face of Jimmy, a horrifying howl blares through the speakers and the word “LIARS” appears before the tape abruptly stops.
Brett feels faint and darts to lock the front door, knowing what was coming. As he turns to run for it, he immediately hits something and falls backwards.
The last thing he ever hears is “LIARS” as acid runs down his face and begins to slowly eat away at his flesh.
The last thing he ever sees is Jimmy’s face, contorting into a sick, twisted smile.

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Love Letter :
Hello Darling,
I am writing because I now realize that our relationship is fast approaching its end. While I’d love to believe it could go on forever, I’ve (reluctantly of course) grown tired of our silly routines. The spark has simply faded, and I can’t help but hold myself responsible. From the very first time I peered through your window, I knew that you were special. You were different from the rest, and I still believe that. There is something so interesting, so… desirable about the way you carry yourself. The things you do when you believe you are alone. Watching you is what has kept me here for so very long.
In fact, I remember vividly the first time I watched you sleep. You were so peaceful, yet right when I feared I was wrong about you, that I may grow bored of you so early… A laugh. You surprised me, love. You were never like the rest. There is no way you could’ve been. That is why I fell in love with you. You intrigued me. Nothing made me happier than to spend time with you, To see you in your natural state. Did you know that people are most themselves when no one else is around?
Yes, things were so magical then. Now I’ve taken to watching you carry out the same routine over and over. You go to work, buy groceries and that is it. What has happened to you? You were once so full of life, now you’re reduced to chores and hiding in bed. I have not heard a single laugh in months. Do you realize how much I miss it? I don’t think you could ever understand how much you mean to me. How it pains me to hear you cry like that.
I told myself you would never hurt me. That you could never even try. Unfortunately, dear that is where you began to resemble the others. What a pity. Tell me, do you remember the first time we spoke? That day was meant to be so special. I followed you to work that morning, hardly able to contain myself… The excitement of speaking with you that day was far too great. This was at the height of my love for you, in my eyes you could do no wrong. I meticulously planned our meeting, you would never know that I had followed you, and watched you all of these months.
Although when I gathered my courage to speak with you on the train, I was simply disregarded by you. I doubt that you remember our conversation, or the fact that you attempted to ignore me to begin with. I could wager anything in the world that you could not even recall my name if asked today! The conversation was nothing like I had imagined, you dimly passed my attempts at starting it with short answers. Every part of you seemed to reject me, before you even knew me. That hurt, darling.
When I realized that, I let slip a few things I knew from our time at home. Of course I know about your social life, your quirky habits, and even your favorite drinks. I expected a warmer reaction to say the least, I was the one who went out of my way to see you, wasn’t I? I knew I understood you in ways that no one else could! That was when you stopped going out. You seemed to want to close yourself off from the world. As if to take your rejection one step further, your whimsical nature seemed to go missing once you knew about me. Did you want to hide all of yourself away from me, to even take away our time at home?
I didn’t mean to startle you, or scare you away… I love you. I can now say that possibly going to speak with you a second time was my own mistake, and for that I apologize. I was foolish to come to your doorstep, even though it felt like such familiar terrain. You have to understand how lost I was. I had let my emotions escalate, soon it was not enough to see you. To watch you. No I needed more of you than that. I needed to interact with you once more!
Having said that, our painfully short conversation, and a door in my face… Well doesn’t sit well with me. I would simply love an apology for that. What disappoints me the most is that just like the others, you will apologize, though you won’t mean it. I know this because a weapon is a great persuader. After that everything you will do will simply be out of pity. You will see me as crazy, and reject me all over again. You will comply simply to make me feel better. I can’t stand pity, and I don’t want yours.
That is why we must bring this to a conclusion. That way you will be mine forever, we can skip through the usual process as I’ve done all of that before. I will end this before the restraining orders, before I begin to get bitter. While good memories are still young. Even now that I know things are going awry, I can still look at you with no contempt.
You may wonder now, what will become of you? I can assure you darling, just as in life you will be treated nothing like the others. I think I’ll tie ribbons around cut off locks of your lovely hair. They’ll make great decorations for my bedroom. Perhaps I’ll put a tack through them so that they may hang above my bed. Your ribs may find their way onto my living room wall, especially close to the fireplace. That way, I will always know that your bones are warm there by the fire. Finally, I found an antique tear catcher so that your final tears could be encased in it, and that I may have you with me always.
Don’t mistake me, my pet… I’ve never treated anyone, or their remains with such reverence. You are special, and you are mine. Even when I am done with you and we are separated more… permanently, I will still be yours. I will always be yours, with each victim that comes subsequently, even if there ever were a person who could return my affections… You will remain special among all of those who have fallen by my hand.
Love,
Your not so secret admirer

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The Autopsy of Cole Ryder :
“Cole Ryder. Age 23. Death by multiple lacerations to chest, reaching as deep as his lungs. Poor bastard looks like someone cut him open multiple times with a damned sword. No visible signs of struggle, indicating that he was either drugged before hand, or was hit unexpected.” the coroner recorded, working together with the officers to try to piece together the final moments of Cole’s moderately short life.
Cole’s lifeless, blood-drained corpse lay flat on the autopsy table, with the ribbons of flesh hanging loosely – even before the coroner began his work. He was approximately 5’11″ tall, short brown hair, average build, with no tattoos or piercings. The average kind of guy you could walk past every day on the street and never take a second glance at. To society, he was just like everyone else – an invisible person, with an unimportant life.
“How can people do this to each other?” the coroner questioned aloud while removing Cole’s ribcage. As he was about to make an incision to remove the lungs for closer examination something caught his eye. He placed a hand just under Cole’s shredded left lung, and produced a bloody, airtight plastic bag. Removing the bag and emptying its contents onto a nearby sterilized desk produced a USB stick, simply labeled: PLAY ME. Breaking from the procedure, the coroner ran out of the room to the two officers working on the case, handing them this strange new piece of evidence.
“Continue the autopsy, we’ll find out what this is about.” instructed one of the officers. They turned to leave, rushing to the nearby police station to check the contents of the USB. “We’ll be back shortly.”
The coroner re-sterilized and once again entered the room to continue working on Cole’s corpse. Picking up the scalpel, he continued where he had left off, about to remove the lungs.
At the police station, the two officers loaded up the USB and checked the files. There was one single audio file, entitled ‘Current Number’. Opening the file, they could hear a voice, though it sounded slightly different than a human voice. It sounded more raspy and cruel, almost animalistic; though still in English. “Eleven thousand, eight hundred and forty-two.” the voice kept repeating, as if trying to memorise the number.
“What the hell is this?” asked the first officer. The second simply shrugged and they closed the file down. Strangely, however, there was now a second audio file on the USB titled ‘Update’.
“By the time you return, the number will be eleven thousand, eight hundred and forty-three.” It was the same inhuman voice, scratching through the speakers.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” the second officer asked the first. The first shook his head violently and a chill air passed through the room. “I think, perhaps we should return to the coroners office.” suggested the second.
Upon re-entering the coroners office, the metallic sickly smell of blood wafted through the air and a strange laugh could be heard from the autopsy room. Drawing their handguns from their holsters, the two men kicked open the autopsy room door to a scene straight out of anyone’s worst nightmare. There was more blood than paint on the walls and the coroner was completely missing, except for the pair of eyes, slowly rolling across the floor. Cole Ryder still lay motionless on the autopsy table, chest cavity still open and face still lifeless, though he was now caked in the coroners blood. Walking slowly around the room, the two officers stopped either side of Cole’s body, surveying everything and drawing their guns, ready to unload upon the next thing that moved. Some sick fuck had obviously done this… and the officers did not care to be the next two victims.
A spine chilling animalistic laugh filled the room, reverberating off all the walls, making it impossible to tell where the sound came from originally. “More fresh meat!” the voice exclaimed, and both men were impaled by large, sword-like claws.
Cole sat up, withdrawing his bladed hands from the officers chests. Then using his razor phalanges with utmost precision, neatly cut out the sets of eyes from the now lifeless men. Changing the scalpel like protrusions from his fingers to blades like large hacksaws, he then tore at the bodies, ripping them to pieces and splattering even more crimson stains over the walls.
Picking up the pieces of flesh that were now scattered around the room, he started placing them into his own chest cavity and lungs, which while still exposed and cut open, seemed to take on a life of their own. Thrashing around like wild animals, they consumed the raw human meat. Once he was done completely consuming the bodies, he retrieved his ribcage and pushed his chest back together with the sickening crunch of bone on bone, deleted the recording of the autopsy from the audio recorder, picked it up and casually walked back out into the world, speaking over and over into the recorder “Eleven thousand, eight hundred and forty-five.”

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Arata :
Do you ever look back on your early childhood, and wonder which memories are real, and which are fabrications of your overactive imagination? Have you ever had a memory that you think might have been a dream? Our minds are capable of doing terrible things to us, but so are people. I’m not sure which one traumatized me for most of my childhood.
I remember despising kindergarten. I went to Duggan Elementary School in Farner, Tennessee. Naturally, I
hated it. But how I felt about that place by the end of the year went beyond simple loathing. Obscure memories of those days still resurface in my mind from time to time. I remember hearing, and seeing things that I was too young to understand. I just have these vague images and sounds in my head that I can barely recall. I don’t have nightmares
anymore. I guess what scares me most is the memory of how I felt at the time.
Recently, I found an old photo album of my kindergarten year. It took me back in time. I recognized a picture of my teacher. He was an extremely old man who we called Mr. Arata. There was something about him that seemed… well he didn’t seem very child-friendly. He drove a long white van to school every day. It was called it “the stupid van” because the kids all hated him. Mr. Arata was irritable and cross, but he sure knew how to act when he was being watched by other teachers or the principal.
One day, at my house, I remember my mother telling me that one of my classmates had gone missing. She was
watching the news and was, understandably, very upset. When a second child in my class went missing, my mother abruptly pulled me out of school. She told me that she would send me back when it was safe. I thought it was great, not being in school. I was too young to understand what a child’s disappearance could actually mean… too naive
to think about it realistically. I remember that, after a while, I went back. The kids had been found, but they did not go back to school for whatever reason. I heard one of my fellow students tell me that the kids who had disappeared had no recollection of what had happened. She said that they had been “cut open under the belly button and stitched up.” She knew those two kids well. I think her name was Katy or Kitty or something. I just assumed that she was lying through
her teeth. Even as a six-year-old, I wasn’t credulous enough to believe something like that.
Later on in the year, I remember the girl (let’s just call her Katy) talking about how one of the kids who had previously gone missing had passed away. She took a week off from school because of it. Apparently, she had kept in touch with the two kids after they switched schools. Katy said that the child had been sick ever since they found him with no memory. At this point, I thought she was making up more lies to get attention, but she did genuinely seem miserable now that I think of it. Little kids aren’t that great at acting.
I remember that one day, I had a terrible nightmare. The day started out normally. I remember going to lunch, and… I think I remember getting up to leave after the bell had rung to return to class. I’m not sure what happened next because
that’s the last thing I remember before having the nightmare.
Suddenly, I was on a table, strapped down. I could see tinted windows on the narrow walls by my side… everything was pretty dark. I was in a very cramped rectangular room. I just sat there for a moment. Clearly, I remember looking about and feeling the straps on my wrists and ankles. I looked to the side of me, and there was a tray with surgical instruments on it. I did not know how I got there in the first place. I was confused and on the verge of tears. A man dressed like a doctor came to see me. I couldn’t make out his face because it was so dark there. He just looked at me for a moment, then he turned on a bright light that was mounted over top of me – like the kind they use when you go to the dentist. He was wearing a doctor mask and had a blank expression on his face. I was stunned with fear. He casually reached for a scalpel, and grabbed one from the tray. I began screaming and crying. He looked slightly taken back. The man uttered a few words, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
I awoke to the harsh scolding of Mr. Arata. I was lying down asleep on the bleachers in the gym where we would wait for our bus numbers to be called. He was telling me that I had fallen asleep and missed the bus. He took me back to his class,
and called my mother to come pick me up. I started crying as soon as I had time to think about the dream. He didn’t try to comfort me; he didn’t even ask me what my problem was. He just stared at me. I told him that I had experienced a terrible nightmare, and he… he nodded at me… at least, I think he did. My mother spent the whole day trying to reassure me. The most disturbing part is, I usually wake from a nightmare as soon as I began feeling terror. But this… I was screaming and thrashing about for an extended amount of time. It all seemed real.
I was convinced over the years that I had hallucinated. I began getting homeschooled because I was extremely terrified of going back. My parents couldn’t understand how a nightmare could cause someone to have the kind of issues that I had. I had a few dreams about the experience. It wasn’t like I was having a reoccurring nightmare… it was as if these nightmares were much less real than my original nightmare. They were just the original experience in dream form.
They say that the sense of smell is the best way to remember something. Years later, when I was a grown man, I
visited my grandfather in the hospital. There was something about the smell that brought me back. It made me think about that dark room. I went over to my parents’ house and flipped through some of the old photo albums, looking for anything to help ease my curiosity. While I was looking through the photo album, I found a picture of the class and Mr.
Arata . It had some writing on the back, but it wasn’t in English. Arata is a Japanese name, so I guessed that that was what language it was. I knew that one of my Dad’s friends spoke Japanese, so I took the photo to him, and he translated it for me. I looked underneath the original text to see the scribblings that the man had left. The translation said, “I had a great time working on you this school year.”
I went back to the photo album and started rabidly searching through it. I didn’t want my dream to be a reality, but I had to know for sure. There were photos of me performing all kinds of activities. I even found photos of the time
that my mother brought the class cupcakes for my birthday. Almost every picture had Mr. Arata in it, with a stern look on his face. I held one picture in my hand(a picture that my mom took of me during a school play)and it seemed thicker than the others. I noticed tape on the edge of the picture. Two pictures had actually been taped together. I took a knife and cut the two pictures apart. What I saw haunted me. Underneath the regular picture was a picture of a small boy strapped to a table in the dark. I compared the picture with the other ones and… it was me. I looked on the back of the picture of the play (the back was originally facing the picture of me on the table) and it had more Japanese writing on it. I had to sit down. The dread and paranoia was coming back to me. I took the writing to the same man who had translated the first note. He seemed quite confused by what he read.
“I came to this country to continue what I started in Manchuria.”

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Pockets :
You’re walking down a road near to a park. It’s dark, cold and wispy. The moon is slowly emerging through the smoke like clouds, giving a appealing glow. The wind is harshly blowing towards you, the bottom of your trench-coat flapping. The worst of it all, you can’t remember why you’re walking out this time of night! You just suddenly found yourself walking out the door, and decided you must have had a good reason. And this coat seemed new as well. You don’t remember wearing a coat like this, yet it seems vaguely familiar.
Your gut is telling you that you should carry on, you came out for a reason, if not you would have left 10 minutes ago. You’re always excited about lost or forgotten coats, because you always find interesting stuff in the pockets. Money, an old letter or drawing, something lost a long time ago, the list was endless. Throughout the walk, you felt a bit of excessive weight in your side pocket, and had been saving it for later on.
When you open the zip on the pocket, a horrible smell occurred. You winced at its rotting odour. It smelled of decay, and memories. You pull a disgusted face, and shakily reached your hand in the pocket.
Eugh! Some sort of horrible, sticky gloop is in there! You can’t look down to see what it is, as it had stuck to both sides of the pocket, sticking them tight. Some of it is watery and gloopy, sticks into the grooves of your skin! You quickly pull your hand out, the substance sliding off. You’re revolted, it feels like, and old jelly or drink left to spoil. Or someone’s huge glob of chewing gum, scrammed in. That must be it, you think. You had gum and stuck it in there, not thinking.
You carry on walking, but your curiosity entices you to put your hand in again, slowly. You take a deep breath and reach in your hand. It seems relatively the same as before, but as you rummage further, you, you can feel something more solid now, more defined. You dive your hand in further, getting to the source of this object. You feel it, its round, definitely, squidgy, spongy. You can immediately tell for some reason, that this is the thing causing the horrible odour. You feel it further, a bouncy ball? Tomato? Grape? No, that’s not it…
…Suddenly, an irresistible, realising grin spreads on your face. It all makes sense now. You can remember why you’re walking out, where the coat came from. Oh how she kicked! Oh she kicked and screamed and begged! Yet you simply hushed her, and got the knife. Oh, she was a tough one alright! But you got them! After much squirming and squealing, you got her eyes! Another marvellous souvenir of your victims to put in your pocket, to see anytime. Oh what fun you had! What was it this time? Ah yes, a tongue, you’d go out, get yourself a fresh tongue…

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Up :
Do you know what a Cordyceps is? I didn’t either until 20 minutes ago. It’s a family of thousands of different types of fungus, grows all around the word in various rainforests and jungles. The awful thing about them is they’re parasitic, they grow on other animals. An ant happens to run into some spores, and then it starts to colonize his insides, starting with his brain. At some point, the ant starts to act visibly ill; standing in place and shivering, or walking in circles. If a fellow colony member sees him in this condition, he will be dragged to the border of the colony and exiled.
Then, when it’s almost over, the ant weakly climbs as high as he can up the vines, and locks his body on tight. Finally, he dies, and the fungus emerges from the back of his head, bursting forth like a long and foul fruit. After a short time, the little stalk spews forth its own spores, leaving the mummified and broken ant clinging to the stalk, his eye cavities filled with drying fungus.
I mention this because last night, when I was up on the roof of my apartment complex, I found my brother’s body.
He’s been back from 18 months on duty in the Philippines for less than three days. This was the first I’d seen him. My parents called me up the day before yesterday to tell me that he was on his way up. They told me he’d stayed in his room since he got home, and then suddenly got up and announced he was on his way to see me. They thought he was drunk, I’d thought he’d never made it.
He must have come straight up to the roof and died, by the smell of it. I was just finishing a cigarette, all torn up with anxiety and head throbbing, and when the acrid smoke vanished I caught a whiff of rot on the hot wind. It took me just a few minutes before I’d found him; face down behind the vents and fans. A slimy gray column rose up obscenely from the base of his skull, and a frozen waterfall of roots and tendrils was dangling from his eye sockets and mouth. At the top of stalk was small arrangement of feathery wisps, a white powder drifting idly from it tips.
The spores must have drifting over the north side of the building all day. My side of the building. I came down to my apartment to try to call up the police, and my headache was rising to a feverish throb. I got through the door, and the moment I reached for the phone, pain flared in my head, so bad I almost passed out. I’ve since tried three times and I can never get my hand up on it.
The same thing happens when I try to get up and leave the room; I feel spines of ice tunneling up into my skull and my limbs lock up and shudder.
The ants, in their last moments crawl as high up the vines as he can climb. This is so the spore will spread over more of the colony below. In the end, the parasite controls the ant with an almost intelligent drive. God help me.
The pain is almost blinding now, and a new thought has been rising up rhythmically in my head, like a record skipping. Up. Up. Up. It’s joined by an image of my office tower. It’s taller than my apartment, the tallest place I can think off and although the bulge on the back of my neck is the size of a peach, the skin stretched shiny, and I’m dizzy and my eyes are cloudy, I think I can make it there. Up.
No. I’m sick. I need help.
The building pulses again in my mind. The cold wind. The roof and the sky. These images and concepts dull the pain momentarily as they pass through my mind. I think I can get there. Up. Up.
If you live in downtown Chicago, I would get the fuck out.

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The Stalker :
Leslie sat on the barstool, sipping a margarita. She’d hit a run of bad luck in the past few months. First her boyfriend Ricky left her, then she lost her job. She got a new job, but not as well paying, of course. So she had to move out of her house and into a cramped apartment. Her cat, Muffin, died. Her mother was ill, and needed her support, even though she couldn’t support herself. With all that bad luck, its little wonder that she let that guy sit next to her, buy her a drink, the same old routine. The fella’s name was Geoffry. He seemed nice enough, even if he was kind of a dweeb. He wore horn-rimmed glasses with a blue button down shirt, he wasn’t nerd-skinny, exactly, but he was kind of on the thin side.
They talked for awhile, and then she left the bar. The next day, as she was walking home from work, Leslie saw Geoffry again, standing at the bus stop a block away from her office building. “Hi, Leslie! Hey I was thinking maybe we could head down to the bar tonight. I really had fun last night.” She politely declined, and he said, “Okay, well, I’ll see you again.”
She left for work the next day, and guess who she saw? Geoffry was standing right there about a block from her house. “Hi Leslie! You wanna hook up tonight? I was thinking maybe a movie?” She politely declined, and went about her work. When she got home, she had a new message on the answering machine. [Hi, Leslie! It’s me, Geoffry. I just thought you might’ve changed your mind about the movies. Don’t make me keep asking, just call me, bye!]
The next morning, Leslie left for work. Geoffry was standing outside her door. “Hi Leslie! Why’d you stand me up last night, huh? I just want a chance, Leslie, we can try, right?” After 3 days of annoyance, Leslie caved. “Fine, Geoffry, we can try. Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? We’ll see how it goes, okay?”
Leslie sure was having a bad run of luck. Ricky was in hysterics when he left her, her cat was dead, and now Geoffry too. What was left of his corpse was found a week later…

Credited to SugarD.
(I accidentally deleted this post when I was clearing out stuff by a certain author, I’m sorry… but it’s back now… I backdated it so hopefully it won’t pop up in your RSS feeds again, if it did, I’m sorry)

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The Man Who Lives Above You :
The man who lives above you is the quiet type. How lucky you are to live in an apartment underneath someone so courteous! It seems he never drops anything, seeing as how you never hear any loud thumps coming from the rooms above yours. He is even kind enough to keep the volume on his radio and TV too low to disrupt you. Come to think of it, had you not seen and spoken to him, you would think no one lived up there. Quite a big change from living below a batch of rowdy teens.
He is terribly kind as well. Within the first week of you living there, he invites you up to dinner and offers his services as a plumber in case you have any leaky faucets. The maintenance crew at this complex is awfully incompetent. You can’t have it all, I suppose.
He didn’t even get offended when you told him you were far too busy and didn’t know him well enough to dine with him. He simply smiled, gave you his number, and let you know the offer stood as long as you lived below him.
One night, you decide to take him up on his offer, seeing as how you’re tired of the Hot Pockets your busy schedule allows. You call, uncertain about whether or not he is home due to the utter silence from above, and he answers and invites you to join him upstairs; he has made far too much chicken piccata to eat himself.
You climb the stairs and enter his apartment. It’s impeccable. You’ve already managed to spill some Coke Zero on your carpet. In his six years living there, he has left no stains. Dinner smells delightful. He already has a place set for you, almost as if he was expecting you sooner. Astounded by his kindness, you seat yourself and begin eating.
Almost immediately, you feel a bit drowsy. Overworked, perhaps? He smiles and watches your muscles slowly fail you, the sauce dribbling out of the mouth you can’t hold closed. You start to slide from your chair, you can almost feel the floor meeting your body, but no. He catches you. No sound is made. He carries you down the hall, ever so quietly. You’re growing too unconscious to worry, so rest assured, no one will hear a thing; you won’t even hit the floor.
Credited to Clarissa.

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Dust :
The last storm was already on the horizon when I woke that Sunday morning. It hung in the south, a solid black wall of dust, churning and seemingly motionless. I’d every intention of sleeping late into the morning, as had been my Sunday custom since Adele and the girls had left, but the distant rumbling and crackle of lightning drug me from the bed just after sunrise. I shuffled drowsily around the farm in the early morning, lashing the doors of the barn, rounding up the two stubborn hogs, and shuttering the windows; but soon I found myself rooted in place, captivated by the writhing shape in the sky. It stretched impossibly wide across the open sky, rolling across the border from Nebraska. The air had a dry, electric chill, and already the sickly yellow wheat swayed in anticipation.
I was in a trance, eyes locked on the distance when I saw a small light dust plume to the west, picked out in stark contrast with black beyond. The horse and rider at the base of the little dust devil approached the farm at a sharp trot, and my dust bleary eyes registered the silhouette. Carl Jordan had owned the farm next to mine for as along my family has been in the Dakotas, I grew up with his great booming laughter warming our home nearly every night. His usual broad, yellowing smile was absent beneath recently trimmed mustache and broad rimmed black hat; his dark suit was blotted with fine layer of grit that he brushed absently at.
“Eddie.” His voice was tired and small as he looked down at me. “No church today?”
I hadn’t been in months and he’d once admitted to envying me. I just didn’t see the need any longer, and I’ve relished the extra hours. I ignored the question.
“What’s troubling you, Carl? Mattie all right?” I asked.
He turned towards the south, to the storm and sucked loudly on his lower lip. After a few moments of thought he sighed deeply, with a phlegmy rumble.
“The Hattersons are dead. All of them, ‘cept Saul.” He said evenly, not returning his gaze to mine. I drank this in for a moment, feeling the insides my sinuses beginning to burn in the cold and arid breeze. I briefly dwelt upon the image of the youngest Hatterson, a tow headed toddler with the dim looking smile I’d seen at the general store with Saul and Molly a few days prior.
“How?” I asked finally. He grimaced slightly, still gazing south.
“Saul’s missing. No one seen him since last night. Molly and the kids are dead, and Saul’s gone. It don’t sound good.” Carl slumped forward a little, and I saw, not for the first time how, old he was. “The whole hornet’s nest is stirred up over in Pickton. He was gonna lose the farm they say.”
Fleetingly, it concerned me that I could easily see the connection between these facts.
“Mattie’s fine,” he said after another silent moment. “Just a little ill this morning, thanks for asking.” He broke from the black clouds, and fixed his eyes on me. He offered a pale imitation of his familiar smile, but his eyes remained squinted tight, haunted. He looked as if he had more to say, but at last, he just nodded and gathered the reins.
“Be safe, Eddie,” he said, a phrase worn smooth by repeated use, and turned towards his farm, trotting quickly, head still crooked towards the storm.
By noon, I could only watch as the it reached up and blotted out the sun.
* * *
The dust storm enveloped us, obscuring the sky like the hands of God. I did my best to ration the allotment of bourbon I’d poured off that morning, watching the black wind scour the earth through a broken shutter slat. During the storms of the years before, pale and weak compared to this tempest, Adele would huddle with the girls to read scripture, inevitably ending with the Revelations in hushed reverent tones. I’d tried not to scowl at her fear and awe before, but now I could feel a little tremor of doubt in me, as I looked out at the sackcloth sky.
When the sky darkened a few shades at nightfall, I prepared a small meal of bread and fried eggs, and drained the rest of the bourbon. Later, I laid in the unmade bed with the world spinning, and the sky howling outside and tried not to think.
The storm raged stronger than ever the next morning, the sun winking through the maelstrom, a fat circle of hazy orange like a fading coal. Late in the day, it showed no sign of abating and I resigned to leave the house, if only to feed the animals. I tied my goggles to my head, and a damp bandana around my mouth, but I still gasped at the ragged burn of the dust when I stepped outside into the storm. The lining of my throat seemed to crack and bleed within moments.
I could barely see the barn but I set out instinctually towards it. A tall hillock of fine black dust was pressed to the side, and it took me a few kicks to clear the door. The dust had seeped in everywhere, and the hogs and cows were covered in a layer of grime. They stood still in their pens, eyes red and glassy, shuddering and jerking with each loud creak from the roof beams. They ignored the food.
There was a twisting coil of anxiety in my chest when Carl arrived, leading the terrified horse behind him. His beard was matted with dust, and he had to sweep the lenses of the googles clean at my doorstep, but instead of entering, he only waved me out to join him.
“You need to come with me!” he shouted over the storm. The dust between his teeth had formed a thin black mud that flecked at the corners of his mouth. It was his tone, flat and even, that terrified me. I didn’t argue, but pulled on goggles, and offered him a second bandana.
I followed close behind him, one hand on the horse’s haunch. Carl picked his way down the path, navigating by some uncanny memory of the curves in the little road. We walked cautiously and deliberately west for the better part of half a mile, past Carl’s own farm, towards the leaning shape of the Collins farm. A throbbing dread began to stir in my breast as we approached.
The door was thrown wide open and off one of its hinges, swinging violently in the wind. I could see Roger Collins, slumped in the door frame, the congealing blood on his forehead caked with the fine dirt. His eyes were open, the left eye beneath the bullet hole was flooded red and tilted wildly skyward. Clutched in his curled hands was a rifle with one spent casing.
Abigail Collins and her youngest were inside, curled tightly around each other in the corner of the room. The flowers of blood that bloomed on the fabric of their dresses was bright and vivid.
Slumped upright at the dinner table, as if ready for a meal, was another figure, filthy and caked with black dust. He seemed composed, sitting upright and proud, despite the pinprick bullet hole, clean and bloodless, standing starkly in the center of his throat. His grimy skin was dried and shriveled, his eyes were closed, the lids sunken over the pits. It took a long yawning moment to recognize the desiccated face. Saul Hatterson, hands clasped around a little revolver, looking for all the world like he’d been dead for a week. Saul Hatterson, grinning obscenely wide, showing dried black gums.
Despite the roaring storm, there was a unearthly stillness in the little house, and I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I turned to Carl with pitiful expression, a plea for some sort of understanding.
“I was bringing them some canned food. Roger was worried about being able to last out a long store,” he shouted from the front porch, where he was closing Roger’s eyes and wiping the blood from his hand. He looked up at me and stood. “Jed’s missing.”
I gazed around the room again, before turning to Carl. “You don’t think that Jed…” I began, letting the idea remain unsaid. Jed was a quiet and sickly kid, but something about him had always set my teeth on edge.
“No,” he barked. “I don’t think a 15 year old could be capable of this. But I didn’t think Saul was either. None of this makes any sense” He brushed the lenses of his goggles clean once more.
“No, it does not.” I agreed.
“We should head into Pickton to tell someone, but I- I need you to drive the Collins’ Ford. I can make it between our three farms on foot reliably enough, but I don’t think me or that horse could make it all the way into town.” Carl looked mildly embarrassed, hidden as he was behind dust and beard, and I followed him to barn.
The Model A made a few grinding rasps before dying completely, refusing to respond to anything. When I opened the gas cap, a damp and clumping mixture of dust and gasoline tumbled from the little opening. My breath came in increasingly shallow gasps as we moved to the Collins’ tractor, unscrewing the cap. The same reeking clay was stuffed to the top of the tank.
The walk back towards our farms was silent, my heart pounding as I struggled to keep my breathing steady, as the inside of my sinuses were scoured raw. First Carl’s tractor, then we checked mine, both were useless and clogged with dust. If Carl was as panicked as I was, he refused to show it.
“Eddie, I don’t know what this means,” he yelled to me as we crouched over my tractor, the sky dimming. “But I think I’d appreciate it if you stayed with me and Mattie tonight. The storm has to let up in the morning I’m sure.” I could see at last the spark of fear in his eyes, and it brought me a little solace.
* *
Carl went ahead, panicky with thoughts of Mattie, sick in bed on her own, and I agreed to follow shortly. I entered my house to gather my shotgun and a tin of coffee. I don’t believe I intended to start drinking, but the bloody and crooked eye was shining wetly in my memory, and I drew from the bourbon a few soothing pulls.
I recall being tired and weary from the day’s grim business, but I don’t remember lying down on on the cool wood of the floor. When I woke gripping the gun and empty bottle, the sky was lighter, but the whirling black cloud still surrounded the world on all sides. Tuesday. I thought through a fog of pain. Or is it Wednesday? I groggily allowed the shame to flood in when I realized I’d left Carl and Mattie waiting all night.
After finding all the water drained the night before, I dressed for the storm and headed out to the well. The pump handle strained against me as I pressed downward bringing up the first sounds of water. What came out of the pump was black and viscous, a thin black paste. I dropped the tin bucket in disgust, feeling yesterday’s dread igniting behind the alcohol ache, and I turned quickly towards Carl’s farm.
On the road, with my destination not yet visible, I turned to see behind me. There wasn’t even the faint outline of my barn. In that moment, I was alone, surrounded by a wall of vibrating earth and wind all sides. It could have been all of creation and I would never know. It could be the end of creation, and I would never know. I turned back towards Carl’s farm and began to run in a panic, frantically hoping I had not altered direction.
As the small unpainted house came into view, I saw Carl’s horse, lying motionless on the ground, still tied to the railing on the porch. A small dune of black dust had formed against one side. The door was wide open, slamming into the wall with a sharp crack at each breath from the storm.
My panic spiked like a fever when I stepped inside, and my body began shaking violently.
Mattie lay spilled from her bed, trailing sheets and and a shredded fragment of her nightgown. Her head was twisted, the neck bruised and bent, and bulging glassy eyes seemed to stare directly at me. Her tongue was thick and black between her teeth.
Seated on the bed above her, spindly legs dangling over the edge, was the dried and leathery corpse of Jed Collins, the missing boy. His eye sockets gaped empty and black as he silently grinned out at the world.
Carl was nowhere to be found.
I backed out quietly from the house, at last truly toning out the chaotic roar of the storm. My mind spun trying to make sense of utter madness, and it stoked the fires inside me; panting, desperate dread flooding my limbs until I found myself propelled blind, running through the storm towards my home.
I continued past the hulking silhouette of my barn, legs flooding with fire as I sucked in great lungfuls of choking dust. I thought nothing of destination, I only wanted to get as far away from the storm as possible, far from the empty charnel houses of my neighbors, and from empty eyes and wicked grins.
I made it as far as thin fork of the Missouri that carves the far edge of my land. I saw, through the wall of shifting haze, the black outline of the river from a distance. When I approached, legs slowing and lungs burning, I saw the river more clearly, wide and unearthly still. The water was black and thick, and in mute disbelief I watched it flow, slowly like molasses, under a dark and churning sky. And then, I began to understand.
*
I nailed the shutters closed, driven by an animal urgency of purpose. The door I braced with Adele’s heirloom cabinet, allowing it to crack and splinter on it side as I stacked a steamer chest on top.
I didn’t really believe that this would slow whatever would come tonight, in the howling darkness, but I wanted to have the time to know, to be sure. The last bourbon bottle lay empty on the floor, and I was glad for this, for the chance to be clearheaded at last. I sat, back to the wall, facing the door with the shotgun in my hands and I waited.
The sky darkened and the storm continued to howl; I measured my breaths, trying to hold onto a that moment of calm, to stretch it out until it dried and snapped apart.
It was late at night when it arrived. I could hear the heavy footsteps circling the porch, pulling lightly, testing each shutter. My hands were suddenly slick with sweat on the barrel of the shotgun.
The shuffling footsteps stopped in front of door, and I saw the wood flex ever so slightly as pressure was applied. A scraping sound began to rise, hissing, from the small barricade as it began to slide slowly across the floor. The force on the other side of the door increased slowly, steadily, grinding against the heavy barricade until the door was open to the storm and to the night and beyond.
The figure swept into the room with a silent grace that surprised me, and stood regarding me. Carl’s skin seemed to crackle and go taut like paper as he moved, and in the hollow of his empty eyes were tiny twisting clouds of dust, blue ribbons of electricity arcing across the sockets. He was smiling, a smile I’d never seen from him, a wide obscene grin.
I felt a strange sort of calm then, the surety of knowing, despite the impossible madness of it all. I raised the shotgun.
“Eddie,” the thing inside Carl hissed, in a voice like grinding sand. The corpse took another step towards me, and I saw a black trickle of mud from the edge if its cracked lips. “Go ahead and shoot, Eddie. See what it gets you.”
I smiled back at him, seeing the solution so clearly at last. I took a moment to be thankful that Adele and the girls are gone; thankful, in an awful way, that I’d struck her hard enough for her to finally leave me. This would not be the night that they die.
It had moved halfway across the room now, shuffling towards me, the malevolent sparks of its eyes locked on me. The now-familiar dread reared up to swallow my temporary peace.
I saw, in the black whirlpool of it’s eyes, the great storm, covering the entire earth in a final gloom; I saw trails and chains of endless murder and atrocity crisscrossing the darkened world, into that last eternal night. I saw the end.
All I had left was a little sliver of hope, enough to spur me onward. I swung the shotgun up under my chin, feeling the cool of the barrel on my chin. The thing inside Carl jerked to a halt, and ceased to smile; and I knew I’d gambled right this time.
It needed me. And it can’t have me.
I made sure I was smiling, drinking in the thing’s rage and frustration.
The thing roared and with a leap, burst from Carl’s body, his drying muscles snapping and shredding into long fraying fibers, as it shed him like a coat, thudding to the floor behind. It was a swirling cloud, a flurry of dust, coursing with lightning and pure, elemental hatred that I saw then, surging towards me faster than I would have believed possible. Thin tendrils coiled, and tightened, and wound their way through air, twisting towards my mouth and nose. I could feel them caress the raw passages of my lungs, hot, twisting and unmistakably, horribly, alive as they slid into me.
I pulled the trigger.

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The Suicide King :
Modern playing cards are filled with layers of meaning and symbology that can be traced back centuries. The four kings, for example, are based off of real rulers: the king of diamonds represents the wealthy Julius Caesar, the king of clubs is the brutal Alexander the Great, Spades represents the strong but kind David of Israel and Hearts represents the… emotionally disturbed, shall we say, Charles VII of France. It is this king that we will be dealing with today. It should also be noted that Charles was the only one of the four who was actually there to see the day that his face was printed on a playing card, which may rationalize why he acted apart from the others.
Charles’ visage was put on the king of hearts at the very beginning of his rule, but he never really got a chance to come into contact with playing cards until many years later when he became very ill with a fever and was informed that he would be bedridden for the rest of his life. It was during this period that Charles began learning card games to pass the time, such as an early version of black jack, “vingt-et-un” (twenty one).
Charles lay in his bed for two years, constantly fiddling with the cards and always getting weaker. As time continued to pass, there were reports that Charles had begun obsessing over the idea that the king being the thirteenth card in a suit was causing him bad luck. He talked about how he was starting to see the number pop up everywhere and that he was close to figuring out its secret. Of course, his ramblings were blamed on the fever, and by the end of the second year, he had been declared insane, and his son Louis XII took over the thrown.
One day, several months after the end of his reign, one of Charles’ physicians went to his chamber to find the frail old man standing in the middle of the room wielding a large sword. Before the doctor could react, the king said, “Ils m’ont montré la vérité de treize, et il n’est pas signifié pour les yeux mortels.” which roughly translates to, “They have shown me the truth of thirteen, and it is not meant for mortal eyes.” Without hesitation the king proceeded to ram the blade in through the left side of his head (between the ear and temple) until it came out the other side. He wavered a moment, before collapsing to the floor dead.
After the incident was announced and it was made public that the king had gone mad, the image of Charles on the king of hearts was altered to show himself offing himself. Although the picture is now shown significant-ly less graphically, the image of Charles thrusting the sword into his skull can still be found on modern day playing cards. Perhaps the strangest part of the whole story, however, is the day that Charles chose to kill himself: 7/6/1462. Whether or not it was intentional of the king, the facts that 6+7=13 and 1+4+6+2=13 can only be explained as coincidences.
//
Credited to John ♠.

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Tacos De Venado :
I was born in Mexico, my father was a goat farmer, and my mother used to weave baskets so that we could have at least two meals per day. We were very poor, and me and my siblings had the misfortune of being born in extreme weather, my oldest brother was born on the coldest day of winter, my elder sister in a spring deluge, and I was born in the thick of summer, and despite the fact that the 80′s had brought advances in the standard of living for the world’s citizens, it seemed to have forgotten us, in our tiny two bedroom cabin. So when my father heard about the H1-B Visa program through my uncle, he eagerly signed up. Every spring, he would go to work as a laborer on a pepper and tobacco farm in Texas. The work was hard, but the pay was good, and he was always home in time for Christmas, so he didn’t complain. He was saving up money so that we could emigrate to the United States, and so he worked from 1988 until 1991, saving what he could. He made sure not a penny was wasted, on the long winter bus ride from the farm to Mexico, he would sleep, so that the hunger pangs would not bother him.
He doesn’t usually talk much about his days as a migrant worker, but he did tell us that one day, in the winter of 1989, I believe, he could not sleep. The bus had made a rest stop near a small taco stand. the tacos smelled wonderful, and everyone on the bus formed a long line towards the taco stand, eager and salivating. The man behind the small dirty counter was very friendly, he said, but there was something that was a little “off” about him. The man scooped out the steaming, spiced meat onto fresh, piping hot, flour tortillas like a machine, taking the money in one hand and serving up a big loaded plate with the other.
“Tacos De Venado!”, His voice rang out. Apparently he was selling venison tacos, or deer meat. “Compren sus delicious’s taquitos de venado!”
My father debated whether or not he should risk spending 2 dollars of his hard earned money. Fortunately my father is quite impatient, and detests long lines, so he went back to the bus, and quickly fell asleep.
The next winter the bus again made a rest stop at the man’s taco stand, and again the passengers formed a long line along with other people, they had become addicted they said, every year they waited impatiently to return to this small, dingy taco stand. My father of course, stayed on the bus. He was used to the feeling of hunger, he lived with it throughout his childhood, he would surely survive. So again, he slept, dreaming of a big bowl of my mother’s chicken soup, with a side of hot corn tortillas (which we could afford by then).
The next spring, he left again, it wasn’t a very good year, the weather was horrible and so the crop yield was low, the farm had no choice but to let the workers go home a month early. My father said that the fellow workers were abuzz with excitement, they didn’t have to eat their tacos in the cold this year! The men eagerly counted the number of miles, their excitement mounting as they drew closer to the rest stop. Three more miles, two more miles, one more mile, until they finally reached the spot where the man had his taco stand.
But then, nothing. There was no sign of the stand, or the man with his big steel pot of delicious, sweet deer meat. Just and old woman selling papier-mâché frogs and piñatas. The workers demanded to know what had happened to the man with the deer tacos. Had he moved to another location? Did he open up a restaurant? What happened, what?
The old woman raised her hand, and the men fell silent.
“He was arrested just two months ago. A lot of the local farmers and various other men started to go missing in his village, and the police were completely dumbfounded. A small rumor was going around that the local butcher, or the taco man as you know him, could be involved. The police had no other leads and so decided to follow up on that. What they saw shook them beyond beli-” she was cut off by a man asking, “And so what about the deer tacos? When he gets out of jail will he start making and selling them again?”
The old woman chuckled and said,
“Oh he won’t be leaving his cell for a long time, boys. You see, he wasn’t very well liked in his village, and venado was a nickname that he used to refer to his enemies.”
Credited to Lola.

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The Raccoon :
My father once told me when I was little that the easiest way to trap a raccoon was to put a shiny object in a Pringles can. At first it puzzled me, how would that trap a coon? Honestly I was too young to understand. But he explained to me. Raccoons are extremely attracted to shiny objects. When a raccoon spots a shiny object, their immediate response is to examine it. If said object was in a Pringles can, the raccoon would stick its paws into the long can and grab the object. However, when the raccoon would try to pull the shiny object out of the can, it would get its paws stuck. There was no way to pull both its paws and the object out, and the raccoon wasn’t clever enough to find another way, so it would just remain stuck. It could just let go of the object and pull its paws free, however the raccoon was so attracted to the object that it could not let it go. It would just sit there for hours, or even days. Eventually a hunter would come around and kill the damn thing. The most puzzling thing is, the raccoon would not let go. Even to save its own life.
While a very irrelevant and weird fact my father told me, it still did teach me a lesson of attachment. A lesson I obviously needed to learn again.
It was the summer between ninth and tenth grade. My father was drunk again and my mother was pissed at me. I failed science class, a class I always hated, and my mother refused to send me to summer school because it cost too much. She chewed me out for an hour straight before I stormed out the back door into the back field.
I sat for hours, picking at the grass, swearing under my breath, trying to calm my nerves. The night was darkening, a hazy dusk lurking in the western sky after the sun has finally set. In the middle of nowhere with no street lights and few cars, it gets very dark at night. As the night drew on it began to grow darker. I didn’t care, I just didn’t want to go back into that goddamn house after the dinner table extravaganza. So I sat, picking blades of grass. Thinking as grasshoppers chirped. But that’s the thing, usually their melodic songs are loud and lurk into the late hours, but even at eight thirty their songs sounded quiet, and hushed as the minutes went by. It grew dark and my parents shouting grew quieter along with the grasshoppers. I eventually came to the conclusion their asses weren’t going to come out and look for me. Good, I don’t want to come inside.
Soon enough it was really dark, the porch light was the only thing that allowed my eyes to see. I stared endlessly into the dark forest behind my house. I have always been afraid of it but tonight it offers comfort. Just then, I swear I saw something. I squinted my eyes to make them focus, and I saw it again. A light in the distance. The forest stretches for miles, and there aren’t any roads. I would be surprised if a car could make it a few feet back there in the thick brush. I sat there for a few more moments, examining as the light came and faded again, growing even more curious the more I looked at it. I began to wonder if it was morse code, which I had no clue how to read. It seemed to be flashing straight at me, drawing me closer. Eventually I stood up, brushing the blades of grass of my lap. I began to make my way toward the forest. I stopped for a moment, and looked over my shoulder at my house. Just a peek and I’ll be back to this hellhole, I thought. I continued to walk.
I reached the forest, stepping over broken tree branches and avoiding thorn bushes. As I got closer to the light, it seemed to get farther away. Somebody must be playing a game with me, I thought. Maybe they were cute teenage boys. Probably not. As I followed it, it continued to draw farther away. Something occurred to me, maybe I shouldn’t be back here. I turned to see the porch light of my house flickering. A chill ran down my spine, but something kept me from returning home. Curiosity? Or was it something else?
As I walked the light seemed to stop moving away. I picked up my pace. As I got closer, it disappeared completely. Odd…
Crash. I flipped around to see a huge tree laying flat on the ground behind me. Another crash. I flipped back around to see another. Just then, I felt like I heard a voice. “Hello?” I called quietly. It came again, more audible this time.
“We caught you.”
What?
I jumped over the tree, but another fell before me again, nearly hitting me this time. The voice came again, more harsh. More threatening. “We. Caught. You.”
“Caught me doing what?” But then it hit me. They caught me, as in they trapped me. They captured me. I thought of the raccoon, and it occurred to me that the very thing that brought me here was a shiny object.
“The forest is calling, little girl.” The voice turned into many voices, speaking in a singsong tone. “Are you ready to play?”
Play what?
I felt a weird sensation, as if someone was behind me. I flipped around, but no one was there. Just my house in the distance. Then, there was a tapping on my shoulder.
I slowly turned around to see a girl facing me, inches from my face. The fear I felt when I looked into her eyes was indescribable. She had greasy black hair that feel in her eyes. Her eyes were pitch black and one of them seemed to be cut in half. Her body was abnormally thin, skinnier than I have ever seen. One of her legs bent at an awkward angle, her left arm completely spun around backwards. Is that normal? Of course not. She wore a nightgown similar to one of a hospital. It was drenched in blood and odd black liquid. Her face, in spite of the beady eyes and pale complexion, was rather normal. Almost too normal, perfect even. Still, like plastic. Like a doll…
Just then her right arm, the good arm, swung up and wrapped around my throat.
“My daddy is here to see you. You’re a nice one, aren’t you? He’ll be proud that I trapped you.”
Just then another figure came closer. This one looked bigger. He was large, muscular, like a lumberjack. Except he was no lumber jack. He had no face. Well, maybe he used to, but his face was a blur of red. It looked as if someone stuck his face into a cheese grater. Hunks of meat clung to his facial bones, blood dripping all over his worn out overalls. He was carrying something in his hand, swinging it. It was a bear trap. The ones that look like teeth.
I shook my head. “No…no…no!”
He came up behind me, and I heard the clank of the metal teeth as he opened the deadly tool. The girl opened her mouth so that I could see razor-sharp teeth. “Three…Two…One!”
I screamed as loud as I could. The pain was unbearable. The trap clamped around my torso and back, crushing my insides. I suddenly had the need to throw up. My body grew warm as my clothes soaked in my own blood. “Please, stop! Please…” My voice was hoarse, barely a painful whisper. The girl just laughed. She released my throat and I felt my feet being lifted off the ground. I wanted to become numb. I wanted to die, even. Not this. This was hell. The lumberjack swung me around on the trap as I watched bits of my own flesh fall to the forest floor. This man was abnormally tall. I looked down to see that my stomach looked similar to the man’s face. Coincidence? I think not. I could see parts of my intestines- or I think they were my intestines- hanging out and wrapping around the metal trap, entangling me further.
The man finally stopped walking and he dropped me on the ground. I heard a crack, maybe the trap would set me free. Maybe I could run. But at this point I couldn’t see my house anymore, even so my vision was blurry and my head began to spin. I was then lifted up again as he swung me over a tree branch. He wrapped the chains around the thick branch until it was secure, leaving me dangling four feet off the ground.
“Is…are you done yet?” I had to ask. I wanted to know if the torture was over yet.
Just then another figure came. A woman. Except she didn’t walk like the other two. She crawled on all four legs. Her head hung low as she scurried over to us, it looked as if she had been decapitated and her head was merely sewn onto her torso. That’s when she looked up.
Her eyes were slits, like cat eyes. Her mouth covered most of her face. It was huge and spread in a wide, toothless smile. She came up to me and began to tug at my arms and legs. The pain was burning like fire. I just wanted it to stop.
Suddenly, I heard a snapping sound. She came back around me, holding something that looked like a log. But it wasn’t a log. It was my leg. Lifeless and bloody. That’s when I felt the pain. I couldn’t even scream.
She held my leg high above her head, then brought it down on me. She beat me with my own leg for what seemed to be hours. Like a pinata. I cried out but no one could hear me.
As the forest grew lighter with dawn, it became apparent we weren’t the only ones here. The first thing I noticed was a single bone. It appeared to be human, a leg bone perhaps. Then I saw another. Then another. A skull. A hip bone. A row of teeth. A rotting foot. I saw organs laying on the floor, which was stained red. That’s when I looked up.
Bodies hung above me in the higher tree branches. All of them bloody, dilapidated messes. Most missing whole limbs, some without heads, most look like they had been put through a meat grinder. Most of them were teenagers. Like me.
And here I sit. They raised me a branch up the next night to make room for their next victim. I watched them beat her brutally, even eat parts off of her while she was still alive. And she looked up at me with the most pain in her eyes I have ever seen. But I couldn’t do a thing about it. Later that night I died. The last thing I heard was her painful screams. I couldn’t help her. We were just two girls who were attracted to shiny objects.
Two girls who fell for a simple trap.
And I tell this as a word of warning. Some of the most attractive things in life can be deadly. And trust me, it isn’t any fun being the raccoon.

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Horsehead :
I awoke in a deep sweat again. The noise always wakes me up. That damn bell…Can’t believe it’s supper already. A guard walked up to my door and unlocked it. “Supper time, ya crazy bastard. It’s your favorite.”
I gulped. From his tone I could tell that it must be those awful potatoes with roast beef again. Normally thats a meal I would kill for, but not in here, in here it tastes like sandpaper and dirt. The cook isn’t very good. The guard walked into my cell, grabbed the back of my straitjacket and pushed me down the hall, I guess I’d just have to endure it, after all, thats not the worst of my worries.
If you haven’t guessed by now, I suppose your intellect is a little lacking. I now spend my days within an asylum. Although, I’m here under false circumstances you see, I didn’t kill my family. It was Horsehead.
Thats the nickname I gave him.
I got my food, and sat with my usual crowd. The guard took off all our ‘jackets. I was the first to speak, as usual. “Have you guys heard the noises in the night?”
“The insane babbling of all the patients? Yeah, I’m sure we’ve all heard it. Some of us even contribute to it, right, Eric?” That was Gerald. He’s here for the rape and murder of ten prostitutes. Pleaded insanity during the trial. Sick bastard.
I tried to ignore him as he elbowed Eric in the side, causing the man to yelp. I stabbed a piece of roast beef with my fork, and shoved it into my mouth. I winced; such an awful taste. “No, not that, the other noises, the ones made by…It.” I think I heard Gerald swear under his breath, he knew where this was going. “I heard It again, I swear, down the hall, it’s breathing was…”
Gerald slammed a fist on the table. “Cut the shit, man! You’re just crazy like every other asshole in this joint, just look around you, look at where you are!” I was ready to respond with a verbal insult, but I decided against it. There was no point, he could floor me easily, and plus, deep down I wondered if he was right. I’ve been here awhile, what if I really am crazy? No, don’t think like that, Horsehead is real, he took my family, I know he did. I began to listen to the murmurs around me, the conversations of broken minds, but it wasn’t long before Gerald piped up again. “But hey, really, if believing in your little make-believe-monster helps you sleep at night…” I looked at him with fear in my eyes, and spoke with rage in my voice. “It doesn’t…I rarely sleep.” Gerald merely laughed. What an ass.
I don’t blame him for not believing me, but he doesn’t have to make light of the situation.
”Now shut up and eat your food. And stop telling stories, you might frighten the other children.”
“Stop being such an asshole, It was real, damnit.” A few of the others slid away, they could feel this coming, and they hated these arguments. God that sounds so bad, even crazy people thought we were nuts. Hell, once me and Gerald almost killed each other, but a bit of solitary cofinement fixed that for both of us.
‘You got proof? Maybe he left behind a hoof or something!” Gerald burst into laughter. He started nudging the guy next to him who let out a fake chuckle. “Without proof, you’re just as guilty as me.” He pushed away from the table and walked next to a guard. “Bring me to my room, the others are making fun of the voices in my head.” He made a fake pouting face. The guard grunted and put Gerald’s ‘jacket back on. “See you tommorow, psycho!” He waved at me as the guard shoved him through the door, and that was that. I glared, but continued eating soon after, and eventually engaged in casual conversation with the others. Atleast, as casual as you can get in here.
Lights out. My least favourite part of living here. The darkness is bad enough, but the screams and laughter of insane people adds this surreal quality that usually stops me from sleeping. But today, today is unusually quiet, as if they know something is wrong. I manage to close my eyes, and drift away into the world of dreams.
I sit at the picnic table with my wife and child. It is Summer, and we are happy. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the flowers were in full bloom, the forest was lively with noise. It was perfect. I get up to check the barbecue, the hamburgers and hot dogs smelt like they were almost ready, My son shouts to his mother, calling her to play. She laughs and rises from her spot. The two of them begin to pass a ball back and forth near the edge of the forest. It was then that I realized the forest had gone dead silent, although at the time I paid no attention. It was a few minutes more before I heard my wife’s bloodcurdling scream. She screamed about how something took our child into the forest. I began to run towards the forest as she entered, I yelled to her to stop, but to no avail. I feel branches swatting at my face as I charge through the forest, which now seems unusually dark. I hear my wife scream again. I run as fast as my legs can take me and arrive to see a horrific being tearing my wife’s flesh from her body. Horsehead. It turns to me after I yell in anguish. It moves quickly towards me, and I blackout.
I jolt out of my sleep, my breathing heavy, my body drenched in sweat. Suddenly, it hits me, the silence was nearly deafening. And then the noise begins. The grating of metal on metal. The sound is high pitched, like fingernails on a chalkboard, but far worse. The sound gets closer with every second. I cower under my thin blanket, hoping for some sort of shelter from whatever horror lurks outside, but it doesn’t work. I pinch my arm, hoping to wake from a nightmare. It doesn’t work.
The sound is in my hallway now. The echos of the noise are near unbearable. I can hear others waking up, complaining, some screaming, others panicking. I stand up, and inch closer to my door. I peek through the glass window at the top of my door, nothing, total darkness. Then, a single light, the one directly between me and Rodger’s cell, flickers to life. The grating noise stops. I hear a heavy breathing noise, like that of a wild beast. Something stepped into the light, its back turned to me, although, it was moving FAST, too fast for me to really catch a glimpse of it, but I know what it was. I could hear the religious man in the cell next to me praying. He could see it too, I knew I wasn’t crazy. The beast lifts its hand, and smashes Rodger’s door open. His screams of terror and pleas for help are drowned out by a sickening gurgling noise from the beast. It enters his room, the light flickers off and the screams stop. I can hear the tearing of flesh, the splatter of blood hitting walls, the sound of bones snapping and the horrible noises the thing made.
I stood waiting at my door for a minute before the beast re-emerged. The light flickered back on, and I could see it in its full glory. I dare not breathe as I examined its horrible visage. It was something truly out of a nightmare; haunting, impossible and by far, the scariest thing I have ever seen in my life. My eyes tried to concieve what I was looking at at, and I was in disbelief, nothing like THIS should ever exist, but I’ll try to relay what my eyes witnessed.
It stood, nearly 10 feet in height, with dark reddish-brown skin. And that was the most normal thing about it. Upon its neck, was the skull of a horse that had a mane of gnarled, thin black hair that hung from the base. From there, I could see its chest heaving, in and out, with each breath, as its rib cage pressed up against the skin. The thing looked malnourished. But, then everything got even worse. On its back, was a large, tumorous hump, from which sprouted four twisted limbs. The first limb ended in a a clawed hand; the second, a three fingered hand, one of which ended in a blade the size of a butcher knife; while the other two were twisted scythes that jutted out at an almost broken angle. Meanwhile, its actual arms were no better. One ended in three fingers, much like one of the “tumour arms”, but each finger ended in sharp blades, and it carried Rodger’s head. I gagged. The other, was bent completely backwards, and ended in a blade that stretched about 10 feet back, and was dragged along the ground, which explained the grating noise when the beast walked. And below that, below the thin waist, was the legs. Four legs, one sticking out from each side of the body. They were incredibly thin, like spider legs, and they stretched for atleast four feet, before dropping at an almost ninety degree angle. And at the bottom of each one was, I kid you not, (Although by this point, you expect almost anything I bet) was essentially, what looked like, human hands. To say I was terrified by this creature was SUCH an understatement. Suddenly, I felt a warm sensation running down my leg, and I swore, partially crying.
And then it turned, and it saw me. I stared right at its face. Its eyes seemed to roll in its head, and they were looking straight at me. Souless eyes. I began to sob uncontrollably. It seemed almost as if it recognized me, from that night. It stared for a few moments before letting out a prolonged growl that sounded something like loud machinery mixed with a wheezing whisper. It raised its arm, and pointed at me before walking down the hall, dragging its mighty arm behind it. And the last thing I saw before fainting, was Rodger’s and, what looked like, Gerald’s flayed skin wrapped around the beasts arm, dragging behind it. I heard gunfire, and a few guards shouting orders. I heard inmates screaming. I heard the beast roar. And then I heard nothing.
When I awoke, there was the ringing of sirens and the shouting of officers everywhere, and the asylum was evacuated. Not to mention my head hurt like hell, must’ve fell onto the floor. Before I had time to adjust, all of us were placed under police custody. That makes me feel a little safer, but I know that whatever officer gets stuck with me won’t make it. I’ve developed this nasty black mark on my chest, similiar to what Rodger had before he died and I know what it means. Horsehead will be back, and it’ll finish what it started.

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The Support Group for Serial Killers and Psychopaths :
Dear Person of Interest,
You most likely do not know me, but I on the other hand, know you too well. It has come to my understanding that you are of a very dangerous type of individual. I know that you spend the faceless part of your life, taking the lives of others. Now, before you become alarmed, I assure you I have no intentions of prosecuting you for what you are and what you have done. In fact, I find your hidden craft more or less beautiful, for it is the mind of the unstable that thrills my line of research. I invite you to join me for a little social experiment of sorts. All I want is to delve into the minds of the wicked and make some sense of these senseless acts. Thank you for your participation and I cannot wait to work with you.
Sincerely, Dr. Joseph Connors

One does not expect to walk into a room filled with murderers. It brings me great curiosity as to where this idea first came into being. The work of a psychiatrist is found as professional and done in neat, organized methods. I did not plan to be interviewing madmen in an underground operation while I was at medical school, but I must take the risk in order to pursue a breakthrough in mental health science. My work is not always clean, for my hands have been slightly dirtied with the types I associate with. How I came into contact with these people is something no one needs to know. What should be brought to your attention however is that my unorthodox methods are strictly for scientific purposes, and of course the financial benefit of being the first man to ever reveal the deep inner workings of an American serial killer. This process demanded a lot of time and care. There is no way to get results by posting a Craig’s List add looking for a group of people who are all wanted for homicide. Every step must be thought ahead, just like in a ruthless game of chess. I needed to be cautious in dealing with this unstable element known as the human mind. My intentions were to help them mend their tainted lives and in doing so hope to boost my personal success.
The timing was excellent. Have a little chat with America’s most frowned upon and be back home before my fiancé, Carmen, suspects that I am not at my office, but am instead in an empty warehouse with the criminally insane. She had a reason to distrust me, but I was not about to fill her in on such a dark corner of my life. She meant the world to me, and she deserved all the best I could offer. That is partially why I carried on this secret life of night therapist. The public exploitation of personal motivations does not come cheap, and a life of wealth and minor fame is the best I can give my soon- to- be wife.
You would have expected my new patients to be horrific and unjust, but in reality, they came from the same walks of life as anyone else. But still, my imagination got the best of my courage and the first thoughts of backing down overwhelmed me. As I approached the doors to the abandoned warehouse not only butterflies, but wasps could be felt in the pit of my stomach, beating their wings throughout my sternum as my nerves worsened. What if I had walked into a room filled with savages who want nothing more than to watch as the remainder of my miserable life spilled onto the floor? The only order of business left unsettled would be: who will kill me first? The metal door swung itself open and my questions became the answers I sought after.
Placed about the room were five foldable chairs, forming a sort of ring. The nightly brush of cold clawed its freezing nails against my body. My pulsating veins hammered away at my flesh as the blood flowed relentlessly underneath my wretched skin. The dim light of candles gave me a sickly ambiance as my eyes came into contact with four other pairs staring back at me. These eyes gave no emotion, but as I observed closer, the faces were made apparent. Four masses now filled the small space, and maintained a distance of feelings. As far as I was concerned I was looked at strange yet humane people. People you only meet in a rare lifetime. I set my briefcase upon the floor, took the last vacant chair and smiled at my acquaintances.
Someone had to say something, something to break the ice and start us off. I suppose the best candidate would be me, seeing as I set this journey in motion. “Why don’t we start with our names and…” what else am I supposed to say, “…and your preferred method of murder?” I had to say something and in desperation I just killed the white elephant in the room. The rest of the congregation looked awkward, seeing as no one had ever so blatantly discussed the darkest crevasses of their worlds. The silence was concluded with a nod of confirmation and we began in a clockwise direction.
To my left was a man with sleek jet-black hair that fell into his face. His skin was sunken in and resembled more of a corpse then a living organism. His expression was aggressive and his brow was almost stuck in a cringe. His voice was harsh when he spoke, “My name is Maxwell. I haven’t been called that in a while, but that’s my name.” He stood firm and stiff with his arms crossed against his grey tank top. At this time I noticed a tattoo on his shoulder, which was a snake winding through the open mouth of a cracked skull. He startled me when he spoke again, “I have killed seven people, the past four times I have locked them in my basement and let them die away.” Ok, we were making progress although I needed to keep it moving along. “That’s very good,” I said trying to be enthusiastic.
I looked to the next person to the right of the circle. She was a middle aged woman who emanated a constant feeling of sadness. Her greyed gown left only her head as the little bit of visible flesh. Her hair was withered down and absent of any remarkable color. “Hello, my name is Mrs. Victoria Grahame. I can’t honestly say I prefer a method of murder but, each time for me has been the same. I have a nasty habit of… poisoning people and watching as the life is choked out of them.” She dropped her head, it seems as if this is the first time she has ever spoken to anybody let alone having a conversation of this kind. Once again it was the silence that propelled me to speak up, “How wonderful. I think we are really making progress tonight.” With that we all turned to the figure sitting across from me.
It had taken me until this time to notice how unique this one looked. His eyes were coated in thick black makeup that ran down his face as if bleeding from his eyes. Barely hanging from his limbs were the torn remains of what was once a classy outfit. His button down shirt and vest had been drenched in mud. His hair was the most remarkable feature. I could not count each of the colors dyed into his roots. Red, purple, green and yellow are all streaked through his once blonde strands of wavy hair. By far he was the most energetic and laughed at himself as he spoke, “I am Nicolai. I kill people in many ways. My personal favorite is to cut out their heart under sacrificial circumstances. They bleed out so very quickly. Ha!” I was utterly astonished at this individual, so creative and so very interesting.
Keeping up this rhythm, I turned to the final person seating to my left within the circle. He looked up shaking and trembling his arms and head, but then turned away quickly as if afraid. He was wearing a brown turtle neck and a pair of blue jeans. He rubbed his hands together anxiously. From in his pocket he took out a pen and notepad and scribbled something down as if his life depended on it. He hands it over to me, the content I read out loud. First it said the name Bradley and second it said: study the people, know their life and then kill them. Very well not the most descriptive man I know. I figured we could work on that later.
I began to explain my intentions and personal goals to be accomplished within the time we had together. They did not comment, yet I could tell that they understood what I was meaning to say. We carried out our business in a surprisingly well fashioned formation. They responded well and showed so much potential. I needed to keep them engaged, however. I did not want to lose their attention so early on. I asked another set of questions. Who they were, what they do and where they came from. This was so very generic, so very boring when you get right down to it. It was necessary I know more about the internal taboo that each of them possessed. “If you could, tell me about your most memorable homicide.” With this I wanted to get them thinking, get it personal. They each replied shockingly well, very simple answers to such a deep question. Maxwell went first: “This house wife, I did not know her. But she seemed so perfect. She married rich, so life came just peachy for her. She had kids I believe, three of them, and a husband, but I didn’t care. I knew she would be a great victim of mine.” This was all said with no remorse, no sympathy. He is truly a man with no regard for the value of human life.
Next was Victoria who smiled for the first time. “He was this politician. Such a high and mighty man of society, I felt it my personal responsibility to bring down the ignorance he spewed from his words. So with detailed preparation I poisoned his coffee before his big reelection speech. I sat in the audience and watched him choke and gag every vile fluid from within him.” Suddenly I felt excited with how real and authentic these people were and how much their deeds signified.
I looked to the almost raccoon looking eyes of Nicolai. He could hardly talk between his laughter. “I killed a police officer. He was as much a pig as a human being. He abused the law for his own sick amusement. It was more like putting down a sick animal then a person. I took his unconscious mass to an old crypt. He was strapped down to a tomb when I cut him first. He was too lifeless to make any noise when his heart was beating out of his chest.” I tried hard not become nauseated with this comment. I kept myself together, because I was here to learn from, not be squeamish, about these horror stories.
Bradley wrote from his journal again. For the entirety of the meeting no one had heard him speak more than a word or two. The note handed to me was paraphrased from real sentences so; I tried to piece it together as I read to the others. “Beautiful young girl, she worked for a company. A mortgage, I remember. I followed her home one night. She was walking from the gym like every night. I caught her and killed her in the park.” I looked to him and smiled. He faintly replied with a smirk. Tonight was a good night.
Like all things in this world our meeting came to an end. Within one simple gathering I have a feeling of total connection and safety with these patients of mine. As insane as it sounds looking back, I was glad to say they were a part of my life. We each adjourned with the simple promise to return tomorrow night and continue our vibrant discussions. Home now in my bed, sitting next to the love of my life, I could not wait for tomorrow.
The images of the mind’s eye are known to haunt the lives of those who dream them. The fragments of our peculiar imagination dwells within our hearts, so in what way am I disturbed tonight? What has conjured the dreadful beast that scars my petty soul? My body is weak as fear provokes me, as terror submerges me and as nightmares become seemingly real.
Shuddering as I awoke, the brightening sun illuminated my bedroom. Within my daze I crawled out from my covers. Carmen had already woken out of her sleep and by the smell of it, making breakfast. My head began to ache as my body lurched down the stairs. I cleared my eyes one last time and I was met with the smile of my future bride. I clumsily smiled back as if a school boy. She laughed and continued about her morning routine. “So, how did you sleep last night?” she asks. The words echo through the corners of my brain. I reply, “Good,” gritting my teeth from the painful lie. “I have been meaning to talk to you about the wedding,” she continues, “It is coming up you know, and we haven’t had much chance to discuss, with you being so busy and all.” I looked blank and expressionless as I prepared myself, for it was normal me who asked all of the questions. “Sure sweet heart, what should we talk about first?” I took a seat at the kitchen table while she performed her craft amongst the dishes and pans. “I need to know who you are inviting, so I can get invitations out accordingly.” Seeing as I have hardly made a friend in my life, I just told her my mother and father is all I wished to attend.
“What about your family?” I asked. I felt slightly puzzled because when I came to think of it, I had never once heard about her family nor have I ever met them. She looked troubled but keeps herself firm. “Honey,” she goes on, thinking of the best way to put this, “my family is… dead. I haven’t told you because I… didn’t think it much of an appropriate conversation at the time.” I am in a confused awe. Why had I not known this before now? I searched my thoughts for the correct words yet I feel as though I have failed to find a perfect response. “How did they die?” this I said and another white elephant dead on the ground with a stupid remark. She looked emotional but I could see that she was strong and had long made some form of peace with this situation. “They were all killed or… murdered I should say. All on different occasions.” She now seemed fully prepared to handle this conversation. “I had a mother, a father, a brother and a sister all of them are dead due to homicide.’’ I fished for another question. “What did they do in life?” I asked. “My father was a politician, my mother kept up the house, my brother was a cop and my sister worked for the mortgage company.”
I needed answers. There is no possible way this added up. I just now came into contact with four serial killers all proclaiming the murders of my fiancé’s family. I am behind the wheel of my car, not paying any attention to the road, but on the fact that I associate myself with potential maniacs. Sweating and breathing heavily I realize that tonight is going to be one hell of a group discussion.
It’s 9:00 p.m. I am still seated in the driver’s seat of my car. I am parked right outside my destination, the warehouse. I stared at it coldly mesmerizing myself in its wickedness. It is time. I stepped out onto the gravel and marched myself towards that big steel door. I honestly had no idea what to expect but I knew it is going to be far from a pretty sight. The door swung open leading me into the solemn room. That one glowing candle made its mark upon the floor, and encircling this one candle were five empty chairs. My pace quickened and my heart beat increased. I reached the circle but found a complete absence of everything from the night before. Everything except a hand gun and a letter addressed to a one Dr. Joseph Connors was found bestowed upon my former chair. I split open the envelope and unfolded the letter for me to read. It was in Bradley’s handwriting and it read: Home is where the heart is Doctor, so you better go and save her. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Back in my car, driving faster than I was meant to be going, the gun in my lap and the letter clenched tightly in my whitening knuckles, I needed to make things right. “I swear to God if they hurt her…” I needed to stay calm, even in a time like this. Even faster than I expected, I was pulling into the drive way of my humble abode. “Carmen!” I shouted praying for any response. I crack open the front door and stormed inside. The lights were dim and flickering from a power surge of some kind. I travel towards the kitchen and discover another letter placed upon the counter. Much like the first it was from Bradley and it read: She is in a safe place, Dr. Connors, but I implore you to think ahead and mind your actions. I took the paper, crumpled it and threw towards my feet. It was dead silent as I began to sob. The gun was still placed well in my grasp. I stood still and listened. From behind me I heard the floor boards creak and the faint whisper of, “Honey what’s…?” I turned around and through a natural impulse of anxiety… Bang! The mass of darkness before me fell to the ground, a pool of blood crept from its shadows. I dropped the gun and rushed to the freshly slain corpse. With a closer look I recognized the face. My heart sank to the lowest possible level and I screamed in horror. She laid there with a wound through her chest; home really is where the heart is seeing as hers was now splattered against the wall. Carmen, my dear sweet Carmen… she is dead.
Where else could I go? What else could I do? I was now wanted for murder, the murder of my precious soon- to- be wife. I had to flee the scene of the crime, my crime. I was exploding down the highway, looking for a sanctuary to wash my bloody hands. There was but one place I could think to go. The metal door swung itself open and my questions became the answers I sought after. Placed about the room were five foldable chairs, forming a sort of ring. The nightly brush of cold clawed its freezing nails against my body. My pulsating veins hammered away at my flesh as the blood flowed relentlessly underneath my wretched skin. The dim light of candles gave me a sickly ambiance as my eyes came into contact with four other pairs staring back at me. These eyes gave no emotion, but as I observed closer, the faces were made apparent. Four masses now filled the small space, and maintained a distance of feelings. As far as I was concerned I was looked at strange yet humane people. People you only meet in a rare lifetime. I set my hand gun upon the floor, took the last vacant chair and smiled at my acquaintances. This time it was five patients seeking a refuge from a troubled past. No longer was I their doctor, but an equal of sorts. I became the same breed as them. We now formed a group of individuals that shared the same title of vicious killer. In agreement we all nodded our heads and began our next session. The circle was complete once again.
END

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Blackout :
I hadn’t done anything different that day. It started off very normal, in fact; I awoke to the blaring alarm clock. I brushed my teeth. I fixed a breakfast, and ate it. I kissed my mum goodbye and I dashed out the front door, swinging my backpack with me. I sat on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to arrive. I get there early every day, just to be sure. The only thing different that I recall would be the grass; it looked a little greener.
I entered the bus and found a seat. At my seat near the back of the bus, I rested my headphones on my head and listened to some music. I listen to the mellower songs in the morning.
As time passed, the bus quickly filled up with people. It was a school bus. The children were chattering and teasing and twisting and shouting. They were normal kids. With the headphones, however, all I could hear was the music, the soft piano layered on melodic, spacy harps and horns. I don’t listen to normal music.
We reached the school. With the headphones still on, I get up with the rest of the kids and become a drop in a rushing ocean of children, not eager for class, but eager to arrive.
School was loud and busy. The classrooms, filled with students and teachers, went on teaching all matter of subjects; while the students remained restless and less enthusiastic of the knowledge. I met up with all my friends at recess. I played basketball with Tommy and Michael. They were my closest friends on the playground. After we tired of basketball, we went and dug around the rocks and woodchips that edged the enclosure, looking for bugs and worms.
I distinctly remember the moment just before the blackout. We were taking long woodchips and poking at the dirt with them. I joked with Michael about what we would do if we found a little bug friend. Tommy said he’d squish it, but we laughed, knowing he wouldn’t ever do such a thing. The giggles resided and I shifted my gaze to the dirt on the ground, smiling and stabbing away.
For three years, I’d been having these “episodes,” my mother calls them. They occur every few months or so, just when we think they’re gone for good. To my mom, I just go limp and blackout, waking up 45 minutes later in a hospital bed with doctors around me. My mother knew nothing of my experiences during the 45 minutes of being out.
Imagine a night of sleep where you don’t remember your dreams, where it’s a brief blackness that is ended by your eyes waking up to the morning light or your ears sucking you into reality from an alarm. That’s what I saw, except in that darkness, there is a figure. The face is shrouded and the details are indistinguishable. It didn’t feel like a dream either; rather, this figure has been watching me all my life and I just now peer through another world and meet his dark gaze. He just waits and watches. Nothing had been said, and nothing moved. But I knew he was there; I got that recognizable feeling of another presence with me.
As I stabbed at the dirt, the “episode” began. I recognized that it was beginning as soon as I felt my eyes were about to pop out of my face. But by then, my breathing had already stopped and I couldn’t speak. My fingertips began to tingle; my face and feet begin to burn, hot, as blood pooled to them. A horrible sensation deep inside my stomach wrenched and tore me. At this point, I lost my vision and consciousness. I don’t remember ever hitting the dirt.
I was in my blackness again. This had happened so many times before, that I thought I had become familiar with the figure, as well as the blackness. I was ready to meet him, and to stare into his strange gaze. However, for the first time, I was struck with fear. The figure was there, in the blackness, but I feared it. I hadn’t before. It was strange, but I just wanted it to end.
“Yes…” the figure spoke. I heard his voice with chilling clarity. It was deep and old.
“You are…” he took a deep inhale, as if he’d just completed a long, daunting task. “… done.”
Done. That’s it.
I woke up on the playground. The sun had moved to the other side of the sky, so time had passed. It was dead silent; looking around, the lot was completely empty. I get up, confused. Usually I wake in a hospital or on the floor of the office with the teachers gathered around.
I approached the glass doors to enter the school. Peering through the glass, I saw nobody. I walked inside. In the office, I sat in the chairs by the door to regain my thoughts. I hear the rustling of papers and look up. I see a folder floating through the air, from the main desk and down a corridor.
I quickly got up and followed the folder. Down the corridor, a door opened and the folder drifted in. I follow, and watch as the folder approached the desk. The swivel chair turns and the folder flopped down on the table.
I bolted out of the office, feeling alone and confused. I ran to a classroom and saw a piece of chalk writing a on the chalkboard. I panicked and left the school. I saw cars driving in the streets without passengers; doors opening for no people; gardens being gardened by floating tools.
I couldn’t see people.
After a very long while, maybe weeks or months, I noticed a few things. I couldn’t see my reflection. I could have guessed that. What’s interesting, however, is that I don’t seem to get hungry or need to eat. I just sort of wandered around, looking at things. The boredom drove me crazy. The only thing worse than the boredom, was the loneliness. I kept myself company by talking to myself while I aimlessly wandered city streets, houses, stores, parks, and anywhere my feet could take me. I’d watch as people I couldn’t see went about their daily lives.
The wandering eventually became an interesting task for me. I would go for very long walks during the day, counting the numbers on people’s home addresses. I’d see floating hoses watering lawns and drifting helmets riding bicycles. At night I would sprint through the streets, dashing under street lights.
I came up upon a library. That kept me busy for a long while. I scanned the bookshelves and read almost half the books in the entire place. I just sat alongside other floating books, knowing somebody invisible is getting a good read. I’m able to retain information very well.
I came across a cemetery. I spent a long while scanning the tombstones, reciting the names to see if any rang a bell. I recognized a few last names of my old friends. I would look at the dates and count how many years they lived to be. Sometimes I’d see incomplete dates, tombstones of those yet to die; this humbles me as I ponder those planning for death. I felt sorry for them. Sometimes I’d come back and find the incomplete dates completed; the dirt freshly turned. I’d go along, row by row. At night I couldn’t read them, so I’d sprint through the streets, dodging cars that couldn’t see me.
Today, I was finishing up my cemetery walk. I came across a tombstone with my name on it. The realization hit me hard, but it makes more sense now. The birth-year and the death-year were both engraved. I stared at it for a long while. You wouldn’t believe how upset I was. I thought one day I’d wake up and see my mum again. I thought maybe I was in the hospital, and I’d wake up, get better and go back to school to play with Tommy and Michael. I think I cried, but I understand that I probably don’t have any real tears.
After sitting for a while, an idea occurred to me that hadn’t before.
And that’s how I got here. I know I can interact with the objects in this afterlife, but I also know that the living live among me as well. I went into my old house – it’s more familiar.
I get on my computer and type what I know. I submit it onto this website where hopefully it won’t gain too much attention; creepypasta, where stories like this are abundant, but fiction mostly. I guess I’m mostly just writing this to organize my thoughts about what had happened, especially with today’s realization. I doubt I’d be able to actually send any sort of message to the living world. I had tried before, to no avail. Oh well; it’s not like I don’t have time to waste.

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Daddy’s Princess :
Daddy calls me his princess. I feel like one too, especially when I’m wearing one of my princess crowns. My Daddy makes them for me. He’s an artist, you see.
Every once in a while, Daddy says he has a present for me. It’s a box, usually wrapped in pretty sparkly paper with a bow on top. I get a big smile on my when I see it. I tear the paper off and open the box and pull out the thin, noisy paper, and my smile gets even bigger. It’s Daddy’s latest princess crown, all for me, and it’s beautiful. They’re always beautiful.
Daddy started making princess crowns after my Mommy left. I remember watching her leave. She had a big brown suitcase. I still don’t know why she didn’t tell me goodbye or when she’d be home. Daddy says she’s not coming home, but I think she will one day.
I remember when Daddy gave me my first crown, two years ago. I was six. I remember before I opened it, Daddy looked scared, like he was afraid I wouldn’t like it. I loved it, and I wore it every day until he gave me the second one. I have nine now.
One of my favorite crowns has pieces of silver on it. Daddy gave it to me last year. I love how it sparkles in the sunlight. I’ve only seen it sparkle in the sunlight that comes in through the windows, though. Daddy won’t let me take it outside. He won’t let me take any of my princess crowns outside. He doesn’t want them to get broken.
When I have a friend over, Daddy makes sure all of the princess crowns are in the crown room. That’s where he keeps them safe. It’s where he makes them, too. I’ve never been in the crown room, and I’ve tried but Daddy always keeps it locked, and I don’t know where the key is.
I’m not allowed to show my friends the crowns because Daddy thinks we’ll break them or one of my friends will steal them. That’s why I can’t tell my friends about the crowns, either. If I do tell, he’ll never make another one, and he’ll throw them all away. I don’t want that. I love my princess crowns.
“Hey Princess,” Daddy says to me with his smile. He says, “I’ve got a present for you,” and I see the box behind him on the dinner table, all sparkly with a pretty bow on top. I smile big and run over to it. I tear off the bow and the paper and open the box. I pull out the noisy, thin yellow paper until I see it, and I smile even bigger. It’s beautiful.
My Daddy points out what he did with the teeth on this one. I try it on and see what he means. Three teeth in each side fit snugly between my locks to keep my new princess crown in place.
I look in the mirror. It’s beautiful. I look like a princess. Then I notice, this crown still has food on it. I take the crown off and look at Daddy. Usually, he’s the only one allowed to clean the food off. He smiles and nods, which means he left some just for me.
I pick the meat off with my teeth. It’s yummy. I put my crown back on my head and smile at my reflection. Then I look at Daddy, who smiles back at me. I love my Daddy. I’m his Princess.

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The Note :
This is a love story. Please try to remember that as you read this, love. It’s really about Julie.
I knew from the moment I set eyes on her that I’d do anything to have her. Fortunately though, I didn’t have to work very hard. I could see it in her eyes the first time I talked to her and asked her out.  She wanted me to and she said yes before I even finished asking. Her eyes sparkle like diamonds, it’s one of my favorite things about her.
We were quick to say “I love you”, only a few dates in, but we were sure.
My place is full of my idiot friends and we’ve started talking about getting a place of our own.  My best friend, Greg, doesn’t get along the best with her and isn’t very happy about me moving out but he understands.   We all hang out together sometimes, see movies, bowl, normal stuff like that.
Well, I got a call a couple nights ago from Julie’s parents, who live out of state. They said they got a call from the police and that Julie had been in a car accident. Drunk driver crossed the center line, what a cliché right? Anyway, I was panicked out of my mind speeding like crazy to the hospital when Julie called me on my cell. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw her name on the called ID. I answered the phone not quite letting myself get my hopes up just yet. After all, it could have been someone calling me from her phone. Relief washed over me like rain when I heard her voice: “Baby? I’m okay, it wasn’t that bad, just some bumps and bruises. The airbags and seat belt did all the work, are you okay?” I don’t mind admitting, I pulled over and cried for a long time. She said she was checking out of the hospital shortly and I could pick her up there.
When I got to the hospital I had myself pretty well composed. I walked in and was just making my way to the help desk when I heard her call my name.  I turned around and saw her, the sparkle was out of her eyes (which wasn’t that surprising, I thought, considering what had happened), but otherwise seemingly none the worse for the wear. I completely lost what composure I thought I had. I broke down again and we held eachother and she slid her hand onto the back of my neck and into my hair like she does when I’m upset, and after a minute or two we made our way to my car.
Julie told me the drunk driver had been killed, and I thought “good, better him than Julie” and I’m not the least bit ashamed of it. I would have killed him myself if I could have. But she was OK and that was all I cared about then.
When we got back to my place no one was home and the house was dark, which was odd since there was almost always someone home and those idiot roommates of mine always forget to kill the lights when they leave.
Julie was feeling a little chilly and she looked a little pale so we cuddled up under some blankets and fell asleep almost immediately. It had been a trying day after all. I remember the last thing she said to me as we were falling asleep: “I’ll love you forever, baby.”
I called into work the next day to stay home with Julie, she was feeling pretty stiff, again not surprising. I had some missed calls from family and friends, no doubt they’d heard what happened and were checking in. I’d get back to them later.
Maybe it was just the accident, or that I hadn’t seen Julie without makeup in… ever, but she didn’t look very good, I mean her color was off and her eyes looked slightly hollow.  And the sparkle still wasn’t there. I suggested taking her back to the hospital, but she insisted she was fine, just tired and sore.
Well, a couple more days went by and I told work I was staying home with Julie until she was feeling better. But she wasn’t getting better. Her eyes were the worst of it. More hollow all the time, and her skin was downright cold to the touch. It was getting to the point where I was going to bring her back to the hospital, whether she wanted to go or not, and that was when I got the phone call. It was Julie’s mom. She had been crying and was clearly making an effort to stay composed.
Julie’s service was to be held the day after tomorrow she said. I asked her what she was talking about, service for what? I was confused.
Julie walked up to me as I stood there on the phone. She was looking right into my eyes when her mom said “I know this is hard for you, it’s hard for all of us, but Julie’s gone and we can’t bring her back, we all loved her but she’s gone.”
I still didn’t understand until I saw the look of horror in Julie’s eyes. She knew, this whole time she knew. She didn’t survive the accident yet somehow she was here and suddenly I understood. Her eyes: hollow and sunk in, the sparkle gone. Her skin, cold and discolored. She was dead and I was watching her slowly decay! My stomach dropped and I felt myself fall. Julie caught me, and I felt her cold hands and felt the coldness for what it was, death. I heard her mom on the phone, a tiny voice calling my name over and over. I picked up the phone and told her I was listening, Julie silent the whole time. Her mom repeated that the service was the day after tomorrow and her body would be cremated at noon the next day. Numbly, I told her okay, thanked her, and told her I’d see her then.
I hung up the phone and Julie and I just stared at each other for a long time. There was no doubt now, I was looking at someone who was not alive. Eventually I said one word:  How?
She said she didn’t know, and she didn’t care. And you know what? Neither did I.
She came with me to the service, and it wasn’t like what happens in the movies, where people walk through her like she’s not there or anything like that. They couldn’t see her, that much was obvious, but somehow no one bumped into her, and when they made space for me, it seemed they made space for her to, although they didn’t seem to know they were doing it. When I talked to her parents she was with me, silent but strong, for me. When I viewed her body she was with me. Her hand, (cold now, so cold) finding that spot on my neck. She looked exactly as she always had, beautiful, healthy. But I knew it was makeup and artificial. Underneath she would look exactly like the Julie that had her cold hand on my neck. It was a hard thing, looking down at her, but she was so supportive and I knew this was why I loved her and couldn’t be without her.
We left and went back to my place.  My roommates were home but stayed out of our way as we went to my room. That night we didn’t sleep, we just held each other and I didn’t care at all how cold she was. We cried, and talked. Laughed at the funny memories and cried more. We didn’t talk about what was happening or what was going to happen.
As darkness began to lose the battle and light filled the sky, a horrifying thought occurred to me, and somehow I knew it would be true. I was seeing Julie as she was. I mean, literally seeing her as her body was. And she was set to be cremated at noon. Do you understand? She was to be burned until nothing would be left but ash and I would have to watch it happen.
I was on the phone immediately to her parents, to the funeral home, to her church. No one would listen. They all thought it was grief. I felt rage and despair building inside me and was about to completely break down when I felt her hand on my neck, in that spot, and she turned my head so I was looking into her eyes, now very hollow and turning grotesque. She told me it was okay, it was okay. She told me she would love me forever and I knew in that moment what I was going to do.
Those last few hours we watched the sun come up and what became a beautiful day. We watched clouds turn into funny shapes. As noon approached I made an excuse to go to my closet and then we waited. When noon hit we were both crying again, but nothing happened. We were  just starting to wonder what that meant when I saw the look in her eyes, just as before, she knew. She felt it before I saw it. She told me it didn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt baby. She began to smoke and her hair caught on fire. A cold calm set over me and I took her tight into my arms. The flames began to burn me to. She tried to push me away, to protect me. She fought my hold but her strength was fading. I could feel the flames now burning into me but I didn’t care, I wouldn’t let her go through this alone and I didn’t need to live much longer anyway. We didn’t scream, we just sat there together and burned. Her hair was gone and her face and skin turned black and I held her tighter and to my chest. I told her I’d love her forever and that I’d see her soon. I held her until she was ash in my arms and she fell through my fingers.
I reached for what I had taken out of the closet, and suddenly she was gone, not a trace of her left. No ash remained anywhere, nothing was burned, even my own burns were gone.
Was it grief? Did I imagine the whole thing? Was she ever here? I don’t know. But I wrote this so my family and friends know why I had to do this. I won’t stay here without her. I can’t. I’ll find her somehow and the sparkle will be in her eyes again and everything will be okay and like it was. I’m sorry about this mom, dad. But I hope you understand. I’m going now, I hope I don’t get blood on this

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Flames of the Past :
At age 10, I wasn’t quite as developed as a lot of people were when it came to their sense of fantasy vs reality. I was all about fantasy, and I didn’t care about anything else. Every day, I would play Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh! on the playground with my closest friends while the other kids played sports and ran around on the jungle gym. Bullies would always call me a baby, because I talked to my cards like they were real. I didn’t care who saw me do it, either. I was an average freak to them, and nothing more.
I heard dull stories every day while listening to the people who bullied me, seeing as they always managed to be seated around me. I would block out anything that didn’t seem like it was worth my time.
Near the end of my 5th grade year, I heard a story about something that the kids called “The Dungeon”. It was supposedly a place that was located near the old art room, and people said that if you opened the circular door in that room, you would be sucked down into a room with bright lights and construction equipment. Then, you would be gagged and blindfolded, and you would start to fall asleep. Upon awakening, you would find yourself in the nurse’s office, covered in dirt, and you would be told that you fell off of the jungle gym outside and hit your head. It had supposedly happened to 2 of my classmates/bullies, Kevin and Dustin, and they didn’t want to tell anyone besides their friends because of how scared they were.
I knew the exact room they were talking about, seeing as I was a very advanced art student, and my teacher’s secondary classroom for his honor students was right next to this room. I had always found the room odd, because it was plain concrete, the door to it was broken off of its hinges, and in the middle of the room was a circular shaft with a metal dome on top. The dome had a wheel on it, and the domed shaft as a whole reminded me of a submarine hull. I was curious, so during my after-school art class, I asked Mr. Basler if I could use the restroom. Of course he said yes, and as soon as I was out of the art room, I snuck into the dull room next to it.
I walked over to the shaft and twisted the wheel that was atop it. Sure enough, it was just like a submarine hull, and the door swung open on a hinge. I looked down into the hatch, and immediately saw the ladder that would allow me to climb down. I hadn’t been sucked in like those bullies had said, so I wasn’t scared at all. I climbed down the ladder quickly yet quietly, and soon I found myself standing in a well lit dirt room. The room had chunks of concrete and huge mounds of dirt littering it, and I soon saw the construction equipment that the two bullies had been talking about.
Jackhammers.
Shovels.
Spools of heavy wire.
Pick-axes.
Even a variety of saws.
I was starting to get scared. I asked myself why all of this stuff was here, and why this place looked nothing like a construction site. I soon found my answer as I crept over to one of the large holes that I saw in the ground. Down in the center of the hole was an ancient looking coffin, and the lid had been sawed off. I could see a bleach-white skeleton inside, and I started to cry. Why the hell was all of this here, and why were these dead people being dug up?
I decided that this was no time for questions, and I wanted to be out of the place ASAP. As I turned around to leave, I felt something hit me hard in the back of the head, and I collapsed. I guess that whoever hit me thought that I was unconscious, because they started to talk to themself.
I heard a man say “Damn kids, this is the 3rd one this month that made his way here. I need to have Todd buy a new door for the cover room…”.
I soon felt my body being lifted up, and the man placed me onto his back for the climb up the ladder. I could see the gray hair all over his face, and I came to realize that this man was Ray, the oldest of the school janitors. But why would he do this to me? I was one of his favorite kids in the school… I had talked to him since 1st grade! Why was he doing this all of a sudden?…
As Ray got to the top of the ladder, he threw my body upwards a little, and I fell into the dull concrete room. He climbed up afterwards, and I heard him say “Stupid little shit, didn’t even have the courtesy to close the hatch.” as he slammed the hatch shut. I was carried up the basement steps, and then halfway across the 1st floor of the school to the nurse’s office.
As we entered, Nurse Janet let out a whimper and said “Oh the poor guy, another one fell off of the jungle gym?.. What part did he fall off of?”
Ray replied “I’m not exactly sure, but he hit his head. Hard.”
He proceeded to throw me onto the patient’s bed gently, and he left the room without another word. When I opened my eyes fully about 15 minutes later, I thought that I deserved an award for portraying an unconcious child so well. Now, it was almost 3 o’clock, which would mean that my mom would be at the school soon to pick me up. I asked Nurse Janet what had happened, and she told me exactly what Ray had told her. Seemed as though she didn’t know about the underground, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I told her my Mom was probably waiting outside for me, and she told me that I could leave. So, I did just that.
Whenever I got out to my Mom’s car, I got in, and I immediately started crying. When I told her what I had seen and what had happened to me, she was furious. She threw out a huge amount of curse words, and then she did something that I rarely ever saw her do: she pulled out her cell phone, and she called Dad. She told him to get to the school, and make sure he had a firearm concealed on him, “just in case”.
This scared me a little, so I said “Mommy, Dad isn’t going to hurt anyone, is he?”
She smiled at me and said “Not unless they try to hurt one of us first”.
I trusted her when she said that, seeing as she was an amazingly nice woman, and my Dad was an ex-cop who anyone could trust. I knew she was telling me the truth, and so when she asked me to come into the school with her, I grabbed her hand and followed her.
Upon arriving at the principal’s office, she told me to wait outside, because she didn’t want me to hear her say any more curse words, and that she was about to throw everyone in the book at the principal. I waited outside of the door as she went in, and soon my Dad was there and he went into the room too. My parents came out about 25 minutes later, and as my Mom walked out, she turned around and said one last thing to the principal.
“I hope you enjoyed being principal here while you could, because the police are going to have a field day with this.”
A few months later, after Dustin, Kevin and I had given our statements to the police, over half of the teachers and staff at my school were having criminal charges filed against them. Turns out that over 30 members of the faculty had been in on this “underground” ordeal, and they had all lost their jobs, as well as their freedom in the end.
The reason for the secret room and the underground site was an interesting one. During a battle that happened in the area of the school directly before the Civil War, a rich family had killed all of their slaves (83 total) and set their own house aflame. Before burning their own house down, they buried all of thier riches with the dead slaves so that they could “Give them n***ers something nice that they didn’t have to steal.” ****PLEASE NOTE: I am not a racist, this is the exact quote that they gave to a neighbor that had come to see them before their house was burned down****
When these people were done with the burial of their slaves as well as their riches, they went into the kitchen of their house and ate dinner. As they were eating, the house went up in smoke and all of the people inside were burned to death. The rumor was that the family burned themselves alive on purpose so that they could atone for their sins. Why they killed their slaves was never known. But, the townsfolk took it upon themselves to unbury the dead slaves and re-bury them all properly. All 83 were buried in seperate coffins, and on top of all the coffins, the townsfolk had scattered the remains of the dead rich family. A tombstone was placed there that said “Here lies 83 people and 5 demons. The burn of Hell is stonger than that of a mere flame.”
When all of the people were re-buried, the riches of the dead white family were left in the 83 coffins as a sign of respect for the dead.
That was what the faculty was after.
Without knowing it, the school had been placed upon this burial site, and when the principal found out about this possibility, he took it upon himself to secretly excavate the area underneath the school. When teachers found out, they wanted in immediately. The principal had already collected a large amount of gold and silver jewelry from the two coffins that he had managed to dig up.
After that incident was over and done with, the city poured the hole in the secret room full of concrete, hoping to seal the hole for eternity.
My old elementary school is now an old burned out building. About a month after the burial chamber had been sealed, a fire had started in the cafeteria while the janitors were cleaning the school. Reports from all three of the janitors that were there say the same thing:
“A fire had started for some reason in the southeast corner of the room, closest to the basement. When me and my co-workers went to go get water in the kitchen so that we could stop the fire, we started to hear laughter coming from the cafeteria, and so we ran in there as fast as our legs would carry us because we thought a kid was in that burning room. When we ran in, we saw a group of people sitting at a burning table in the southeast corner, and when we yelled at them to get away, the woman at the head of the table looked at us all and smiled. Then, the table and everyone at it just went up in a huge pillar of fire. We all ran like hell, and as soon as we were outside, we used a payphone to call 911. We were all pretty shaken up about seeing 5 people go up in flames, and our workplace was on fire. None of us knew what else to do. So we just cried.”
No bodies were recovered from the scene, but when the table in the southeast corner was found, it had very old china and silverware sitting in perfect placement for a five person meal. There were places on some of the handles of the silverware that weren’t charred, almost as if someone was holding it while it was being burned.
***This story goes out to all of those people that always thought that something was creepy about their school. This story is 100% authentic, but I will not reveal where this event occured at, due to the fact that I do not want to tarnish the name of my home town any more than it already has been.***

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