DeYtH Banger
Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #10) Mad Like You Reddit
Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #10) by DeYtH Banger
Series This book is part from book series (Fresh-Short) 1. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #2) by DeYtH Banger 3. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #3) by DeYtH Banger 4. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #4) by DeYtH Banger 5. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #5) by DeYtH Banger 6. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #6) by DeYtH Banger 7. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #7) by DeYtH Banger 8. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #8) by DeYtH Banger 9. Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #9) by DeYtH Banger
Other Works If you are interested in reading other works by DeYtH Banger
FEEL FREE TO CHECK OUT .................................................................................................................................. 1. All As None (Deeper Level Drop #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. Protocols (Deeper Level Drop #2) by DeYtH Banger 3. Deep Legend (Deeper Level Drop #3) by DeYtH Banger 4. Protocols 2 (Deeper Level Drop #4) by DeYtH Banger .................................................................................................................................. IF you Are interested in "Who Am I?" and you want to know me better. .................................................................................................................................. GO AND READ MY BIOGRAPHY .................................................................................................................................. 1. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #2) by DeYtH Banger 3. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #3) by DeYtH Banger 4. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #4) by DeYtH Banger 5. The Life Of One Kid (The Kid.D #5) by DeYtH Banger 6. The Life Of One Kid Part-1 (The Kid.D #6) by DeYtH Banger 7. The Life Of One Kid Part-2 (The Kid.D #6) by DeYtH Banger 8. The Life of One Kid Part-1 (The Kid.D #7) by DeYtH Banger 9. The Life of One Kid Part-2 (The Kid.D #7) by DeYtH Banger
.................................................................................................................................. BRAIN ON PORN (SELF-HELP) .................................................................................................................................. 1. Brain on Porn (Social #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. Brain on Porn (Social #2) by DeYtH Banger .................................................................................................................................. HOW TO WRITE (SELF-HELP)? .................................................................................................................................. 1. Bridge Of Writing (Domination #1) by DeYtH Banger 2. Bridge Of Writing (Domination #2) by DeYtH Banger ..................................................................................................................................
Content Series Other Works Part 1 DeYtH Banger We can't? Lie of Life What's wrong? Thinking (Part 2) (VG) FrREe Comedy: God Comedy: I am Reading Comedy: It Happen Now What's Life? Help You don't "UNDERSTAND ME" Afraid of.... WHAT? Part 2 The Secret Doctors of NASA: A Psychologist’s Suicide The Secret Doctors of NASA: A Dentist's Discovery I know why we never returned to the Moon I participated in a Social Credit System experiment: My Year in the Simulation I Know Why the U.S. is Creating the Space Force, and It Isn't What You Think “I’M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND.”
Cracks and Bones Normal Porn for Normal People Incubators INSTANT MESSAGING Regret It Started as a Leak I don't let my son inside the house At the End of the Line I had an imaginary friend as a child If Hell exists, I found the gate. Never Take Advice from the Toilet Stall Graffiti THE SUICIDE KING The only magic trick I know How to feel more human Everybody Who is Dead Flies on Shit You The Wolves What About This Part 3 Weariness of Men The Truth The Arkansas Prison System Cold Dark Corner I Will Wear Masks Burn The Beauty Losing Myself Darkness' Grasp Just A Small Cut THE ICE CREAM MAN THE ORACLE A Questionable Glory Hole I'm away, so leave a message after the beep!
Still Alive What Do I Know? Standing at the door. THE TERRIBLE OLD MAN JEFF THE KILLER (REBOOT) THE CAT WITH HUMAN TEETH BAD TRIP WHEN SCIENCE FOUND GOD My son disappeared six years ago, and I keep finding his belongings. Someone is skulking around my house and trying to intimidate me.
Part 1 Life sucks... just throw a balll!
DeYtH Banger Stories/Poems/Comedy/ and more
We can't? 01.09.2018 by DeYtH Banger
Moral rules... life and people... You can't - Shout - Eat -Distinguish (Anger) - Hatred - Jealousy ... Just supress this all emotion... no need to express them... keep them down... down... fucking down burried in you...
It's kinda of my kinda of fetish of talking and ruining all types of belief... I like to end up here and tell the people truth. So wake up, wake up... the truth is that everything which you know about life is a lie... all your data is constanly being tracked and read and people sell everything which you do online.
Let depression strike Let stress strike Let anxiety strike Let it go Let it go Feel it Feel it
Try to focus on my voice... or let's the holy spirit of physical body... voice ... And focus Jealousy is the new shit which girls like Anger is the new shit which girls like Anxiety and stress is the best shit on the market... and I am selling it
Just feel it Just feel it Go deeper ask yourself WHy? What? go more deeper ... Like Me: I hate myself? Master Dooozy: Why? Me: I wake up today... at 3:00 am... by dick was a boner and it happen Master Dooozy: What?, Why? Me: Some crazy fucked up sexual thoughts were coming... as far as most people know... you can't supress such type of thoughts... they were comming up and up and up... they were going like a pile of shit... And Master Dooozy: What?, Why? Me: I started jerking off... first the idea was to put my hands... in my pants and make one fast stroke... but... the moment I put my hand and started stroking my cock... I started loving this whole process... I got all type of reason ("Why's" and "What's"... like I don't have friends,
so what... today I didn't do anything... people hate me... I am depressed... I hate myself... I didn't do anything with girls....) and from a fast drop and fast stroke it went insane levels... Master Dooozy: Why?, WHat? Me: I was depressed, I was stressed,... I got anxiety... why not? Master Dooozy: Why?...What? ... Note: And you go deeper and deeper in the pain the idea is to let it experience it? And this all tips were from Jullien from Real Social Dynamics... and what I can say... pain doesn't go way the moment when you deepn the whole level. ... Constant trauma, Is going to be upon, nations...
Lie of Life 01.09.2018 by DeYtH Banger The day passes, the hours also... the minutes = also... the day is on it's end... the minutes and seconds are already in the past. Waiting for the future... the whole movie is going to end in the future.... it started from the past and it continues in the future... we are in the middle... always on the run...
JUST, JUST ALWAYS running from life. Kids, Parents, Young and Old Fucks... all of them run and run and run... they reach a age in their life and they stop running and now the clock... starts
TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK TICK ... and that's how life goes on... it's like the arrow from the clock.
Note: Let me explain the whole lie... which was created from the begining up to the end... the lie is that all you know is a illusion... don't take anything... everything is a way of brainwashing and brain damaging.
I am not a brag out... biatch... I just don't sleep... I just don't like the whole
process of sleeping... it's like getting daily manipulation on sleeping levels... but being awake... does
it it
really
mean
that
you are awake in this world
... I am not talking about waking up with masturbating and master and jerking off ... I am talking about comprehension?
Levels, GETTING OFF
What's wrong? 29.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger I am not creep? Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! He is fucked up and screw up, in the of the day you end up in your thoughts fucked up screw up and gang up Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! I am not sure what to say, sorry for a bad exposition, but she said that I am creepy, should be this a pure... invitation to start fucking her... sorry... but I am not sure what to say... Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue!
I am sorry for not making any logical sense... but life is going to stop... the clock too should I go political or happy? or you all sad? ... If you are sad... I have the privillige... of leaving you in that state... and HE DIDN'T CALL! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! I think is possible... after all nobody did said that I can't invite more friends... ... YEAH , YEAH... YEAH... I know ... I know ...this cock scker sucks...i n the of the day he doesn't say "Bye"... but this biatch said "BYE" to "How are you?"
Oh god... why so? ... SWIM BIATCH and then the security got here and said "I am creating problems..." - No I don't ... you COCK SUCKER! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue! Fatigue!
Thinking (Part 2) (VG) 29.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger
You think and think and think and think, in the end of the day you bother your mind with plenty of shit...
- Can I do this? - This people hate me! - This people saw me stealing... (it wasn't really a stealing... I just getting my part of the deal... sorry... but I am on low budged income any money are good to come into my pocket...) - I can't talk to this girl... (because I need to piss... probably after this..) - I am really not in the state to talk to this girl (... okay... tomorrow is a new day... new day for new resolutions...) - I am not really ready... (okay... I have plenty of time to do my stuff... so I will leave the girl aside probably another year I am going to start the business... with girls... not really business... but the thing with talking to girls) - They hate me (No... they don't... they just see me as very cool person and one a junkyard bitch is going to do with me?) - He has changed (Oh... god... it's a new life... oh ... god.. is it possible?) - I won't talk with them... beause they are not anymore my friends (I am very confused... so when then?) - I won't hit my mom... but I don't promise to don't kill somebody (It's kinda of irony... but ev everyday I a visualize killing somebody... with a chainsaw or even burning them down... IT'S AIN'T CREEPY) - They think that what I am saying is creepy... (Oh god... they have just forgotten my life and who I was and who I were... so sad... and
WHAT DO WE DO IN SUCH CASES?) - The cashier is staring me (oh god... what now... money... you are fucked up psycho or what?... YOU GONNA TELL ME YOUR DARKEST DESIRES...) - I just don't get it why!? (... Really why people tell me some fucked up shit about themself... like somebody likes a BDSM porn others like GILF AND MILF... oh god and the categories go and go on and go and HOW THE FUCK OFF DO YOU THE WHOLE DEAL?) - I am not some kinda of ironic and visualistic biatch... (But why I see myself... in suicidal level...)
The fun part of this whole thing... is that I should take my life in my hands... I should do something about my life... just take a knife and cut of few of fingers and the most worst which could happen is to do from blood lost... But logically blood lost is going to take something about like a 7 or 12 hours... sounds like paintful job TOOOOOO ME!
I feel sad that I just don't do what my depression side suggests for my best survival... LIKE FOR EXAMPLE TO THROW MYSELF RIGHT FROM THE WINDOW SO LOVELY DEADLY... SARASTIC POSITION... NOTHING MORE THAN A DEAD LABEL IN NIGH
- And who really cares about me.... ( I am not some fucked up person... but who really cares about me... when my problems push up I have lost some of my friends with my jokes...) - Come on what's bad about knifes and serial killers... (That you don't have a way to read jokes and you read in a dry way... even throwing few smiley faces won't help you to cope with the joke.... some of the material is harsh and you should know...) - Okay... I won't tell them that... ( I am not really interested in
telling my friends that I am writer... I just don't want them to know... please and fuck jeez....) - My day is all down... (It's really all down.. I know what I am going to do but... not sure should I do it... I hate my grandmother... morel likely interested in slicing her fingers... one by one... I hate my grandfather more likely to see him on the news... with a message written "BASHED HEAD.... 1000 STABS ... . A real genius kid goes to next beast level..." or okay... I gonna write this down on a paper... I hope somebody decides to take this offer serious...) - ANd what to tell them... ( I am not really feeling good in exposing what really happen and my emotions... WILL THEY LAUGH?... wHAT REALLY TO DO?... wHAT IFF THEY GET FUCKED UP?.... WHY THEY SCREW ME UP?) - Too much ... (It's just too much... too much promises to much hangouts... to much meet up and oh.... now... oh... now... what now... no more hangouts no more promises... oh god both ends is harsh enviroment...) - Really ... (Why people read a clinical psychology books... I read them because it's written stuff like some believes are based upon non ration behavior... sounds great in words but the mind will it bother to take this thought?)
Blood vessels lies and what next? It doesn't mean that she wants to get fucked... it doesn't mean that she is interested... she is fat... come on... fatty kids are not going with me... come on... who tha fack brough the fat kid... probably yeah it's creepy what I am saying... but in the night if you remove your clothes I will think that you are beaf or a pork in my bed... I don't worry if you wake up in my stomache.
I am not trying to take your life... I am just going to take your guts for life.. I want to kill your optimistic I want to kill your views at all... NO more life No more motivation
I am sick, S O N O F A B I A T C H
FrREe 26.08.2018 By DeYtH Banger What type of freedom is bothering your mind? … Come on you deadly fucker … If we go AND START executing the bible. Like the 10 commandments and few more information… …
In the bible is written sex is a sin In the bible is written (with other words…) masturbating/jerking off (P.S.: The sins are the best thing about you.) (Note: I always constant worry of getting beaten up… it's kinda of getting too much freedom.) What type of God is going to excuse the humans sins and put them in heaven?… Come on since when the tickets for this show when in so low prices? Most fucks aren't unique… most of them are 't for the theater and what now bothers thy mind are:
1) Pornography and pornstars something like theater with actors who always play the constant role of being nude. (Note: It's not my fault that the deeper shit shot it gets the more people get brain fucked…)
(P.S.: NOOOOOO BIATCH… BLEACH YOUR OPINION… AIN'T PLANIN COMING THY EVER…)
2) Did I lost few friends? - So Come on.. . You are gone and now you want to safe your back from harsh arguments and feedback!? … Really Thy Fuckers are going to screw up their minds. Note: And he asked me what I remember and know?… What do you want?… To CONSTANLY proof myself? … Sorry, but this game I won't play! No proper argument has been opposed and proposed about freedom… language is build upon the roof of slaving mankind.
Comedy: God 26.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger I don't want to blow off the brilliant end, but God doesn't exist. I am not a agonistic or satanistic person who preaches this shit, it's the truth what I am telling to you… RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK.. I hope you like the truth, I am not insulting you. I am just most likely getting to the top levels of honesty. If you hide a lie behind being a nice and with that guy being a friend… RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,… Like: "You gonna get a break from work without getting paid" aka known as "You are fired from work." RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,RIGHT BUTTED FUCK,… Why you are not just honest? GIVE TO YOUR FICK FRIEND A FEEDBACK… …
ANXIETY, WORRY AND JERK OFF ANXIETY, WORRY AND JERK OFF ANXIETY, WORRY AND JERK OFF ANXIETY, WORRY AND JERK OFF (Notes: Then it comes the guy who says "too much girls … is bad.") - You fuck… you get many GIRLS AND YOU AIN't sharin? ANXIETY, WORRY AND JERK OFF
ANXIETY, WORRY AND JERK OFF But if we think and go in the right direction (NO DICK PICS OR JERK OFF)… it sounds like he traffics girls and when we get up to the top… HEEEEEE IS FUCKING ARAB… …. OH GOD ONE MORE SUICIDE BOOMBER… WHO THA FACK DOESN'T SEE HIS LIFE WORTHY AND GOING WITH SUCH TYPE OF CULTURE? … FAMOUS WITH TERRORISM!?
Comedy: I am Reading 26.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger How does it feel finding out that everything which you know you need to remove from your mind? ORRRRRR LET'S TALK ABOUT THE FUCKING FUCKER WHO GAVE ME A COURSE WHO WAS SAYING WHAT I WAS ALREADY FEELING…
AND HOW DOES FUCKING SOUND, HOW DOES FUCKING SOUND… WANTING TO BANG… BANG OUT YOUR LIFE AND HOW DOES FUCKING SOUND, HOW DOES FUCKING SOUND… WANTING TO BANG… BANG OUT YOUR LIFE
AND HOW DOES FUCKING SOUND, HOW DOES FUCKING SOUND… WANTING TO BANG… BANG OUT YOUR LIFE The course was "Transformation Mastery" on the first month part I reached it was about sympathy and empathy shit.. . After the meditating release… I wanTed to kill myself… IT WASSSSSSS A DAMN GOOD RELIEF… FLASHING OUT YOUR
VEINS WITH KNIFE AND THIS SON OF A BIATCH IN MY NEW WORK IS CAUSING STRESS INSIDE MY BODY… WHAT TYPE OF EXERCICE AND THING IS GETTING WORRIED AND GETTING ANXIETY?
ISN'T IT SUPPOSED TO CREATE A REASON FOR LIVING… NOT TO CREATE CHILLS IN YOUR BODY?
ISN'T IT SUPPOSED TO CREATE A REASON FOR LIVING… NOT TO CREATE CHILLS IN YOUR BODY?
ISN'T IT SUPPOSED TO CREATE A REASON FOR LIVING… NOT TO CREATE CHILLS IN YOUR BODY?
ISN'T IT SUPPOSED TO CREATE A REASON FOR LIVING… NOT TO CREATE CHILLS IN YOUR BODY?
ISN'T IT SUPPOSED TO CREATE A REASON FOR LIVING… NOT TO CREATE CHILLS IN YOUR BODY?
I thought that in life I was doing something after 19 years of staring… BUT NOTHING AT ALL HAS HAPPEN. THIS STARING AND ANXIWRY AND DEPRESSION COURSE ISN'T MAKING ME INTERESTED IN BUYING MORE SPECTACULAR ROLE
AFTER ALL NOTHING AT ALL CAN BE DONE IN THIS JOB… BEING BE-PIVOT IS FUCKED UP.
WHYYYYYY BIATCHES DON'T SPIKE IT UP?
Comedy: It Happen 26.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger I thought my life is getting better from so much support and followers. BUT NOTHING… REALLY NOTHING ON THIS WAY IS GOING LIFE IS A DEADLY SON A BIATCH I thought that my mom knows who is really genius in town… I went out and started talking to my friends… I told them "I am genius.."… THEN HE … THEN THE OTHER AND … SAID NAY… NAY…. NAY… I AM GENIUS… THAT'S WHAT MOM SAID
THEN HE … THEN THE OTHER AND … SAID NAY… NAY…. NAY… I AM GENIUS… THAT'S WHAT MOM SAID
THEN HE … THEN THE OTHER AND … SAID NAY… NAY…. NAY… I AM GENIUS… THAT'S WHAT MOM SAID
THEN HE … THEN THE OTHER AND … SAID NAY… NAY…. NAY… I AM GENIUS… THAT'S WHAT MOM SAID
THEN HE … THEN THE OTHER AND … SAID NAY… NAY…. NAY… I
AM GENIUS… THAT'S WHAT MOM SAID
THEN HE … THEN THE OTHER AND … SAID NAY… NAY…. NAY… I AM GENIUS… THAT'S WHAT MOM SAID Come on you stop on a bus stop to take a break from life …. And now on your way some screw wacko… is out there and is pissing in front of you? Oh GOD WHEN THIS HAPPENS… I WILL FIND JOB FOR THIS NIGHT FIREMAN WALKER. Each fucker who doesn't get jokes and comedy… DESERVE ONE OF THIS JAME BOND MOVIES PRECISE HEADSHOT where is he going in this life? … Don't shallow Don't go deep … In JOKES … YOU FUCKING SETTI BIATCH! In JOKES … YOU FUCKING SETTI BIATCH!
In JOKES … YOU FUCKING SETTI BIATCH!
In JOKES … YOU FUCKING SETTI BIATCH!
Now 26.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger Life is a lost hope... you now bother around thousand of diversities and choices. You after 10 years you just don't know where to go. This now is what's bothering my mind, I have been around reading for "How to get social"... and the topics got greater and greater from PUA's up to Depression Epidemics to Supressing sexual thoughts and even more deeper...
TO BE HONEST THIS IS MY SHIT... THAT'S WHAT I LIKE... THAT'S WHAT I LIKE TO BE AROUND... IT'S GOING TO TAKE ME FEW YEARS TO GO OVER THIS PILE OF SHIT... Everyone knows me like the guy with no-limits or even the guy who goes deeper level. But still let's stop, let's stop! ... What will happen if I tell you the next days you gonna spend in home and reading my books and even not going out and socializing?
- This hurts... but in the end of the day we think social media and the news on TV are great pleasure, but guess again... who is pulling the strings of your dolls?
What's life? 20.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger by DeYtH Banger
We humans always persue costant goals which we put... - To finish school - To finish work - To get more money - To Improve my life - To improve my mindset - To get more motivated - To Finish the new TV series - To finish the new Game - To Start playing a new Game - Stop the bad habbits - To stop following moral - To stop listening to my parents This here whole list can go and on and on... it starts from an easy goal like finishing school and getting "my money"... then people get upset or worried and once this goals get finished new once take the place of the old once. Life is like that cycle... soon enough... very soon enough you gonna become old and replacable... once you get old you gonna be replaced by a new human host... a whole new human host. It's kinda a sad moment... OUR WHOLE LIFE PERSUADING FOR GETTING RESULTS AND ANSWER AND IN THE END LIKE THIS... SLAP FROM GOD WE GO UNDERGROUND BENEATH LAYERS OF SOIL.
I am not trying to ruin your life I am trying to tell you what's really going to happen in the next few years... you gonna finish school soon enough... MAINLY BECAUSE OF CONSTANT WANTING TO FINISH THIS BULLSHIT YARD... THEN YOU GONNA GO OUT (It's not bad desicion the whole thing... I too wanted to finish school... I hate it... no respect.. nothing really learn and I lost pleny of time which I could have put in use in other things...)... YOU ME AND ALL THIS PLANET IS RAISE UPON THE SOIL THAT SCHOOL IS GREAT AND AFTER SCHOOL YOU GO TO UNIVERSITY AND AFTER SPENDING AROUND 20-25 YEARS... - IN LEARNING YOU GET IN LIFE...., BUT LET'S FACE IT... SCHOOL AND UNIVERSITY DON'T POINT OUT REASONS WHY TO BE THERE... NOONE REALLY CARES IF YOU ARE THERE OR NOT... IN THE END YOU COULD BE A MAD GENIUS YOU GONNA END UP IN THE JUNK YARD OR YOU COULD BE SOCIALLY AWKWARD KID AND AGAIN THE SAME STORY HERE.
Let me reveal some shit from school you could be the center of the whole place it doesn't mean that people are going to go with you. (PROOF) Example: 1) I joined a group which is hangouts with people who have the same target like me... to go out and be social... in the end of the day... I have throw up few jokes... I have shown that i don't give a fuck about my problems... AND LET'S PUT IT I AM NOW RIGHT HOME AND ALL PEOPLE ARE COSTANLY CANCELING ALL TYPES OF GOING OUT WITH ME (REQUESTS) 2) I was threated equal...at school... so does my mom... so does my grandmother and even you... ... in the end of the day... or let's put it like after you finish school... you are already one person... singular... in school you get blamed and shout ... because somebody is doing fucked up stuff... come on... in the end the
good kid goes home and he isn't having fun he is constant depression and stress... it's like: - I was good... WHY ME? - I am not crazy... WHY YOU ARE DOING THIS? - Why am I even going to school... REALLY... WHY?
I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT DEPRESSION AND STRESS ARE JUST FOR SILLY PEOPLE... BUT I AM NOW IN SUCH STATE... NOT BECAUSE OF ASSUMTION... BUT BECAUSE OF BAD ADVICE... IS FUCKED UP WHEN YOU ARE NOW 19 YEARS OLD AND YOU SHOULD FIND OUT THAT EVERYTHING WHICH YOU HAVE LEARN LIKE BE NICE, DON'T AGREE, MORAL AND ALL THIS BULLSHIT IS TOTALLY WRONG AND NOW I AM IN LEVEL TO BUILD UP MY NEW WHOLE MINDSET.
School is just a place for people to waste time... you want to get a job? ... Just waste time something like 12 years in school and 5-6 more in university and you are good to go! ...
This is what they don't say! This is what they keep shut down behind doors! This is what it really keeps you out of progress! ... And now beneath of layers... and beneath of so much money needing to give to this country... you are totally finacially fucked up...
EVERYDAY IT COMES A NEW GUY WHO CONTROLS YOUR COUNTRY AND STARTS FUCKING YOU UP FINACIALLY... LET'S GIVE MORE MONEY THERE... AND LET'S TRY HERE... AND NOW
EVEN Bro you can come here to this club... take something like 200$... 150$... and you are good to go...
THIS HERE ARE FRIENDS... I AM NOT SHOUTING... I AM TOTALLY FUCKED UP... YESTERDAY... WITH HEADACHE... AND MASTURBATING... FROM STRESS AND DEPRESSION... IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT MY TACTICS AND STRATEGIES DON'T WORK... IT MEANS THAT I AM NEW LEVEL OF EXCUSES... IT'S LIKE FEELING ABANDONED... FEELING LIKE I WON'T SUCCEED IN LIFE, FEELING LIKE I AM IN DEPRESSION.... IN STRESS... THIS IS WHOLE DIFFERENT THING THAN DOING IT BECAUSE OF CONSTANT PLEASURE...
OR I AM FUCKING WRONG?
Probably, probably ... I am wrong... I am sure about this... probably all my conclusions are Holy fuck of drainers... they drain engery, they drain power... and in the end of the day... I am a walking parasite.
Face it, ... but let's do that instead! ... People are in constant run from politics... from finacial... from goals... always running... they never take a break..... then it comes the age of 7080 years old... being and now.. is like a state of freedom... and even counting your days... "How much days have left... to waste?" "When am I going to die??"
- First problem... I can't go to this fucking club bro... because my mom gives me max up to 20-30$ lv... and now she to give me so much money for such place... oh come on... first I am going to go suspicious and second of all... too much money are wasted. - Second problem... Why people are always blaming others for their problems... I COULDN'T MAKE IT WITH THIS GIRL... IT'S NOT MY FAULT... IT'S YOURS... YOU DON'T LEAVE ME TO RELAX... YOU KICK ME... HIT ME... AND YOU FUCKING ADDING MORE TRAUMA... THAN EVER.... HOW THE FUCK AM I GOING TO MOTIVATED WHEN YOU HIT ME AND KICK ME... SLEEP 4 HOURS I DAY... OR 5... I DON'T GIVE A FUCK... BUT I AM NOT HERE A TARGET TO FUCK AROUND... I JUST DON'T GET YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS. - Second problem... why old fucks don't contribute some value to this life... why they don't come and try give some value... why they always piss... always blaming... always trying to find a reason to argue with you? - Old fucks aren't wise... they are just biatches which in the beginning gave too much blowjobs...
Dear Folks, Old Fucks, And Friends, Let me close this whole argument... By putting you below 7 layers of soil ...
Help 19.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger
Can I say "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?", "Help me?" ... or it's too pathetic from my side? ... We all get in such state when we need help... but the crazy thing is that nobody is going to help you.
LET'S SLICE YOU LET'S CHOOP YOU LET'S BASH YOU AGAINST THE WALL LET'S HIT YOU AGAINST THE WINDOW
Always people are trying to keep promises... ALways people get chills.. ... Constant trauma and costant living in a threat!
LET'S SLICE YOU LET'S CHOOP YOU LET'S BASH YOU AGAINST THE WALL LET'S HIT YOU AGAINST THE WINDOW
LET'S SLICE YOU LET'S CHOOP YOU LET'S BASH YOU AGAINST THE WALL LET'S HIT YOU AGAINST THE WINDOW
LET'S SLICE YOU LET'S CHOOP YOU LET'S BASH YOU AGAINST THE WALL LET'S HIT YOU AGAINST THE WINDOW
If your life was like mein... nothing more than a constant trauma nad bashing agains the wall
YOU DIE YOU FUCKER YOU DIE YOU SON OF A BIATCH
YOU DIE YOU FUCKER YOU DIE YOU SON OF A BIATCH
YOU DIE YOU FUCKER YOU DIE YOU SON OF A BIATCH
YOU DIE YOU FUCKER YOU DIE YOU SON OF A BIATCH
Nothing more than a slight silence... this is what's going to chop you alive... silence... people won't answer... won't say anything... they just go away for a days or months... it's fucked up scenario... you gonna feel the state of abandoned... a state of being alone... and in what cost?
... Riddle and fiddle the whole froggy iSLAND ... SON OF A BIATCH
You don't "UNDERSTAND ME" 19.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger Life is obnoxious, life is obnoxious... I gonna go simple... no need for capital letters or punctations or question marks or whatever comes in your mind... no need for that... it needs a second a year is 365 days... and if you each spend a second it's going to go like in the of the year... 12 hours.. .wasted... but let's view it more deeper you have wasted whole 50 days if you have been on this planet 18 years... mainly because 365 days is a year and if you take a shower... everyday... twice... and you spend in the shower... like 10 minutes... or 20... in the end it's going to look like this...
Life is fucked up, life is fucked up... Once if you realize that you have waste it... You gonna want it... once you lose it... you gonna end up next to the bed... with Headache and Stomach cramps you gonna ask yourself:
"Why me?" "Why me?" "Why me?" "Why me?" "Why me?" "Why me?" ...
YOU GONNA GO DEEPER ...
"Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?"
"Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?"
"Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?" "Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?"
"Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?"
"Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?" "Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?" "Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?" "Why people hate me... why people leave me alone and why I can't have a normal childhood?"
....
Such questions... bothers a mind of genius... I am not saying that I am a person with a potential... before few days... I was totally suicidal... as for now... I have stopped time and tried to focus on something else... I AM JUST GETTING MOBILIZED
... People don't understand... PEOPLE DONT' UNDERSTAND... That's the truth... no need to lie... they don't understand it's childhood... some childhoods have been in a level of morbid curiousity... others are stories which go so deep and darker... that for this childs it has been a hell.... and then comes the fucking guy who says "I understand..." "I get it..." ... Let's bee honest... you don't understand... too much trauma... you don't know how it feels somebody getting angry at you for no reason... people beating you up for no reason and everything happens on the road of improvement...
WHAT TYPE OF IMPROVEMENT IS THAT... PEOPLE THREATING YOU HARSH... YOU TOLD THEM YOUR PROBLEMS... THEY KNOW YOU... OR THAT'S WHAT YOU ASUME AFTER THEY SAY "I know"... - NOOOOOOO YOU DON'T KNOIW NO YOU DON'T KNOW HOW IT'S LIFE IN GROWING... IN A FAMILY WHICH ISN'T THREATING YOU WELL AND THEN SOME FUCKERS... MENTALLY FUCKING YOU UP. ... So if somebody starts a mass killing... probably for him/her... people were just making too much brain... damage.
Afraid of.... WHAT? 19.08.2018 by DeYtH Banger As you are reading... as it follows... I am just afraid... afraid of the world. That's the truth... but let's go deeper... if you read these lines and the follow other lines you gonna get what I am talking about.
I am really fucked up... I am afraid of going out... it's a sad story... mainly because people like repeation for me repeation ...
IT'SSSSS FUCKED UP.... (Note: Come on...)
what type of fucked up person should be so to repeat? THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT! THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT
YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT! THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT! THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
Repeation it sucks... it takes space... it takes minds... and it control world... IF YOU START REPEATING YOU GONNA GET DUMMER and
dummer once that happens people can fuck you up.
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
THe whole thing is like a Satan has playground here... dip a hole... dig deeper... and blood vessell gonna appear.... suck it... I KNOW THAT YOU LOVE IT!
I hate people going and bothering a repeatable data... it's an OPEEEEEEEN END LOOP OPEEEEEN END LOOP
Voices: "You suck..." "Die you fucker..."
Constant paranoia bothers my body "You worthless fucker..." "You unworthy fucker..." "Go die from aids..."
Voices: "You suck..." "Die you fucker..."
Constant paranoia bothers my body "You worthless fucker..." "You unworthy fucker..." "Go die from aids..."
Voices: "You suck..." "Die you fucker..."
Constant paranoia bothers my body "You worthless fucker..." "You unworthy fucker..." "Go die from aids..."
Voices: "You suck..." "Die you fucker..."
Constant paranoia bothers my body "You worthless fucker..." "You unworthy fucker..." "Go die from aids..."
- In such world you always ask yourself... is this true!?
... But this world we need symmetry The sentences aren't really equal in words IF ONE HAVE 5 words... the next one should go the same level
... BUT LET'S FACE IT'S NOT SYMMETRY... ANDRIAN MONK DIDN'T FIXED THE BOTH PROBLEMS IN THE COURT... HE FIXED ONE PROBLEM... BUT WE NEED TO FIX EVERYTHING... WE NEED TO FIX EVERYTHING WE ARE TRAVER RAPISTS.... WORDS SHOULD HAVE THE SAME AMOUTH OF LETTERS.
Constant please... Constant realise ...
Changing Beating ANd hating ... Reverse ...
damage ... Laugh and hatred
...
Glow ... Blow ... And go sloww
......
People need to realise that... dicks and deep pussy should go hands in hands with symmetry... we need to fix t his world... this ball don't need to be here... because the whole universe which we live is a paradox... let me paraphrase this whole thing... What in this world and reality - in your exist... in others 1000000 realities... this is one of the choises and possibilities... and it hasn't really happen... ALL WHAT YOU KNOW IS JUST A CHOICE WHAT I AM TELLING IS JUST
FROM A GUY LIKE ME WHO LIVES IN UNiverse PARADOXeS
Part 2 Lies and lies... Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed (Argument) ... What really happened!?
The Secret Doctors of NASA: A Psychologist’s Suicide BY M_LOBDELL1
“The Secret Doctors of NASA” is a series of memoirs, diaries, and reports from actual doctors employed by an undisclosed arm of NASA between 1970 and 2001. These writings contain true accounts of the unusual and often highly-classified medical conditions experienced by astronauts during and after their space missions. Following the defunding of the clandestine medical program after the September 11, 2001 terror attacks, the majority of these accounts were left, forgotten, on tape drives in a NASA storage facility. In 2016, a former intern, whose job was to clean out one of these facilities, discovered them. Two years later, he is ready to release what he found. Thus far, the following report has been released: A Dentist’s Discovery
Releaser’s Note: This report is an annotated interview with an American astronaut which took place in 1981. His name has been changed. The psychologist self-refers as “Interviewer.” The report was originally found at the location of the interviewer’s death. A Psychologist’s Suicide Interviewer’s Note: The patient is a 42 year-old astronaut. It has been two weeks since his last mission. Up until that point, he had been in perfect physical and mental health. During that recent mission, he spent 31 days in low-Earth orbit conducting various experiments pertaining to inorganic chemistry. His condition has not been determined to be the result of any of his work in orbit. Interviewer: Good morning, John. Do you know who I am? John: I was told a psychologist would be visiting. Are you her? Interviewer: I am. I’m Doctor ****** **********. John: I’m happy to answer any questions you have for me, doctor. Maybe I can save us some time and tell you that I know you want to hear about my eyes. So let’s start there. Interviewer: Thank you, John. And you’re right — your eyes are at the top of my agenda. What happened? John: Can’t you see? I’d be shocked if it weren’t obvious. Interviewer: I see you’ve turned them backwards, yes. I’ve seen the xrays and imaging. You managed to avoid significant injury, which I think we can both agree is a great thing. John: More than great. Interviewer: Why is that? John: Because now I can see everything I’d missed. Interviewer’s Note: John returned from space complaining of headaches and blurry vision. Examinations yielded nothing. His symptoms persisted. The pain grew unbearable and his vision diminished. John declared himself blind two days later. Further tests were inconclusive. Even if he were in perfect health, which the tests showed, doctors believed he could not see. All specialists were at a loss. Five days after John’s return from space, he mutilated himself. He dislodged his eyes and stretched the optic nerves enough to turn his
eyes to face the inside of his head. Every doctor on staff was baffled by how John had managed to do this without severing the nerves and blood vessels. All John’s complaints about headaches and blurry vision ceased. He has been in psychiatric care since then. No attempts have been made to fix the direction of his eyes. Interviewer: Can you explain what you mean by “see everything you’d missed?” John: Ever since I was a kid, I looked up at the stars. They fascinated me. They called to me. I knew when I was four that someday I’d walk among them. The books I had said it would be possible in the future. That was all I needed. Lo and behold, I went to space for the first time when I was 36. It was beyond anything I could have expected. Interviewer: But something was missing. John: Yes. I’ve been to space twice since then. This last time, when I performed a space walk to fix something outside the shuttle, I discovered I was wrong to be excited. My dreams had been misplaced. Interviewer: Can you elaborate on that, John? John: I think so, yes. But I need you to trust me. Will you? Interviewer: I’ll listen, John, and I will give you the benefit of the doubt. As for trust, we just met. I don’t think either of us have earned it from one another. John: That’s very fair. And I appreciate your candor. I’ll elaborate for you. Interviewer: Please. John: The universe curves in on itself, doctor. I could look on and on and on, through the stars and galaxies and void, and if I could see everything – if my eyes were powerful enough to have an unbroken line of sight – you know what I’d see at the end of it? Interviewer: Tell me. John: I’d see the back of my own head. No matter where I looked, that’s all I could ever see. All our exploration – all we might find – all terminates right there. We watch ourselves watching ourselves for
eternity. Interviewer: I have to admit, John, that’s a pretty interesting theory. Did you come up with it while you were in space? Or did you get the idea at another time in your life? John: No. No, I didn’t think of it myself. It was whispered to me during my last space walk. Interviewer: Whispered? By whom? Interviewer’s Note: I should remark here that I noticed the first change in John’s physical appearance after asking that question. The blood vessels in his eyes swelled and his optic nerves pulsated. He gave no indication that anything was wrong, however, and I believed it was appropriate to continue our interview. John: The universe sent me an emissary. She wanted me to know the truth. Interviewer: Are you referring to an alien intelligence? Were you able to determine whether it was one of the species we’ve already encountered? John: I don’t think so, no. Interviewer: Was it something new? John: No. Not new at all. I believe it was the universe herself. Interviewer: Can you tell me what it said? The universe? Interviewer’s Note: John was silent for a stretch of nearly four minutes. I did not disturb him. He appeared in deep thought, though given the condition of his eyes, it was difficult to say for sure. John: The whisper said, “Suiversal vastation.” Interviewer: Suiversal? My latin is a little rusty, John. Is it like “the universe of the self?” I know “vastation” but I’m unclear on how those words connect. John: Suiversal vastation. And the whisper showed me. It was just a glimpse. Just a peek. But that was all I needed. It was when the headaches started and my vision started to go. My mind had been rewired to the new way of seeing. Turning my eyes to face it was the necessary step. Interviewer: Can you see, John? John: I can. I do.
Interviewer: What can you see? John: I see the purifying of the chaos that had been inside me. In its place is the real universe; the universe I’d been wanting to see since I was a child. And it’s where the answers are. Every last one. You mentioned the aliens, doctor? The ones who stare through space, just like us? It’s a terrible anthropomorphism. They are not like us. They stare, yes, but with purpose – although one they don’t yet know. What they want to see is what I’m looking at right now. The echoes of human thought. The cycles of dominating our volition onto nature, rather than nature being raped into us. We are the only ones who can do that, doctor. And the aliens know it. And they’ll find us. Interviewer: I just don’t understand, John. The aliens want our control over nature? Is that what you’re telling me? John: It would be easier if I just showed you. End of report. Releaser’s Note: I was able to piece together the subsequent events using the abandoned log entries from NASA security personnel and medical officials. I cannot guarantee that all the information was logged and there may be gaps in the timeline. Below are the relevant excerpts: Security report: The astronaut held out his right index finger. It began to elongate. I, as well as *** ***** rushed to intervene, but the psychologist waved us away claiming “I want to see.” The finger grew to approximately five feet long, spanning the table where the astronaut and doctor were conducting their interview. The finger pressed against doctor’s left eye. She made a sound that suggested pain and *** ***** started toward the astronaut again. “Do NOT interfere,” the doctor ordered. I demanded *** ***** to stay back. For a moment, the finger did nothing but press on the psychologist’s eye. Then it moved lower and slipped under the eyelid. The eye became dislodged and fell against the doctor’s cheek. *** ***** and I watched as the finger appeared to grow longer and pushed into the doctor’s head. There was a space of ten minutes when no one spoke. Both the doctor and astronaut were motionless, aside from the eyes of the astronaut swelling and pulsating. After those ten minutes, he withdrew his
finger. I must remark that there was blood on about eighteen inches of it. The doctor made one articulation, which sounded to us like, “oh.” She then spent two or three minutes resituating her eye. She got up and left. I had *** ***** follow her back to her apartment, but she did not allow him entry. End of report. Medical report: Doctor ****** ********** was found deceased in her apartment by security officer *** *****. According to his notes, it had been three hours since he had been turned away at the door of her apartment following an incident with astronaut ** ****. The second visit had been for the purpose of checking her wellbeing after phone calls went unanswered. Emergency officials deemed her death a suicide, but parallels between her condition and that of the astronaut cannot be overlooked. Her left eye, which had been involved in the interview, had been turned to face the inside of her head. Her right eye, however, had been torn out. Written in blood on the dining room wall, presumably with the excised right eye, were the following words: “Fixating and turning in mass direction. Now they know why they look.” End of report.
The Secret Doctors of NASA: A Dentist's Discovery by iia “The Secret Doctors of NASA” is a series of memoirs, diaries, and reports from actual doctors employed by an undisclosed arm of NASA between 1970 and 2001. These writings contain true accounts of the unusual and often highly-classified medical conditions experienced by astronauts during and after their space missions. Following the defunding of the clandestine medical program after the September 11, 2001 terror attacks, the majority of these accounts were left, forgotten, on tape drives in a NASA storage facility. In 2016, a former intern, whose job was to clean out one of these facilities, discovered them. Two years later, he is ready to release what he found. A Dentist’s Discovery Arnold F. A*******, DDS August 4th, 1989 I met the astronaut after a half-year mission on the Russian space station. He’d gone through his preliminary post-landing physical but complained about pain in his jaw and gums. His health, aside from those complaints, was fair. It was my job to find out what was wrong with him before moving him on to the next specialist. The urologist, I think. The order always changes. The patient was in decent spirits when we met, although I could tell something was on his mind. We chatted for a little bit. It turned out he’d been working on the Feng-Lee Discovery. My heart sank. When Feng and Lee discovered what they initially called “the Venus tic-tacs” in 1982, no one in-the-know was surprised. Just another alien organism to add to the list of hundreds. A team was formed to conduct research and determine its risks and benefits, and there were no expectations that anything would come of it.
Well, as is so often the case, those in-the-know knew nothing. Give those Venus tic-tacs an electric shock in the right place for the right amount of time and what do you get? Pluripotent stem cells. They had the potential to be a game changer in the field of regenerative medicine. I don’t think anyone expected to discover them when we did; all the data we had showed we were at least a decade away from inducing pluripotency. Hell, we assumed civilian doctors might figure them out first. This was Big. Capital B. In dentistry, it meant we might be able to regrow missing teeth and reverse jaw deterioration. I followed the studies with great interest. The animal tests were successful. New teeth, better jaws, nice smiles all around. Success. Good. Great. The researchers moved onto human subjects. Failure. Nothing. Zilch. No reason. No god damn reason whatsoever. No one could figure out why there was 100% success with animal subjects and 0% with people. The cells wouldn’t grow AT ALL. Then, a doctor named Franco T******, who’d been on the team since the beginning, suggested they try using the tic-tac cells on people in space. He didn’t give a reason, and I don’t think he had one. It was probably something like “well fuck it, it doesn’t work here so let’s try it up there.” So we did. And it worked. Sort of. The effects were different for everyone. Sometimes cavities were repaired. Sometimes jaw bones grew again. Then again, sometimes teeth fell out. And jaws collapsed. That’s what happened to Jose G********. No one wanted to use Venus tic-tacs again. That’s why, when this astronaut came to me with pain in his gums and jaw and told me he’d been working on the Feng-Lee Discovery, I was less than thrilled with what I’d find. There’d been a six-year moratorium on Venus tic-tac human experimentation since the Jose incident. It had only been lifted a year ago. Apparently someone on that team wanted to pick up right where they’d left off. While I talked to the astronaut, he informed me that there’d been new
research on the tic-tacs. I frowned and told him I wasn’t aware of anything new. He filled me in. Apparently there’d been some civilian advances in stem-cell technology that ended up contributing to our own knowledge of the science. New experiments were drawn up, plausibility was determined, and one of the team leaders impressed the brass at NASA’s ethics division. That, combined with the limited number of Venus tic-tacs that’d been recovered and the uncertainty surrounding how much longer they’d live, ended the moratorium. That was all well and good. At that point, I still hadn’t looked inside the astronaut’s mouth. Before we’d started chatting, I had my assistant do some x-rays of his jaw. They developed while we talked. Now they were ready. I’m going to digress for a second. Have you ever seen what a child’s skull looks like before their adult teeth have come in? It’s unsettling. Look at this. That was all of us at one point. I’ve been a dentist for the last 36 years. I’ve dealt with a lot of crazy stuff, but just thinking about all those holes makes me uneasy. Some things just stick with you, I guess. Why am I mentioning this? This astronaut - this grown man - had what looked like new teeth forming above his adult ones. I consulted with the x-rays we took before his mission. There was nothing unusual about them - just the filled cavities and mild bone-loss in his jaw that had made him a test candidate for the tic-tac cells. Now, as I stared at the new x-ray, I saw the cavities were still there. The jaw was still decaying. But those dark smudges on the x-ray indicated new teeth deep in there. I’d never seen anything like it. I remained professional. I asked him to lean back and open his mouth so I could begin the examination. As soon as I took my first look, I knew something was dreadfully wrong. His gums were puffy and bled at the slightest touch. His teeth looked gray, as if they’d never been brushed. It didn’t make sense. I swung the magnifying lens over and brightened the light. I think he
heard me stifle my gasp when I looked through. His teeth were covered in infinitesimal holes. They were much smaller than regular cavities. I looked closer. Each of the holes had a tiny, pink hair sticking out of its center. I touched the tip of my instrument to one of the hairs. It recoiled back into the tooth. At this point, I was getting uneasy. I asked the astronaut if what I did hurt and he told me it did, but not badly. I decided to numb the gums around his top front teeth. While I waited for the novocaine to take effect, I studied his molars. Those had bigger holes with thicker growths. When I reached for one of them with my instrument, rather than slip back into the tooth, the hair extended about a quarter of an inch and wrapped around the metal tip. The astronaut didn’t seem to feel it. I gave the instrument a gentle tug. Nothing. I pulled harder - but still barely using any force. The molar came out. My patient gasped and I apologized profusely. I stopped what I was doing and put the instrument and the tooth out of his line of sight. I decided to level with him. I told him there was some severe damage to his teeth and I didn’t know what it was. I said I needed to do more exploratory work and it would likely be very uncomfortable. The astronaut did his best to take it in stride. He told me he knew something was very, very wrong from the moment he was brushing his teeth on the space station and the bristles would get caught inside the holes. The thought made me shudder. Anyway, I numbed his mouth the best I could and got to work. By the end of it, I’d accidentally caused nine of his teeth to fall out. All that remained in their place were those bizarre, pink hairs. I sent him back to base with an appointment for the next day. It was going to remove the rest of his teeth. I felt terrible for the guy. I got a call in the middle of the night from the Head of Medicine at the NASA hospital. I had to come there right away. The astronaut’s roommate had called emergency services an hour or so ago. He was in excruciating pain and bleeding from the mouth. I arrived at the hospital in ten minutes.
I expected to be able to go right into the room and see the patient, but I was stopped by security and the Head of Medicine. He instructed me to put on a clean-room suit. Right then, I knew something was deeply wrong. I donned the suit and followed the Head into one of the two observation areas above a hermetically-sealed operating room. I looked at one of the television screens showing the astronaut’s mouth. My stomach churned. All the man’s teeth had fallen out. In their place, growing out of his gaping, bloody gums, were swirling tangles of the pink hairs. I watched as a surgeon grasped one of the tangles in a pair of forceps and pulled. And pulled. One doctor held the astronaut’s head while the surgeon put his weight into the effort. With the sound of a heavy piece of brush being torn from the ground, the tangles gave way. They writhed at the end of the forceps. The ones still in his mouth stretched out, as if they were trying to take it away and bring it back. The surgeon dropped the veiny clot into a bowl and the camera zoomed in on it. At the top of of the tangle was something solid. Something that, I realized, looked very much like one of those new teeth deep inside the astronaut’s jawbone I’d seen on the x-ray that afternoon. Now, out and exposed to the light, I saw it wasn’t a tooth at all. It was a brand new Venus tic-tac -- the first we’d ever discovered outside a Venusian meteorite. So the issue of pluripotent stem cells and whether or not they’ll benefit human subjects is still a mystery. And, after hours of surgery, my patient is in a coma. As a human being, I write this with a heavy heart. As a scientist, though, I have some hope. Maybe even a little excitement. Thanks to that poor astronaut, now we know how to breed new Venus tictacs. Perhaps, someday, we’ll learn how to use them. End of report.
I know why we never returned to the Moon by DELTA129 My grandfather was a combat pilot. Even though he always felt distant I liked him. When I grew older, I realized that he was always aware, always looking for any signs of danger. Shell shock, PTSD, it has many names. My mother told me that he didn’t use to be like that, that he changed when he came back from Vietnam. My grandpa's profession was likely the reason why I was obsessed with space, astronauts, planes and pilots. We used to talk about it when we were together. He was a really skilled and high-ranking officer in the army, and he knew some people, even a couple of really well-known astronauts. When I once asked him, if he met anyone who went to the moon, he simply replied: "Don't ever talk to me about the Moon, boy. It's a dark and evil place." He died back in 2004 from natural causes. About two months ago, we decided to renovate my grandparents’ old house. While clearing out the attic. I found an old metallic box. In the box, there was a number of things which as I assumed belonged to my grandfather. There was a military medal, a stack of papers and an old picture of my grandfather and two other men I didn’t recognize. My grandpa looked around 40, so I assume that the picture was taken in the 70s. All of them were wearing space suits, and the scene was a typical backdrop used by NASA, but the logo was missing. Only a blank monochrome background. The mission patch was titled Dawnbreaker. I didn’t understand anything. My grandfather was an astronaut? Why did he never tell anyone about this? Dawnbreaker? I never heard about such mission. It must have been covered up really well. But why? I found the answers in the papers on the bottom of the box. I’ll rewrite the literal contents below, but I warn you that many people might find it very disturbing.
My dear family, If you ever find this, I must confess something. In 1972, I wasn’t in Vietnam. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but if you have found this, it probably doesn’t matter anymore. Back in 1965, me and a handful of other pilots were selected for a non-public team of astronauts, who would participate in covert missions in space for our government. We wouldn't get the glory and fame of regular astronauts, but our country needed us, and so we were there. In early 1972, we were told that for an unspecified period of time, our country had a secret satellite orbiting the Moon. They never told us what it did, or why it was there, just that a few weeks prior, it had crashed to the surface on the dark side of the Moon for unknown reasons and that the data it carried was crucial. The government needed to recover it, and thus was sending me and two other astronauts to reclaim the satellite’s memory module. The equipment of the planned Apollo 18 mission was essentially transferred to us. From what we'd been told, the Apollo team was furious. They had a reason to be after all. It seemed that whoever we've been under was much more powerful than NASA. The whole mission was top-secret obviously. I was officially deployed to Vietnam, while in reality we underwent extensive training for the mission. After a couple of months, we found ourselves standing on the launch pad in front of this behemoth of a rocket, that would take us to the Moon. I was the mission commander, while Lt. Carver was the Lunar Excursion Module (LEM) pilot and Lt. Ackermann was the Command/Service Module (CSM) pilot. The flight to the Moon took roughly three days. After arriving, we made a couple of orbits around it. Each time we flew behind the horizon created by the Moon itself, I felt a bit of helplessness when our communication to the whole world went dark, as the signal got obscured by the spherical mass of rock and dust below us. The dark side of the Moon was nothing like the light side, which we see on almost a daily basis. Instead of smooth grey fields and tranquil lunar seas, it was completely covered in dark, deep craters and holes, like as if it was being slowly eaten away by the universe itself. It was finally decided to begin the descent to the surface. Me and Carver exchanged wishes of good
luck with Ackermann and in the Lunar Module named Charon we separated from the CSM named Trinity. After we announced “Charon has touched down,” our response wasn’t cheers and applause, but just mere “This is Trinity, congratulations Charon! I’ll relay the news on the other side. Be safe out there pals.” Just like that we became cut off from the rest of the world. Ackermann was our only link. While he was above the light side, he could communicate with ground command, and while above the dark side he could communicate with us. Never both at once. Even though the CSM’s orbital period was roughly two hours, we would be in touch for only about 35 minutes each orbit. We landed on a flat plane inside a huge crater. Contrary to what some people believe, the sun shines at the dark side of the Moon the same way as the light side. The amount of light depends on the lunar phase. It was still shining daylight in the place where we landed, but we knew that it would go dark in a few days. I felt excited and curious about what awaits us in this alien world. We waited for about an hour and a half to get the command’s reply from Ackermann and spent the time by preparing our suits. “Command sends their congratulations. You’re to proceed with the recovery.” Everything was dead silent as I stepped on the surface of the Moon. I tried to think of something excessively inspiring to say, but that those times were already over. With Carver, we assembled the rover and after planting our flag next to our spacecraft, we drove off. As we drove across the surface, I saw what I though was a flash, like a glare reflected by something metallic in the far distance. Since it was fairly common to see flashes of light because of an interesting physical phenomenon caused by the space radiation interacting with our eyes, I didn’t give it much thought and soon forgot about it. After driving for a couple of hours, we reached the satellite – or what was left of it. We immediately noticed that something wasn’t right. There were dozens of footprints around the probe, leading to a set of two tracks, dragging out into the distance. “What the hell is this?!” asked Carver in disbelief.
“I don’t know, but it seems that somebody got what we came for before us,” I replied. Both the tracks and the footprints were different than ours. Whoever took the data wasn’t here under the American flag. As I expected, we didn’t find the data box. We found the part where it was supposed to be, but it was missing. Luckily for us, we were just in contact with Ackermann, so we reached out to him to describe our findings. “This doesn’t make any sense. Who would take it? Russians? They don’t even have a lunar program! Even if somebody took it, how could we not be aware of that? How can the Russians land on the Moon without us noticing?” he responded. “As far as we know, the Russians have no idea that we are here, you know,” said Carver over the radio. “We’re going to follow the trail” I cut off their conversation. “Are you guys sure about this?” asked Ackermann. “Hell, I’m not sure about this. We’re clearly missing something here. But I’ll do as you say, cap,” responded Carver. “Yes. If whatever was on that probe was so important for two countries to send people here to retrieve it, we have to find out what happened to it,” I replied. “Copy that Charon. I’ll relay your whereabouts to command as soon as I can. Be careful out there.” Our oxygen was about at half capacity now, but we moved on with hopes of solving this mystery. It wasn’t long until I saw something in the distance. As we got closer, I realized that that it was a spacecraft. Its design was different than ours and it was decorated with a flag of the Soviet Union. I couldn’t explain why, but I felt that something was really odd about the spacecraft. If there really was Russians with us on the Moon, they would have picked up our comms long ago, so there wasn’t a point in hiding. “To the unidentified Soviet lander, this is the crew of Dawnbreaker, please respond. We know you’re here, we have you in sight.”
Nothing. We attempted to contact them several times again in both Russian and English, but always received only silence in response. We got closer and I realized why I found the spacecraft odd before. It looked like it had been there for a while. We didn’t see much of the interior through the small windows, which had been covered with something from the inside. “Our air is running low and I don’t like this Miller. We should really head back now.” said Carver with clear uneasiness in his voice. “I know, but we have to find out what’s going on here.” It took some time until we figured out a way to open the airlock. No one was home. The inside was a mess. The interior was splattered with brownish-red fluid, presumably contents of one of the many opened food packages lying on the floor. Or was it …? No. I quickly pushed that thought out of my head. It was a two-seater craft. There was a small amount of leftover supplies and samples, but no signs of the satellite’s black box. There was a space suit hanged on the wall near the airlock. Two occupants, and one space suit with a clearly missing name tag. We both quickly realized that the other one must still be out there somewhere – along with its occupant. At this point, we were really low on oxygen, so we rushed to get back to our spacecraft. As we reached Charon with the last bits of oxygen in our suits, I realized something. “Tell me, Carver, was it just me or did we not pass the wreckage on our way back?” I asked. “Fuck. Don’t even mention it. It wasn’t there, that’s right.” We shared our intriguing discovery with Ackermann later, and he was as surprised as was command when he informed them in turn. That night I took watch for the first four hours. It wasn’t really a night, since the sun was still shining, but for the sake of timekeeping, we referred to the time when we slept as night. When it was finally my turn to sleep, I had a dream about following the flash that I saw the previous day. I walked on and on, until I found the same space suit from the Russian craft just lying there, in the dust. The
limbs were twisted and contorted in gruesome ways, but it was clear that someone, or something was inside that suit. I approached and slowly began opening the sunshield that obscured the inside of the helmet. I looked in terror, as I saw the inside. It was my face, covered with brownish-red blood. In place of eyes, there were only two gaping holes. The next day we started picking up something on an unused channel of our radio. It was a faint signal coming from somewhere in the crater. We tried to patch it to the speakers, but it didn’t make any sense. It was just a repeating sound resembling a person vocalizing the sound of a single letter or vowel but stretched to about 3 seconds followed by equally long pause. It was very distorted, and it clearly wasn’t a loop, since each sound was just slightly different than the previous one. We ate, and once again prepared for moonwalk. It was darker than the other day. The sun was still shining, but it was steadily creeping its way under the horizon. We followed the source of the signal for about an hour when we found something lying in the dust in front of us. I tensed as I looked closer and found out what it was. It was a space suit. The same as the one in the Russian lander. “Well, it looks like we found our missing friend.” Said Carver with disbelief. I didn’t say anything. I simply jumped off the rover, and slowly, silently approached, the suit. “What are you doing Miller?” continued Carver. Just as I was about to open the sunshield with my shaking hands, the suit came alive and grabbed my hand. With the sound travelling through our suits, I heard a weak “Pomogite” – meaning help in Russian. We carried him to our lander. The patch on his suit revealed his identity as “Tarkov”. He was in shock and hypoxic. I don’t know how long or why he was just lying there but he was lucky to be alive. For the next couple of hours, he fell in and out of consciousness. He eventually woke up. Our Russian was bad but luckily, he spoke English enough for us to understand each other. He didn’t remember why he was there, what had happened to him and his crew or what his mission was. When I looked
out of the window, I realized that our flag was gone. There were no footprints, it looked like as if it simply vanished. At this point each one of us was really concerned, and we asked to terminate the mission. The command refused, explaining that the recovery of the satellite’s data was of paramount importance. We decided to continue our search tomorrow and went to sleep. I again had the same nightmare as the day before. I woke up terrified and drenched in sweat. I saw Tarkov standing by the window and looking out. He then walked over to Carver, and just stood there, looking at him while he slept for about a minute or two. Silently, I asked him: “Tarkov, what are you doing?” but he just mumbled something like “them” or “when” and lied down. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, and I kept an eye on him, but nothing interesting happened. The next day we found a picture or a map of the crater we were at in a pocket in Tarkov’s suit. There was a point a few miles from where we were that was marked with a cross. Tarkov didn’t know what was there, but I soon realized that it was right in the direction where I saw the flash on the first day. We had to check it out. Me and Carver later took off and headed towards this mysterious target while Tarkov stayed in the Charon. In reality, our rover had enough power to carry all three of us, but I insisted that it didn’t, and that he should stay behind. “I don’t trust this guy,” I said to Carver after I was sure that Tarkov was out of range of our short-range radio. “We land on the moon. We don't find the box and suddenly the probe is gone. Then we find a supposed-to-be-dead Russian who doesn't remember when was the last time he took a shit. And now, we're heading towards an inconspicuous place that was marked on his map he knows nothing about. You bet I don't trust him. Hell I don't trust a single step I take in that direction.” he replied. “What are we going to do with him?” he asked later. “I don’t know yet. But we can’t take him with us. Neither the LEM or CSM is built for an extra passenger. You know that,” I responded. “And I’m afraid he knows that too.” replied Carver.
The sun was setting. After driving for a while, we reached something, that puzzles me to this day. Right there, in front of us, was something I can only describe as a three-sided pyramid. It was about 10 feet tall and its surface was completely smooth and black as night. “What in the world is this?” asked Carver with a shiver in his voice. We walked around it and took pictures. “What the fuck?!” I suddenly heard through my radio. I turned around and saw Carver frozen in place, staring at something. There, in the remaining faint light, was a space suit about 20 feet away from us. I recognized the missing name patch and realized that it was the suit from the Russian spacecraft. It was standing upright, on its feet. The sunshield was open to reveal a sight that terrifies me to this day. It was empty. The suit was empty. But it was standing upright. I came back to my senses after I heard a crackling noise coming from my radio. “….you….don’t….belong……here…..” it spoke in a low, deep, distorted voice. Then out of nowhere, I was blinded by an intense flash of light. When I recovered, the thing was gone. “Carver? Are you alright?” I asked. He was silent at first, and then replied: “Man, fuck NASA, fuck the army, fuck the satellite, fuck this whole mission! I want to get out of here, NOW!” Without any debate, we ran to the rover, and drove off back to Charon. When we came back, the sun had already fallen below the horizon, and it was almost completely pitch black. The airlock was open and Tarkov was standing in front of the module in his suit. Damnit. In the rush, we completely forgot about him. I approached him and started: “Listen, Tarkov, there is something you…” I stopped when I noticed that he was holding something behind his back, but it was too late. He swung and struck me with a sharpened rod. I hit my head on the inside of my helmet and dazed fell to the ground. When the ringing in my ears stopped, I saw him and Carver fighting in the dust. I stood up and thrown myself into Tarkov, propelling us both a dozen feet away. Before I was able to stand up again, he was already on top of me. We struggled and just as he got grip on the lever that was used to release my helmet, I struck his head with a sharp rock. His visor cracked, and while his air was
slowly escaping his suit, I picked myself up and grabbed the rod. It was already stained with blood. He lunged at me, but I stabbed him in the chest. He then fell on top of me, and when our helmets touched, he spoke as the last of his air was pulled out from his lungs: “He is not your friend. Follow the voice”. I picked myself up and walked over to Carver. I saw that his suit was punctured on the thigh, and brownish-red blood was being sucked out into the airless vacuum all around us. When I brought him inside the Charon, I realized that our first aid kit was gone. He was bleeding a lot, and I managed to slow it down, but I had to treat him properly. I was afraid, that if we took off, he would bleed out in zero gravity even faster. “There was a medkit in the Russian thing, wasn’t it? he said. “Yeah” I replied. “Miller, you have to go and get it. Fuck. It’s not that far from here, is it?” said Carver. “No, it’s not. Are you sure you can hold on until I get back?” I asked. “Yeah, just go”. So I went. “Don’t die on me Carver. That’s an order.” I said before leaving. As I said, it didn’t take long until I reached the Russian lander, but it felt like ages. Throughout the whole journey, I waited for something to jump out of the darkness around me. I wasn't surprised when I saw that the suit that was previously hanged on the wall was now missing, but still, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I took their medkit and headed back as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Tarkov’s last words. “He is not your friend. Follow the voice” I kept repeating inside my head. I then switched the channel on my radio to the one we heard the incomprehensible noise on. It was still on. I realized that it was stronger in one particular direction. “Follow the voice” I said to myself. Was this the voice Tarkov meant? Who is not my friend? Tarkov? Carver? The Mission commander back at Earth? I had to find out. I drove off in the direction of the signal.
After driving for at least 15 minutes, I reached a small, crater about 30 feet in diameter. With my headlight on, I immediately saw that something was inside, but I couldn't recognize it yet. I stepped over the edge and walked into the crater and switched my light to full intensity. I stood there, paralyzed with raw terror for what felt like hours. There was a rectangular block of the same material as the pyramid in the center of the crater. A body was lying on top of it. Its limbs were contorted in the most twisted and gruesome way possible. His eyes were missing and in their place were only two gaping holes. It was Carver. There was a small box stuffed inside his mouth. It was the black box from the satellite. I took the box and ran out of there as fast as I could. Carver was dead. If Carver was dead, who was the Carver I left in the Charon? “He is not your friend” was the only thing I had on my mind the rest of the way back. When I returned, Tarkov's body was gone but Carver was still there, lying, bleeding. But it wasn’t Carver. What was that thing? “Thank God you’re back, Miller” said Carver. Not Carver. Carver was dead. Mutilated. Dead. “Miller, are you alright?” continued not-Carver. “Yeah, I’ve got the kit” I replied. He couldn’t know that I know. It couldn’t know. I treated his (its) wound and the bleeding finally stopped. I strapped him in (strapped it in) and then strapped myself in. I didn’t tell him (it) that I had found the blackbox. I didn't tell it that I found him. With the engine roaring below us, the Charon split in half, and the crew compartment pushed us up, into the void while the legs stayed planted on the lunar dust eternally. Now I already wrote on several occasions, that I had felt minutes pass as if they were hours. The ascent and rendezvous took only a bit more than a dozen of minutes. But those minutes felt like decades. I wanted to scream so loud that my lungs would break and I wanted to vomit. But I couldn't because it would find out. I wanted to black out but I couldn't. I had to save Ackermann. After several lifetimes, we finally docked with Ackermann and the Trinity. Throughout the whole ordeal, we kept him updated, but meeting him was different. He was scared. But I was scared even more. He didn’t know that Carver was not Carver. I did know.
I did unstrap first and pushed Ackermann out of the docking tunnel. I did kick Carver (not-Carver) right in the face when he followed. I did close the docking tunnel behind me. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING MILLER? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” shouted Ackermann and slammed me to the wall of the command module. “DON'T OPEN IT, MIKE! IT'S NOT CARVER! That thing in the LEM is not Carver do you understand?!” I shouted back in pain. Even though he was a battle-hardened soldier, Ackermann finally broke into tears. I floated past him over to the controls, and before I undocked the Charon, I glanced at the docking tunnel window one last time. There it was. A thing with Carver’s face and body, but not Carver. Staring at us. But his eyes were completely smooth and black as night itself. He opened his mouth in a way that was simply not possible for a human, and let out a loud, disturbing screech that I wish I could forget so much. In a heartbeat, it turned to dead silence, as the Charon detached from the CSM, and drifted into the void. Me and Ackermann didn’t say a single word throughout the three-day journey back to Earth. We were placed in quarantine for months after we came back home. Nobody ever explained to us what happened on that mission. I never learned what was on the blackbox. Honestly, I didn’t want to know, after all I experienced. But whatever was there was apparently enough to cancel all other missions to the Moon and beyond. They eventually released us and made it very clear that we’re never supposed to talk about it. I never saw Ackermann from that day on. The only time I talked about him was when a pair of men in suits came to my home one day a couple of years after the mission. “Captain Miller, have you been in touch with Lieutenant Ackermann lately?” one of them asked after we exchanged our greetings. “No, I never spoke or heard from him since the mission. Did something happen?” I replied. “I’m sorry to tell you, but Lieutenant Ackermann was found dead in a nearby forest yesterday.”
I had to sit down. I didn't know him that well, but we spend a considerable amount of time together in training, and we lived through hell itself together, so it was more than enough for me to considered him a friend. Poor Mike. “How did he die?” I asked. “We don’t know yet. But he had multiple fractures on all of his limbs, and his eyes were gouged out.”
I participated in a Social Credit System experiment: My Year in the Simulation by MTLStoriesPaty The way the world is set up, it wouldn’t function without people like me; people stuck in the cycle of poverty. With every high interest loan the banks provide, with every lottery company promising a chance at a win, with every check-cashing service, the monster continues to be fed. That’s the way life has always been for me and the good folks I grew up around. I’ve worked a various assortment of odd jobs to help with my low income. I’ve done everything from chopping wood for families to driving elderly folks to the doctor to helping others rehearse for job interviews. So when I went to the Internet cafe to check my email, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to receive another odd job offer. Dear Porter, We would like to offer you an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime. I am the director of a company named Osiris. We are currently working to assemble a group of people from all over the world for the experiment of the century! The experiment will last for exactly one year and is of great benefit to the participants. How would you like to live in a tropical paradise island, with a fully furnished new home and a regular salary? And to top it off: you would get paid a hefty amount just for your participation! If you are interested, please contact us immediately so that we may get you started on the interview process. From everyone at Osiris, we hope to hear from you soon. Sincerely, Dr. Pleitez, PhD. Director, COO XXX XXX XXXX I didn’t have to think twice about it. I immediately called to find out how much exactly was a “hefty” amount of money. As it turned out, the amount was more than I could have ever imagined: $250 thousand big ones. This really was the chance of a lifetime for me. It was a chance for a different, better life. In retrospect, I should have known that there was something amiss. But poverty only offers advice in retrospect.
I was ecstatic when, after three full days of interviews, I was contacted by the Osiris team to let me know I had been chosen as one of the participants. As I prepared myself for the adventure of a lifetime, I had no idea what awaited me in that tropical island. Before I get into my experience in the simulation, let me ask you a few questions: How would you like to live in a world where you got what you deserved? Imagine a place, a society, where everything you say and do is not just evaluated but also rated by your government. In this world, everything you purchase, every movie you watch, every song you listen to, every friend you choose, every food you eat, every good deed, every bad deed, everything is subject to the rating system. If your actions are deemed to be good, then you get access to the best of everything. It doesn’t matter if you were born rich or poor, what maters is how you react to the world around you. This is the simulation. Before I knew it, I was sitting on a chair, under palm trees, in front of a stage that had a beautiful, pristine beach as a backdrop. Is this real life, I wondered. As I enjoyed the light breeze of the ocean, the colors of the sunset and a piña colada in my hand, a woman in a white coat took the stage. “Positive reinforcement,” she paused, “Positive reinforcement and operant conditioning, that is why we are here. For a long time, humans believed that the only way to get things done was by scolding, screaming, fighting, war. But after thousands of years of evolution, we have found that, in fact, the opposite is true. Rewarding has proven to be far more successful in societies than punishment. Today, you join us, to prove that this can be done with society as a whole. Let me introduce to you my coworker, my friend and my apprentice, Dr. Pleitez. He will explain to you a little more about the world we have created here at the simulation.” A round of applause welcomed a rather attractive man in his midforties, with thick black rimmed glasses, also sporting a white coat. “Hi everyone, thank you for being here with us today. Without you, there would be no simulation. So on behalf of everyone at Osiris, I thank you. First and foremost, I would like to explain to you in layman’s terms
what the simulation encompasses. The governments of eight countries have funded this experimental simulation. They want to know how beneficial it would be to implement a similar system into their societies in the imminent future. Over the next year, you will participate in a simulation of a social credit system. Every action you take will be monitored by Osiris, our highly advanced computer system, and then rated. Based on the rate of each action, your Citizen Credit Score will either go up or down, or in some cases, stay the same. In the simulation, good behavior is rewarded, something that rarely makes a difference in the real world. As an incentive, your good behavior will unlock more opportunities, more amenities, more access to the best we have to offer here on the island. We want to reward you for being a good standing member of society. The wrist devices we have given you will help us to better monitor your habits as well as allow you to keep count of your Citizen Credit Score.” “I would also like to introduce you to a group of women and men who will be helping out Osiris to keep order in our simulation. They are the official Osiris Security Guard, or OSG.” A group of guards dressed in black entered the stage in formation. We clapped, not ever knowing what these men were really there for. “They are here to not only enforce the laws of the simulation, but also to protect all the resident participants of Osiris. Think of them as your very own police force. A friendly police force. They are also here to enforce one of our most important rules: while you are a participant in the simulation, you cannot speak about your real life outside of the simulation. If you break those rules, you will be ejected from the simulation without pay.” “Now, with all this said, you may now turn on your wrist device and I would like to officially welcome you into... the Osiris Simulation. Be good, be kind and all will be aligned.” And with those words, we all began our year in the simulation. You know those Saturday mornings in spring when you wake up and you can finally feel the warmth of the sun through your window? The first hints of summer are finally here; the weekend is just getting started; your bills are all paid; you’ve got a little extra cash that you can spend on a good meal and a movie; life is good. That’s what every morning felt like that first month in the simulation. Everything was just perfect.
They were right about many things. Good behavior was a great incentive. In the real world, I would have never managed to receive so many promotions in such a short span of time. By the end of the second month, I had gone from working as the manager at the local coffee shop to an assistant at the Osiris central office. I managed to do all of this solely based on my good behavior. I was very impressed with how the system functioned. I have to say, however, I did find some oddities in the simulation. For example, days seemed longer. There were no clocks allowed anywhere. Instead, we kept track of the day using our wrist devices. There was a wake up alarm. There was an alarm for breakfast. One for work. One for lunch. And, well, you get the drift. So throughout my time there, I never really knew what time it was. That being said, days felt very long. Not in a bad way. To be honest, the first couple of weeks, I wanted time to go slow because I was enjoying everything. Life had never been this good to me. Poverty was long gone and I dreaded the idea of going back to it. Another thing I found different was the food. Everything tasted so much better than anything I had ever had before. After weeks of wonderful surprises in my taste buds, my conclusion was that poverty had not allowed me to taste the better things in life. Aside from those two small details that only slightly bothered me, life was swell. But, as I’m sure you already know by now, perfect doesn’t last forever. One day, while working at the office, a young man came in looking a bit disheveled. This was not a common occurrence in a place where everything was as pristine as the water that surrounded it. “Hi, welcome to the Osiris central office, how may I be of service to you today?” I asked the man. “I’m here because I feel that the local coffee shop is not providing fresh coffee,” he said, handing me some papers, “Here’s my official complaint. I was told I had to give an official complaint.” “Oh, okay. Well these complaints are normally filed through the clerk’s office next door,” I said, handing him back his papers. He pushed them away and said, “Can you please just take onesecond to look at my complaint?” I examined his face. He looked worried, an emotion that rarely existed
in the simulation. I agreed that a quick look at the papers wouldn’t hurt. It was a complaint about the coffee tasting bitter. Nothing out of the ordinary. As I flipped through the complaint, a folded piece of paper fell on my desk. I grabbed it and was just about to hand it back to the young man when a group of OSG burst through my office. “Hands up! Participant number 562, hands up!” One of them screamed. The young man looked at the piece of folded paper in my hand, looked at me, nodded his head once and then made a run for it into another part of our building. One of the OSG man approached me and asked me to hand him the stack of papers that the young man had given me. After I handed over the complaint, the OSG officer evacuated the building. As we stood outside, waiting for the OSG to come out with the young man apprehended, we were suddenly met with a horrifying surprise. We watched as the young man jumped from a fifth floor window, landing in a splatter of human chunks and juices in front of us. I had never seen a human skull crack before. It was the most petrifying sound. I can still hear the thing cracking like a coconut on a pavement. As I stood there, in shock and terror, I remembered what was tucked inside my fist; the folded piece of paper the young man had given me. Out of instinct, I immediately opened it. I felt my heart in my throat as I read the note. In handwritten letters, it said the following: T h i s i s NOT a s i m u l at i o n . You have been here for 4 years.
I Know Why the U.S. is Creating the Space Force, and It Isn't What You Think by Dopabeane In 1910, the United States military discovered an extradimensional rift in the California desert. At the time, they didn’t understand what it was, and naturally launched expeditions. Few of the explorers survived. Those that did returned as violent men incapable of speech. Each one attacked fellow servicemen and doctors before dying. Dying is perhaps too kind of a word: their tissues lost structural integrity, leaving these men boneless, grotesque parodies of humanity. Autopsies showed that none of the men had skeletal structures. Rather than bone, they had a rough formation of what turned out to be calcified fungus. When inhaled, this fungus turned formerly brilliant men into mute, violent husks who quickly died. Autopsies once again showed a hardened fungal structure in place of the human skeleton. In 1914, a being of unknown origin peered out of the now heavilyguarded Rift. We weren’t able to stop it; not only was it utterly immune to human weaponry, the sight of it caused strokes, heart attacks, and in some cases, spontaneous physical mutations in the guards. Fortunately, it didn’t stay long. Unfortunately, it returned several times to peek out into our world. Each time had devastating consequences. I don’t know how or why the government came to this conclusion, but the document I accessed states that the intruder was a young being that was, effectively, peeking through a keyhole. When other, greater beings discovered the rift, humanity would be in dire danger. Over the next four years, military physicists conducted rounds of experiments with the intent of closing the rift. Instead, they tore another hole in our dimension in 1923. Pretend the walls that separate dimensions are reinforced steel. For about thirty seconds, this physicist transformed the steel wall into a mesh
screen: permeable, unsecured, and easily destroyed. Something burst through that screen: an electric tornado covered in stars. The moment it broke through the screen, the rules of our reality forced the being a physical body. Beautiful and hideous at once, the creature somehow defied natural laws while still being beholden to them: it shrank to the size of a rat and grew to the size of an elephant in the span of five seconds. It bled white fire and vomited diamonds, but was allergic to milk and silver. Its sweat left verdant greenery in its wake, even on steel walls. Its waste consisted of a fungus that dissolved and replaced the internal structures of a living host, converting mammals to sentient puppets that seemed to function as the eyes and ears of the Being. Most spectacularly of all, it physically manipulated the universe. One early account tells of a handler who entered the being’s compound and promptly had a stroke, which was not unusual; early on, the Being exerted a range of effects on personnel, ranging from clairvoyance to abrupt physical mutation to injury such as heart attack and stroke. Surveillance footage shows the handler drifting between infancy and old age like a sped-up film. Suddenly the handler screams: “They’ve already come! This is what will come! This is what has come!” The air behind the handler ripples into a morass of glimmering darkness. Something emerges from it: something bright and starry, hideously beautiful in the way of gods and angels. Those of us who have seen this footage catch only a glimpse of this divine monstrosity before the image cuts to strange, sparkling black. According to the time stamp, it resumes precisely fourteen seconds later. All that remains of the handler is a raw, human-shaped pile of bone viscera. Behind him, the being grapples with that glimmering dark slit, pulling it closed the way we might close a pair of curtains. The being succeeds, then collapses beside the handler’s remains and grieves. The grieving proved that the Being bonded closely with its captors. Though highly intelligent – in fact, immeasurably intelligent by human standards – it bonded to people in a manner similar to that of companion
animals. In stark contrast to the Being’s gentle loyalty, the intruders – the godlike monstrosities even our cameras can’t comprehend – were hostile. That incident was the first sighting, but it was far from the last. From that day forward, the monsters – eventually codenamed Sed – attempted to cross into our world on a frequent basis. Our only recourse was the Being, who bravely knit the openings closed and, in some cases, injured or even killed the intruding Sed. Before long, too many attempts were being made too frequently for one Being to handle indefinitely. The military’s solution was a breeding program. After five years and hundreds of experiments, the military discovered that the Being’s offspring had to be carried in human males. They siphoned nutrition using an array of tentacles they inserted into the intestines and stomach. In several early cases, the hybrid fetus triggered a metamorphosis wherein the father and fetus combined into a single entity. These hybrids were uniformly male. While they inherited most of the Being’s more interesting properties, none could knit the universe together. They could, however, accurately predict future events. They were weak, however; prone to fits of grieving over horrible events, and joyous celebration over events that made them happy, some of which were as inconsequential as the birth of kittens. We referred to them as Roeh. In other cases, the fetuses ate their way out of the fathers. The cases of cannibalism unerringly resulted in violent offspring. We called these cannibalistic offspring Charam to differentiate them from the Roeh, and euthanized them all. Until 1994, when a second Being was finally born. She tore out of her human father and knit him back together immediately. He still died – after all, closing a wound isn’t enough to heal the damage within – but the fact remains that her very first act was an attempt to heal her father. Shortly after her attempt to save her father, the world split open. I’ve seen the footage from two dozen angles: a stark black line cracks the air and grows, morphing into a glimmering obelisk that spans floor to ceiling. A Sed emerges. We see a glimpse of it - a titan made of stars and
teeth and reptilian eyes -before the cameras goes dark. We waited for the inevitable breakout of the Sed, but it never came. When we finally received permission to investigate, we found the Sed, paralyzed and half-concealed, in its portal. The Being and its daughter stood before it, feverishly attempting to knit the portal closed. This was the first indication we had that the Being couldn’t actually be trapped; it had deigned to let us imprison it, but could escape whenever it wanted. I didn’t have time to ponder this for long, however; I caught a glimpse of the Sed. Its skin pulsated under the lights, blinding snakes of mercury writhing around rivers of oil-slick black and banner-like undulations that reminded me of the Aurora Borealis. Eyes blinked at me, alien and fearless and full of a blank, impersonal rage. Nauseous vertigo overtook me I spun around and faced the wall, struggling to ignore the maddening harmonic chime of the universe closing up again. The sound echoed through me, making my bones vibrate and my blood cells sing. . “What happened?” I asked. The Being can speak, but it cannot speak to us. Only a few have heard the voice of the Being. The few that didn’t die of stroke ended up unable to hear anything but echoes of the Being’s voice, which drove them to suicide. So, for several decades, the Being communicated by manipulating matter in a way I can only describe as puppet shows: rough approximations of people, places, and things that told a story the Being thought we would understand. This particular puppet show showed a cannibalistic fetus – a Charam – eating its way out of its father’s back. It crawled out and grew until it was a man with starry skin and eyes like the sun. A rocket came and bore it away to another planet. It looked up, roaring, as the air around it shuddered and exploded into a thousand glimmering holes. Seds flooded from these holes. The starry man killed them, rending these incomprehensible gods limb from limb. Then he fell to his knees and consumed them all. The image evaporated into smoke, which writhed until it formed the first written message ever delivered by the being: Charam kill the Sed. But you kill the Charam
At that moment, the Sed shuddered and its mouth opened. A hallucinatory, multicolored darkness flooded from its jaws and spilled throughout the room like a tsunami. I found myself hurtling through that darkness like a scrap of paper in a riptide. Like paper in water, I was dissolving. I could feel it: my bones rubberizing and my tissues stretching thin, pulling apart into thin, inconsequential tatters. Then hands plunged into my ruined form, warm and small and terribly painful. The next thing I knew, I was on my back in the birthing chamber. That pain intensified, overtaking all of my senses. I sat up, looking for the source, and screamed. My legs were flayed piles of viscera in which greyish, hole-filled bone gleamed. That is the last image I have – my bare bones, coated in gore –before waking in a hospital. I will be honest: I didn’t expect to wake up. The kind of knowledge with which I’ve been entrusted exacts a terrible price. I wasn’t entirely wrong. They only kept me alive because the Being had bonded so closely to me, and they felt like I might be able to coax it back to U.S. territory. You see, after rescuing me and knitting the Rift, the Being and its daughter – who researchers named Asherah – fled. Remember, we weren’t actually capable of imprisoning the Being; it just allowed us to do it out of its boundless, incomprehensible devotion to its handlers. We don’t know why it fled, although researchers believe it’s because the Being somehow realized we were killing the Charam. Perhaps the Being had parental feelings toward them. Perhaps it was simply heartbroken that we were slaughtering our own protectors. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the Being left us. It came back two years later without Asherah and immediately asked for me. I was brought in immediately. Military specialists told me to obtain the following information: what the Sed were, and how to stop them. If I failed, I would be killed. I expected to die; hundreds of personnel over several decades had failed to extract this information from the Being. Why would I be the one to succeed?
Even though I was terrified, my reunion with the Being was strangely wonderful. It grieved over my injuries and our sustained separation, then lay at my side. We luxuriated in each other’s presence for many hours. Then smoky tendrils shimmered into being and formed the words: The Sed finally understand they cannot open your earth while my children live. Instead they will open your sky. “Where do they come from?” I asked. “What are they?” You will not understand. I believed this, but understanding wasn’t my prerogative; survival was. “Tell me anyway.” The Being hid its face and began to tremble. You will hate me. “I could never hate you.” I did not come to love you. I am not meant to love you. I only love you because your reality makes it so. “What do you mean?” I asked. They are the rest of me. The Being was right: I didn’t understand. Neither did anyone else. No one ever would; the Being never communicated again. In December 2015, U.S. intelligence confirmed that Asherah was at a secure compound in Russia’s far north. Russia quickly developed its own, rather more successful, breeding program. They keep Charam but euthanize Roeh. Funny how that worked out. Six weeks ago, the Roeh all broke into hysteria. They wept and screamed for hours, throwing themselves against the walls. Several perished. Finally, we obtained the information that was distressing them so: We have opened the stars The next day, a Sed attacked a Russian nursery full of Charam. As the Being predicted, it came from the sky – from outer space. The Being immediately portaled to the Charam and fought to the death. Its sacrifice was not in vain; it immobilized the Sed long enough for the Charam to eat and kill it. The Being quickly decomposed into a small mountain of flowers and fungus. Over the following days, Roeh became even more hysterical, throwing
a sustained fit of maddened despair centered around one piece of information: We are one we have come we are one we have come The Roeh then killed each other: they suffocated, strangled, and beat one another to death in the course of two minutes. According to our intelligence, all of the Russian Charam died last week following an episode of mass psychosis. Autopsies revealed that all of their skeletons had been replaced with a hardened, calcified fungus. The people who performed the autopsy died in similar circumstances: mindlessly violent, with fungus in place of bones. As of yesterday, the Russian compound appears abandoned: a dark, fungal mass choked with flowers, a curiously beautiful blight on the Siberian tundra. We found Asherah. She is prepared to die for us. She’s half human, after all; this is her world. She’ll close rifts on earth and in space until it kills her. She doesn’t know what the Being truly was. No one does. If it was meant to be our enemy, why did it give us Charam to kill it, Roeh to reveal it, and Asherah to save us? No one even knows what the Sed are. We only know that they are opening our skies. Contrary to released information, the government’s been in space for quite a long time. Naturally we’re launching attacks against the Sed. Without Charam, I don’t think we have a chance. But Asherah is willing to try. The government is willing to send her into space to close the rifts, and it is willing to put soldiers in spacecraft to bomb the Sed to death. It sounds ridiculous, putting a demigod on a rocket ship. The worst part is even if it works, there’s nothing to do about the fungus. The Being was right. I don’t understand. I don’t think anybody ever will.
“I’M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND.” The agitated wind roared outside, carrying millions of tiny snowflakes with it. I stared blankly at my computer screen reading the document my now ex-wife had left on it just before she had left me. “ Dear Blake, I’m sure this doesn’t come as a surprise to you, considering I’ve been home less and less lately, but I can’t think of a way I could say this face to face without you exploding on me. I’m done with this whole thing. I can’t take the late nights and the yelling any longer. I’ve never met another couple that argued as much as us and I think it’s time we start calling this what it really is-abuse. I’ve found someone else, Blake; someone that will treat me the way I deserve in addition to providing for me. I hope you make some changes in your life, or else you will be alone for the rest of it. I’m sorry things couldn’t have ended differently. I’ve started the paperwork and I’ll contact you soon about arranging a day to come sign it. -Rachel” The words didn’t hurt any less the twentieth time I had read it than the first. Each moment I thought about it felt like a chain wrapped around my neck with a heavy weight at the bottom tugging and choking me. Warm tears silently streamed down my face as I closed the document once again, a nightly ritual I had performed since the night Rachel left me. “I wasn’t a bad person, was I?” I thought. “I had tons of friends at work and even those I had kept in touch with from high school. Rachel and I were just a bad fit, I guess.” Just as I went to open another document, my computer monitor went black, as well as the rest of the lights in my house. “Shit..” I muttered to myself. It must have been the storm outside. The snow had pounded my small home town in Washington for nearly a week straight, but the wires had held on for as long as they could. Realizing that I would be without electric heat, I donned my large brown Carhart jacket and boots and proceeded outside to the wood pile. The icy wind instantly froze my contacts to my eyes and made my vision blurry. I had made this walk several hundred times and even with the distortion of my vision as well as
the tenacity of the snow storm, I made my way over to the wheel barrow and began to load it up with pieces of the oak I had cut down during the past fall. After I had gathered all I needed as well as some kindling to start a fire, I started wheeling the load back over to my front porch and stacked it neatly in a pile on my porch so the snow wouldn’t cover it. I went back inside and hung my coat back up, but suddenly I felt uneasy. I looked out my window and what I saw surprised me. About two-hundred yards away stood a man wearing a heavy dark coat and a black back pack. It was hard to make out his face due to my inhibited vision, but through the trees, it was unmistakably a man. I opened my window and called out to him. “Hey, are you lost or something?” No response other than the echoes I heard through the hills was returned. I went over to my living room and grabbed my cell phone off the coffee table just in case I needed to call a tow truck for the man and made my way back outside. To my surprise and confusion, he no longer stood there. Not only that, but after surveying the woods around my house, I couldn’t find him anywhere. This was strange, as I lived relatively deep in the woods and didn’t have any neighbors for miles. What would a man be doing walking around in this blizzard by himself? After locking the door with the dead bolt, I went back inside and started a much-needed fire. After giving a few painful thoughts to Rachel’s memory, I lied down in my recliner and nodded off. I awoke the next morning around 7 AM to all of the lights in the house turned on that I had left on the previous night. After making a round to ensure I wouldn’t have a hefty electricity bill, I cleaned up and put my EMT uniform on. The storm had died down to a few flurries here and there, although the sun was still very much hidden behind the dark grey clouds as I walked out to my truck. I made one last glance around my property for the man I was sure I had seen last night before getting into my old Dodge pickup. The familiar sound of the engine turning on made me realize that I hadn’t lost everything along with Rachel, and I hastily sped out of my driveway to the county EMS station, as I had spent a little too much time preparing for work that morning. In the garage that housed the ambulances stood my best friend, Taylor; he walked up to me and gave me a comforting hug and a few pats
on the back before speaking. He was fully aware of the situation with Rachel. “How are we doing, man? Did your power go out last night, too?” He asked. “Yeah, I’m managing, and it went out around 10 and didn’t come back on until morning.” I replied “Hopefully this storm won’t last too much longer. I’m almost out of firewood.” That day went on like any normal day at work. I remember hearing a story on the local news about a man named Roger Patterson who had gone missing a week ago. His family was willing to listen to any leads of his whereabouts. That moment, I thought of the man I had seen last night, staring at me, unmoving. I got really creeped out, and tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. After coming home that day, I checked my cell phone and my eyes widened a little. A text from Rachel glowed on the glass screen, and I quickly opened it and what I read filled my heart with a warm rush of hope. “I need to talk to you, Blake. I think I’ve made a mistake.” This one little message almost erased what had been a week of depression and anxious thoughts. Things were going to be different now. I was going to make it up to her and show her what a real husband was. The old Blake had died in this experience, and I emerged from his ashes as the man my wife always needed. I spent the rest of the day doing household chores with a permanent grin on my face. As night fell, I lied on my bed underneath the thick blankets. The conversation I had with Rachel on the phone a few hours ago remained fresh in my mind. We had decided to meet for lunch the next day and talk about the feelings we had about reconsidering things and to see if we could make our relationship work. It took a lot for me to hold back what I wanted to say to her over the phone. I wanted to do it in person, so she could see that I could be a sweet and thoughtful guy after all. I loved Rachel more than anything in the world. It just took almost losing her to realize that. Just then, the power went out as darkness engulfed the room. I grunted in frustration and got up to once again make a trip for firewood. This time, I grabbed my pistol just in case the man I had seen the previous night showed up again. I made the second trip to the wood pile without seeing the man, but once I had made it back inside my house, I once again glanced through the window to see the dark figure facing me. He was standing in the same clearing but about a hundred yards closer
this time. The white snow glowed blue in the moonlight and the snowflakes danced along with their shadowy counterparts. His face was more apparent to me this time, and a thick beard frosted with snow outlined his chin. A hood covered his eyes, and tattered, ripped clothes shown under his now opened jacket. He stood motionless, silent, and focused on me. My hair stood on end as fear combined with the chill of the storm swept over me. I called out to him for the second time as I reached for my gun. “Listen man, I don’t know what you want, but I can promise you if you keep doing this, I’m calling the cops.” Some visible steam from my breath escaped as I scratched my chin hairs. The man stood motionless until I made a couple steps towards him. He then began awkwardly pacing away from my house into the tree line. There was something about his steps that was off, like his legs were made out of glass and he was afraid they would shatter underneath him. Before a minute had passed, he had disappeared into the trees. I went back inside and proceeded to start another fire. It was easier this time, as the first one had not completely gone cold. I grew more and more concerned about this man. “What if he broke into my shed and took my expensive power tools? What if he broke into my house?” I tried not to think about it, and started thinking about Rachel instead. Her fair skin and brown eyes complimented her complexion in a way that made me feel lost in her when things were good between us. I couldn’t let her slip away. I wouldn’t let her slip away. I looked out my upstairs window for any sign of the bearded man in the woods. I saw nothing through the thick arctic clouds of powdered snow that raced in front of me, almost tauntingly. I had trouble sleeping that night. Maybe it was just the anticipation about seeing Rachel, but I couldn’t help but feel on edge. I tossed and turned before checking my cell phone again and reading the message Rachel had sent me. “I think I’ve made a mistake.” The words resonated with me as I felt I had never made a bigger mistake in my life than treating her badly. My mind fixated on memories of being with her as I slipped into the unconscious world of sleep. The next morning behaved similar to the previous one. I woke up at 6:30 instead this time so I would have enough time to check my shed for
anything the bearded man might have stolen last night. Nothing was out of place. If the man was so interested in stalking me, why would he not have taken what he wanted when he had the chance? I wasn’t going to chase after him in the blizzard. I spent the morning getting ready and making sure everything valuable was locked up before heading to work. Taylor wasn’t at the station that day. He had taken off for illness and asked a coworker of ours named Caitlyn to take over his shift. She was relatively good friends with Rachel and we spent the morning in between calls talking about things I should say to her to show her how I really feel. “I’m actually really proud of you, Blake.” She said. “It looks like you’re really trying to make a change, and she’ll see that. Don’t worry about saying exactly what she wants to hear. If you just tell her how you feel, I’m sure she’ll come around.” “Thanks, I really appreciate it.” I said. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about the past couple days and I know she’s the only woman for me.” There weren’t many calls that day; not many people were out doing things in fear of the storm. There were only a couple of minor car wrecks from people trying to drive their little town cars through the mountains. After work, I went to see Rachel. The anticipation could be cut with a knife at this point and when our eyes met, she instantly ran up and hugged me in the cold air. With tears streaming down both of our faces, we kissed for a long time. “I missed you so much.” I said almost choking through tears. “I missed you too..” She whimpered back. That moment was one of the best in my entire life. I felt like a piece of me had been restored and that I would never let it slip again. I’ll never forget that scene, surrounded by the street lamps already illuminated even though it was only around 5:30. We talked for hours at the restaurant and then agreed to spend the day together tomorrow. I couldn’t wait. As we departed, I gave her one long kiss goodbye and told her to drive safe. She echoed the same back to me and we both walked away into the night feeling fulfilled. The drive home was filled with so many good thoughts and memories of Rachel that I almost forgot about the man that was sure to show up tonight. I called Taylor and asked him if he wanted to come over and watch a movie or something since we hadn’t really seen each other outside from work in a while; that was the excuse I used anyway. I
wanted another person around just in case the bearded man got brave. He obliged and said he would be over after he took his daughter to her grandmother’s. I prepared a fire beforehand just in case the power went out again so I wouldn’t have to trek out into the blizzard, or look at the creep who decided his favorite pass time was fucking with guys trying to make an honest living. After a couple hours of social networking and web browsing, my computer screen went black again. “Of course..” I said, almost as if I were talking to the man that was surely standing outside. I looked outside and there he stood. This time, things were different, though. He was much closer to my house this time, only about ten yards away. His face shot up to meet me at the second story window. I was terrified now. I looked down unable to remove my gaze from his frozen body as he started sprinting towards my front porch. I ran over and grabbed my gun from under my pillow as I heard a large CRACK and the sound of shattering glass downstairs. Fighting through every thought that told me to stop and hide upstairs, I silently crept down each step, making as little noise as possible. I felt a freezing breeze roll in from the window the man had just broken. It made me flinch and almost lose my composure. “I’ve never been so fucking cold in my life..” I thought as I took a deep, silent breath. Without a second thought, I whipped around the corner brandishing the gun, but found an unexpected sight. The bearded man lay face down with half of his body hanging over the window sill. He was motionless, not even breathing, and I honestly couldn’t decide whether to call the police or shoot the guy myself for the obvious home invasion he had just committed. “Look, I’m gonna call the police.” I said with a shaky voice. The wind chilling my bones was unbearable and made my movements stiff and slow. Just then, I gasped as the man’s head fell off of his body and rolled over on the floor next to my foot. I could see now that this was not a prankster, burglar, or even any sort of natural man. I saw his face clearly now, the skin on his cheeks was blue and cracked from what looked like days spent in the elements without shelter. His glassy eyes were black and shriveled. His lips were frozen shut and crusted with blood. A look of despair and misery shown in this horror and I vomited after seeing it.
After I had composed myself, I saw a thick, black, tar-like substance start to pour out of the hole where the man’s head once rested. It oozed out onto the floor for several minutes before dripping to a stop. I backed away, not knowing what diseases or parasites this man carried. Looking down at it, I saw something else that chilled me more than the sub-zero temperature. I looked down to see two large eyes open in the pool of filth, as well as a large, tooth-filled mouth open. I screamed and ran upstairs. I slammed the door shut and frantically looked around for my cell-phone. I curse when I realized I had left it downstairs, and without the power for the land-line, there was no way I could reach the police. I stared at my door with the gun pointed at it. I didn’t know what good it would do for a creature like this, but it was my only defense. I heard the thing making sloppy, wet steps up the stairs towards my room. I heard it lay against the door way and stop moving. The door to my room had no crack underneath for ventilation, so it was stuck on its side of the hallway, or so I thought. I let out a terrified scream as I saw the thing passing through my door without opening it. I saw its face clearly now. Not completely amorphous, but not in the natural shape of a man. The thing almost looked like a thick stick figure similar to that old kids show Gumbee. Its impossibly wide eyes fixated on me inside the room and it opened its mouth to speak in a light-toned voice that I can only describe as similar to a cheerful salesman with several voice tones all sounding at once.. “It’s cold.” It said. “I’m sure you understand.” Those words almost made me piss myself. I watched as it slowly worked its way through the door before flopping out with a notable lack of grace in its movements. It slowly came towards me, its whole body jiggling with each step. Its indefinite shape trying to mimic that of a man was menacing. It spoke again. “It’s so cold.” It was going to do the same thing to me that it did to that poor bastard downstairs. It was going to invade my body to stay alive. That’s why it was watching me. It was studying my actions, waiting or the right time to strike. I wondered how it came to be. Was it made in a lab? Was it the product of some satanic ritual? It was very close now, maybe only a few feet away. It lumbered towards me like a toddler trying to hug a teddy bear when an audible thump made it stop. Behind it, I saw the bedroom door open and Taylor who had just dropped his beer bottle in shock. He ran up to try and grab the thing before I could stop him. His
hand when through its body like jello, and it quickly slid its form around him, sticking its arms and appendages into his mouth, nostrils, ears, and everywhere else it could move into his body. He screamed and writhed in protest, but I just stood there, motionless. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I ran past the thing and Taylor and slammed the door shut behind me. I had to call the police. I had to get far away from that thing. I had to… WHAP. I tripped down the stairs in my haste and smacked my head against the bottom step. I felt a warm stream of blood slide down my face. I looked at the top of the steps to see Taylor, his eyes now merely shriveled pits under the control of that thing. It walked downstairs awkwardly, but with more grace than in its true form. I crawled towards my front door on my hands and knees. I couldn’t let that thing have me. I managed to crawl over to my truck and get inside. Luckily, I had kept my keys in my pocket from work. I started the thing up just seconds after the thing had made it over to me and smashed my window with Taylor’s hand. Thick, black oozing blood dripped from the wounded hand as he reached for me. I slammed on the gas and sped away into the night. My heart didn’t stop pounding until I was about an hour away from my house. I didn’t even think to grab my cell-phone before I had left, so I stopped at a gas station to ask to use their phone to call the police. The gruff, middle-aged store clerk looked me up and down. I must have looked really shaken up and he took pity on me. I called the Eckerd County Police Department and a young-sounding female dispatcher picked up. I explained the incident as best I could without it sounding like a prank and as calmly as I could, asked if they could look for Taylor. The woman’s response seemed puzzled. “We got a call from a man named Taylor Matthews a little over an hour and a half ago. We already have officers at the scene and they found the bodies of two people.” I let the phone slip away from my face for a second as I attempted to lift my head up and keep from puking. Taylor was dead, and that thing was still out there. “Get everyone out of the house.” I whispered. I hung up the phone, paid for fifty dollars in gas and roared back towards home. I couldn’t let one more person become the victim of that thing. After about twenty minutes of driving, I heard the engine of my truck make a massive CLANK as it rolled to a stop. “No, no, no, no shit!” I said to myself as it
came to rest on the side of the road. I got out and popped the hood to look inside. There was thick, gooey oil all over the inside of my engine. I cleaned it out the best I could and got back into the cabin of my truck. I punched the steering wheel several times out of anger and heard the horn echo through the woods. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have a cell-phone to call for help and I was at least thirty minutes from town. I opened the door and started to step out of the truck when I heard that voice again; the inhuman timbre of a being that I didn’t understand. “It’s so cold.” It said quietly. I looked back to see that thing’s cheerful eyes and mouth staring at me with an enormous grin, its body resting halfformed sitting in the passenger seat of my truck. Its mouth oozed black liquid as it spoke. It grabbed me with its disgusting, appendages.. “I’m sure you understand.” Credit To – Ben Meadows
Cracks and Bones by WontThinkStraight The more stories I collect, the more I start to question what our reality actually is. Like Plato's Allegory of the Cave, perhaps what we think of as real is nothing more than flickering shadows across a dim wall. Our minds try their best to piece together these echoes of reality with our limited senses, but the great world of truth lies beyond our reach and comprehension. But there are some of us who can, and do perceive reality very differently to rest of us. After reading my last two stories, my friend Steve spoke of one of these people - his ex-girlfriend Christine. They had met at University where they attended the same Psychology course. From the first time he saw her, he knew that she was special. She had an otherworldly quality to her, mixed with a strange intensity that he saw in few others. She was exceptionally bright - almost inhumanly so, and it took several weeks of relentless courting before she relented to finally start dating him. It was months into their relationship that Steve was able to piece together why Christine was like no other person he had known. Christine was an individual with a rare form of synesthesia, which gave her a very unique perspective on the world. She processed stimuli in a very different way - her brain mixed up her senses so she could hear colours, smell sounds or even tastenumbers. She was a genius at mathematics because she could intuitively feel the right answers - they would "taste" right to her. She had this ability for as long as she could remember. Growing up, she had assumed everyone could do it too. It was not until third grade when she asked her teacher why the school bell always smelled like oranges did she discover she was different. Her classmates would laugh at her, and call her a "freak". So she would avoid talking about her abilities, and kept it secret throughout high school. Her synesthesia only got stronger as she got older. By the time high school ended, she had already decided to devote herself to the
study of the human mind so she could learn more about herself. Steve was the first person since primary school that she had trusted enough to tell. She had loved the fact Steve was also a psychology major, and was just as intrigued as she was about her ability. They spent countless hours discussing how she experienced the world, which was so much richer and varied than he could imagine. She told him that the number 1 tasted like chocolate, 3 was cinnamon, 6 was garlic, and 8 was cut grass. For her, doing multiplications (for example) was like cooking - she could taste the result and know if the answer was right. It seemed as if she experienced a whole new other world that no one else sense. The most intense of her sensations were for colours. Each colour had a unique voice and personality that spoke to her - especially when she touched it. Red was an old woman, kind and gentle, like a grandmother. Blue was angry and impatient, constantly rushing her. Green was stern and strict whilst yellow was proud and arrogant. Black was pure silence the absence of all sound. Her favourite was White - seductive and passionate. She loved wearing white. There was one colour she truly feared though - dark grey. Even just a shade above black, and she would start to hear whispers rising from the silence. A few shades lighter, and the voices would get louder. Evil voices, whispering in her ear. Delighting in telling her how her skin would be flayed strip by strip from her conscious body. How her flesh would be devoured and torn from her bones while she was awake. How her eyeballs would be scooped from her skull so she could see a thousand pointed teeth tearing at her face. Needless to say, she hated night time, and the dark. She had to always sleep with the lights on, and with sleeping tablets so she wouldn't dream when her eyes were closed. When Steve and Christine moved in together, they found an old apartment in a nice neighbourhood with white plaster walls all around. It was perfect for them - close to the university and their work, very spacious, and surprisingly affordable. Christine had loved the feel of it the
moment she saw it - and Steve would have no complaints with how much friskier she was in this white apartment. Steve was careful to avoid any grey in the house. Each room was a different colour to match it's purpose: their study desk was green and their kitchen was red. Their bedroom in particular was furnished in white, from the painted wardrobe, to the white bed linen and the white carpet. Steve even took care with the lighting to avoid any shadows casting grey spots in the room. In their first week there, both had failed to attend any classes due to their extensive love making sessions. It was after one of these particularly passionate sessions, while Steve lay asleep on the bed that Christine noticed a faint crack in the opposite wall. Against the stark white plaster, the thin grey line seemed to whisper imperceptibly to her from across the room. While it annoyed her, she decided to deal with it tomorrow as they had a lot of catching up with classes to do. She took her sleeping pills, and drifted off to a dreamless slumber. For the next day, she had completely forgotten about the crack, until she was in bed again staring at it. It became like an itch she couldn't scratch - it became more noticeable because she knew it was there. It called and beckoned to her, whispering to her to get closer. The more she gazed at it, the wider and thicker the grey crack seemed to get. She nudged Steve, who reassured her she was imagining things. He assured her he would paint over the wall on the weekend if it bothered her that much. True to his word, Steve filled the hairline crack with plaster and painted over the wall twice. It didn't help. She could still hear the voice calling to her. Her strategy was to now avoid looking at the wall, to banish it by ignoring it. But in her mind, she could still see that crack, now the width of a thick pencil. She was sure that the last words she could hear repeatedly as she drifted to her medicated sleep was a ghostly "I'm heeerreee‌" and "no more hiding..." One night, she decided she could ignore it no longer, and had to face it. As she stared at the crack that went across the entire wall, she gasped
as a boney finger started to poke out from it's centre and started to explore. She watched in mute horror as a second skeletal finger reached out from the gap, and started feeling around the edges. She screamed so loud that Steve fell off the bed as he woke and pulled off his sleeping mask. Christine pointed at the empty wall, crying with teary eyes about a skeleton crawling behind there. Steve could see nothing, but no amount of consoling would convince her to spend another night in that room. She ended up staying over at a friend's place overnight, and refused to go back to the apartment until the wall was knocked down to prove she wasn't crazy. While Steve was hesitant to lose their bond by destroying a perfectly good wall to chase some ghost, he weighed that up against losing a great apartment and his girlfriend. With great reluctance, he laid down some plastic on the floor, and smashed a crowbar against the wall as Christine watched. Where there used to be a covered up hairline crack, there was now a gaping hole that Steve started tearing at with his hands. With a quarter of the wall ripped, both Steve and Christine were stunned to find a crouching human skeleton, stuffed against the cavities and covered in cobwebs. They called the police to report their gruesome discovery. After extensive questioning, they were cleared of being suspects as the body had been there long before Steve and Christine were even born. In the decades passed, the building had shady tenants and a very different neighbourhood. A known crime hot spot, it was a slum area that had been slowly gentrified over the past few years, it's history plastered and painted over until it was respectable. The skeleton was traced back to a missing person's case back from 1973. Reported as missing by her mother, the victim was a young prostitute with a petty criminal record - a profile the police back then devoted precious few resources or sympathy to follow up. The police thought it was likely she was raped, murdered and walled up by one of the previous occupants, a notorious gang member who himself was killed in 1982 in a fight over money.
The skeletal remains were eventually given a proper burial next to her long deceased mother, a long overdue reunion. Luckily for Steve, the apartment owner was also understanding enough to pay for the repairs to the wall given the circumstances. However, try as the might, the rest of their life couldn't return to normal for the couple. The ordeal gave Christine constant nightmares about skeletons breaking through the wall, despite the sleeping pills, nor would the voices stop tormenting her. She eventually had to turn to harder narcotics to find any release to escape from her reality. The pressures of completing a degree and caring for Christine's drug abuse put an unbearable strain on their relationship, and they broke off soon after. It was mentally too difficult for either of them to cope. Since then, Steve has been in and out of several relationships over the years. A few days ago, he decided to track down Christine again to get more details for this story. He ended up speaking with her parents. Christine continued to struggle with drug addiction for several years after their break-up. Chronically short of money, she was constantly on the move from place to place. Her last known location was a run-down motel, where she had skipped rent and left all her meagre belongings behind. Her parents had tried to track her down, and even enlisted the help of a private investigator. Christine was eventually found a few months ago. The motel she had stayed at was being demolished to make way for new apartments. In her former room, behind a wall with a crack running across it, her skeletal remains were found, trapped between the dark grey concrete.
Normal Porn for Normal People Admin's notice: Due to Wikia's Terms of Use, we have removed parts of this story that refer to animal cruelty and/or abuse. Everybody knows that if you surf the web long enough, you'll see some pretty sick shit. This is especially true if you intentionally dwell into the dark underbelly of the internet. I've seen quite a few things I don't care to admit to, but one thing that I'll always remember is a site called "normalpornfornormalpeople.com". The first strange thing about the site was that I didn't find it by actually looking for it. It was e-mailed to me by someone I didn't know. The e-mail was as follows: Hi therefound this site is very nice thought u might likenormalpornfornormalpeople.compass it on, for the good of mankind Pretty standard issue chain letter, although the url and the last remark really piqued my curiosity. I was having a very boring day when I got this, so I made sure my anti-virus was working and then I clicked on it. It was a very average, very generic looking site. It gave the impression that the creators just BARELY gave a shit about making it look professional. The author seemed to have a very tenuous grasp on English, and on the front page was a long, boring, and incoherent rant that I don't remember or have saved. The site had a strange tagline (which even today people haven't figured out the meaning of), which was: "Normal Porn for Normal People, A Website Dedicated To The Eradication of Abnormal Sexuality" And from the sound of that, I wasn't sure whether I was here to watch porn or if I had stumbled onto some kind of eugenics program. But I was here now, and I was very, very curious to see what "Normal People" get their rocks off to. So I scrolled down through the rant and...nothing. The page didn't seem to link to anywhere else, and I was about to leave when I noticed every word of the rant was its own hyperlink.
So I clicked one of them, and was sent to a white page with very long list of links in the form of: "normalpornfornormalpeople.com/(random letters)" So I stopped for a minute and asked myself if I really wanted to waste God knows how much time clicking random links that will likely give me a virus that will rape my computer. I figured I'd just try it for maybe five minutes, just to see if anything came up. I clicked one of the links, and was sent to another page. This page apparently had totally different urls than the last one. I was just about to say "Fuck this" when I clicked on the third link, and a video download came up. It was called "peanut.avi". It was a thirtyminute video of a man, a woman and a dog in a kitchen. The woman would make a peanut butter sandwich, and the man would set it down for the dog to eat. This was all that happened, for thirty minutes. It was obvious that the cameraman had to stop filming and wait until the dog was ready to eat again, and the dog seemed rather sick by the end of it. I know what you're thinking: "What the hell does that have to do with porn?" I have no clue. I've seen a little over two dozen videos from this site, and the majority had no sexual activity at all. After watching peanut.avi, I went on a certain image board I frequent to play online show and tell, like I always do with weird shit like this. But someone had already made a thread about it, some guy who had received the same chain letter I did. The image board thread got lots of people with nothing better to do to dig through the site, and that's how I saw other videos. Most of those two dozen videos were very uneventful, and consisted of people talking to the cameraman in a room with nothing in it but a desk and a few chairs. I mean literally nothing on the walls, or in terms of furniture. The whole room had a very cold, sterile feel to it. The conversations were just idle banter about previous jobs or embarrassing childhood moments. I kept expecting some kind of discussion about what the people were filming or what the site was about, but of course, nothing. You would never know these videos had
anything to do with porn if you saw it out of context. I will say one thing though, the people who appeared in these videos were quite attractive. However, the other videos that actually did feature content which I suppose could be called "sexual" is where things got weird. I'll give brief descriptions of the stranger videos; if you're really eaten up with curiosity you can try to hunt them down on a torrent site. lickedclean.aviA ten-minute video filmed by a hidden camera in which we see a repairman working on a washing machine for the first two minutes. When it's fixed, the repairman talks to the owner briefly, and then leaves. The owner checks to make sure the repairman is gone, and he begins to lick all over the top of the washing machine. This goes on for seven minutes.jimbo.aviA five-minute video of an obese mime performing his act. It was actually pretty funny, particularly one part where he pretends to pull up a chair, then pretends that it breaks because of his weight. In the last thirty seconds of the video, the camera cuts to static briefly and cuts back to the man sobbing quietly, still wearing mime outfit and makeup. Some kind of obscure fetish?dianna.aviFour-minute video in which the camerman talks to a woman in a room different from the "interview room". This room looks like one you'd find in a normal person's house. Exactly where they are is never specified, as Dianna only talks about her violin playing. She obviously plays her violin, but she keeps getting distracted by something.I didn't notice this until someone on the image board thread pointed it out, but if you look at the mirror in the background, you can see a fat man in a chicken mask masturbating.jessica.aviAnother four-minute cameraman video. This time he's outside a house, talking to another young woman. They talk about canoe rides. The camera zooms out to reveal the city streets behind them occasionally.The strange thing is: No one so far has been able to identify where this street is. Guesses have ranged everywhere from Europe to Australia to the Philippines, but there's yet to be a match for the street shown in the video.tonguetied.aviTen-minute video. The first five minutes consist of an elderly woman making out with a mannequin. The video cuts out like it did in jimbo.avi halfway through, and the scene is now a
group of mannequins huddled together in a circle around the camera. The lights have been dimmed, and the elderly woman is nowhere to be seen. From this point on, there is no sound.stumps.aviFive-minute-long video where a man with no legs is attempting to breakdance on a DDR mat in what looks like the kitchen from peanut.avi, but much dirtier. There's a radio playing music unseen in the background, but it stops at the four minute mark when the man collapses on the mat in exhaustion.He breathes heavily and pleads with someone off-screen to let him rest. This off-screen person becomes terrifyingly enraged and yells at him to keep dancing, which he does. You can hear this off-screen person begin to scream as the video ends abruptly.privacy.aviThe woman from dianna.avi is masturbating on a mattress in the "interview room", while the man from stumps.avi walks around on his hands while wearing some kind of goblin mask.The door in this room was always closed in other videos, but it's now open. In this video the only light is in the room, and the hallway is dark. Near the end of the video, you can see an animal quickly run through the hallway. And finally, the last video we uncovered:
useless.avi In this eighteen-minute video, a blonde woman from one of the previous interview videos is tied down to a mattress in the interview room. She attempts to scream but her mouth is taped over. After seven minutes, a man in a black suit and mask opens the door, but he does not enter.He holds the door open for the animal that was running in the hall in the previous video. It's revealed to be an adult chimpanzee, its hair shaved and its entire body painted red.When the chimp enters the room, the masked man closes the door behind it. The chimpanzee sniffs the air for a moment (it may have been blind), and notices the woman tied to the
mattress. It goes into a frenzy, and begins to maul her.The assault goes on for a grueling seven minutes, until the woman finally dies. The chimp eats flesh from her corpse for four minutes as the video ends. The thread exploded with activity after this video was uncovered, and people discussed it long into the night. When I came back to the image board the next day I found that the thread was deleted. I tried to start another one, and they banned me. I tried e-mailing the guy who sent me the chain letter with the site's url, sent him five messages and never got a response. I have tried to discuss this website on various places, and I got banned frequently. The site itself was also deleted about three days after useless.avi was uncovered, likely because someone contacted the authorities about it. The only proof that normalpornfornormalpeople.com ever existed was a few screencaps people took, and videos from the site that people saved and uploaded on torrents. The most popular of which being useless.avi, which found its way onto a few gore sites. Wherever you upload them to, all of the videos from normalpornfornormalpeople.com get deleted after a while. Written by Cosbydaf
Incubators by WayWardWanderer I was a nurse fresh out of my program and eager to start working. After applying to many different hospitals I was accepted by a prestigious private hospital specializing in obstetrics and prenatal care. The hospital was famous for its surrogacy programs and had global reputation of delivering the healthiest and genetically superior babies. I was of course excited and couldn’t wait to see my new hospitals and meet my new coworkers. I arrived at the famous ‘Blessed Wing Hospital’ at 9am sharp. I was greeted by several upbeat and cheery nurses and doctors, and my attending was just as wonderful. It didn’t take long for me to make friends and fit right in with the routine. I was of course restricted from full access to the hospital seeing as I was new and needed to earn my privileges. The only thing that struck me as odd was the fact that I never saw any patients coming into the hospital or leaving. What I did see were many happy couples arriving to adopt their newborns. I never saw the surrogates, before or even after delivery. My job was to tend to the many newborns and ensure that each baby was taken home by their proper parents. It was a very fulfilling job to work with such small, innocent bundles of life. Each baby was perfectly healthy and no two babies looked alike. It was as if each baby had been custom designed before birth. I only had one problem with working in the hospital. When I was outside the nursery and waiting room I could hear loud, painful screams of the women in labor. The doctors and nurses did their best to ease the delivering women but the screams continued. Stranger still the screams seemed less like screams of pain and more like screams of terror. I had learned to tune of the screams and focus on the miracle that followed, that is until I head one woman scream something I will never forget: “Why
do you keep doing this to me? Please, I want to leave!” After a few months of working I felt confident enough to start asking about the oddly absent patients. My questions were met with silence and stern looks from both the doctors and the nurses. Finally my attending pulled me aside and told me to stop asking questions and just do my job. There was nothing to worry about. The screams of pain and terror continued to ring out through the hallways of the hospital. I found solace in the nursery where I could tend to the newborns, but the screams would always follow me as I walked through the halls. My first year passed with no incident and I was no longer on restricted access. I could freely roam throughout the entire hospital, but there was no reason for me to wander beyond the nursery or doctor’s lounge. My curiosity, however, got the better of me. Shortly after my 1 year anniversary I was wandering the halls when I heard the screaming of another woman in labor. But what caught my attention was this was the same woman I heard pleading with the doctors shortly after I started working. She was delivering a second baby in less than two years, this was very risky and as a professional surrogate she would know better than to do this. Again I heard her screaming in fear and begging the doctor’s to let her go. I didn’t understand. Let her go? Was she being hospitalized against her will? I waited two more weeks before I finally had the nerve to check out the back rooms of the hospital. I was on the night shift and with little activity it was easy for me to slip by unnoticed. I found myself walking down a long hallway with signs pointing in the direction of the numerous delivery rooms as well as a second doctor’s lounge. It was then I heard a woman cry out in pain. I had come to recognize that cry of pain as a woman deep in labor. The odd thing is her cry came from behind a door labeled ‘Incubators’. I didn’t see anyone else in the maternity wing or exiting the delivery rooms so I went into room to check on her. I wish I hadn’t. When I opened the door what I saw sent a wave of nausea that I can still taste to this day. The large room had two dozen beds, each bed holding a woman in different stages of pregnancies. The women were all young and of
various races, and each woman had both of their arms and both of their legs amputated. The women were helpless and alone. Tubes and I.V.’s containing nutrients and fluids snaked across the women’s mutilated bodies as the only means to keep them alive. One blonde woman, her belly absolutely massive in comparison to her mangled body, spotted me and begged me to help her. “Please! You have to get us out of here!” I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even move. I just stared at them with my hand over my mouth. “Please!” She cried out again. “They won’t let us leave! They keep using us, using our bodies!” I backed away from the sight, toward the door. The woman cried out to me, tears in her eyes. “We can’t move! We can’t escape, please, you have to help us!” Fear set in and I bolted from the room. I returned to the nursery of the hospital and stared with fascination at the innocent newborns that laid before me. This couldn’t be the result of such a horrific experiment, could it? My shift came to an end I couldn’t get out of the hospital fast enough. As soon as I pulled into my front driveway I threw up on the grass and began weeping for the poor women I had abandoned. I didn’t sleep that night. I kept hearing the cries of pain and the pleading for their freedom. Two days later I returned to the hospital and began my shift. I walked into the nursery and my eye was immediately drawn to a newborn with blonde hair. The same hair of the woman who had begged for my help. And I knew what I saw was true. I lied to my attending and said I was going home early because I was feeling ill. As soon as I was in the safety of my home I called the police and told them what I had seen. The police arrived at the hospital and found the same gruesome sight that I had found. The women were taken to a new hospital and my hospital had been
shut down. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the story to break on the news. But no story aired. There was no mention of the human incubators that had been freed from the hospital. In fact, there was no record of the women arriving at the new hospital for proper care‌
INSTANT MESSAGING It all started on the fourteenth night of March, the night of my parents’ 20th wedding anniversary. It was a wonderful, sunny day, if memory serves. Surprisingly warm for before the beginning of spring. The beautiful weather was perfect for the atmosphere of the day – being married for twenty years is obviously a momentous occasion, so my parents had booked a table at our favourite Italian restaurant. Of course, this was a formal occasion, so I had my best suit on. It was 5:33, and I was just straightening my tie when my phone went off – I’d received a message. That’s strange, I thought, that never happens. I checked the message: it was from my mum. It was quite a jumble of numbers and letters, but through the vocabulary stew I could make out one legible phrase: “Please help me.” It should go without saying that this worried me greatly, so I immediately replied, “Are you okay?” Just as instantly, I got another text which read, “Oops. Pocket text!” I sighed with all the relief I had and continued to prepare myself. A few minutes later, I received yet another message, this time from my dad. I checked the text, and once again it was a massive mixture of letters and numbers, with the phrase “Please help me” concealed within. Creepy though this was, my dad was always a joker, so I presumed he was just joking around, until I was sent another text saying, “Oops. Pocket text!” Now this sparked panic. Pure, unmistakable panic. Exactly half a minute passed when I received the exact same two messages from my sister. This could not be coincidental. It just couldn’t. In a state of sheer anxiety, I started to run to the restaurant. I made it about a quarter of the way before I was stopped by a police officer. “Main road’s closed,” he said, “Huge car crash.” This was the exact moment I realised just what had happened. I demanded to see the wreckage, a request which I was surprised was allowed. When I got there, it wasn’t the remnants of the car that caught my eye, nor the flames billowing from the destroyed vehicle. No. I was horrified to see the lifeless corpses of my mother, father and sister. I asked for the estimated time of their
deaths – all three of them were killed instantly by the collision, at 5:32. A minute before the very first text.
Regret by Viidith22 From the depths of Hell Never seen by the penitent men To the darkest crevices We all escape from each day Moments to never been reminisced Or a time to never exist in our world Yet it remains Burned into our corrupted and vulnerable minds We still feel regret Regret to not have been fast enough To not have been strong enough To not have the will Or the motivation To perform such simple tasks As a smile a day Or a hand to reach out to You may feel the regret But those casted away will not They will feel alone Forever entombed in darkened crevices Tucked away, only seen when reminisced To see the light never seen In fault of those not fast enough Not strong enough Not willing enough Lacking motivation No matter how hard the blind scream
It Started as a Leak The rainy season began in early summer, and June had been no exception. It did not surprise the man when he discovered rainwater dripping from his dining room ceiling. Shrugging it off, he placed a tall pot beneath the leak and expected it to stop on its own. However, it continued to rain, and before he knew it, the pot would threaten to overflow. He had to dump the water out first thing in the morning and straight after he returned home from work. Eventually, he began to notice water damage at the source of the leak. The white ceiling had discolored, turning a dull shade of brown. He checked the weather and realized that it would continue to rain sporadically over the next ten days. The man was worried about the ceiling mildewing and becoming an expensive repair, so he called a local handyman. Unfortunately, the man could not sign to have the repairs done - only his landlord could. It was a frustrating policy. The man called his landlord but could not reach him. He left him a few voicemails, detailing how the damage was becoming progressively worse. The man was clueless as to why his landlord would not return his calls; they usually kept in touch, speaking at least twice a month. Finally, he reasoned that he would not be held accountable for any damages sustained. One night, the man was startled awake by a massive thump. He quickly turned on his bedside lamp, and just vaguely, he could see an overturned table and a large shape laying across it. He sprinted out of his apartment and called the police, gagging at the smell. The man sat in the police station with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a coffee mug resting in his hands. He did know one thing. There had been a dead body in his ceiling, and the water had saturated it so badly that it caved under the weight. So far, the body was unidentifiable due to the rainwater and was being autopsied. While the man waited, he called his landlord and finally reached him, panicking as he explained the situation. His landlord was just as alarmed, and the man
pleaded for him to come to the station while he made his statement. The man paused as a detective crossed over to him, and he lowered his phone, wondering if the body had been identified. His blood ran immediately cold, and he shook his head with terror. The body belonged to Richard Thompson, his landlord, and he had died over a year ago. That's not what disturbed him the most. If his landlord was dead, then who was pretending to be him?
I don't let my son inside the house by murder_1 I haven’t let my six-year-old son into the house in over a year. He’s actually been driving me crazy. I’ve tried lots of things. Earmuffs, headphones with loud music. I’ve tried blindfolds, reading, and Netflix on high-volume. But I’m not sure how long I can do this. I feel like I’m going to slip soon. Tonight, I’ll try writing. The first time he tried to get back in, I was laying in bed. There was a noise. I stared at the ceiling for a while, waiting and listening. Silence. Then there it was again. Noise. Quiet noise, but incessant. Ticking. Then that ticking eventually became scratching. Then back to tapping. Then scratching again. Back and forth. Maddening. So I turned over and looked through the window. There was my son staring in at me through the glass. He wouldn’t stop scraping the pane with his fingernails, which were all black underneath from dirt. I could see his skin had gotten very pale. He was grotesquely skinny now. His eyes were all red-rimmed. “... Let me in, Mommy ...” He whispered it right through the glass, although I was honestly not sure if I only heard it in my head. “... Let me in, Mommy, let me in ... I’m hungry ...” I said, “No, no, no.” I was very upset and very scared. There was no way he could have climbed up the flat brick wall of the apartment, fourteen stories, up to that window. But somehow he was there clinging there like some kind of lizard. If I’d just let him in, though, everything would be okay. I wouldn’t be upset or scared anymore. I’d be in fact very happy because we’d be together again. All I had to do was open the window. I squeezed my eyelids shut, stayed in the bed. “... Mommy … please … let me in ... why won’t you look at me? ...”
“No, baby. No, no.” “... Look at me Mommy ... look at me ...” “I won’t, baby. I can’t. Don’t do this to me. I can’t —” “... Look at me! ...” And for a moment — just a moment — I opened my eyes once more to look at my son for what I believed would be the last time. His face on the other side of the glass starts twitching into an eager grin and he starts pawing the windowpane like a dog. His eyes were huge; black as a squid’s ink. It would be easy, so very easy, to get lost in those eyes. So easy to just get sucked up into them. “... Open up, Mommy ... I’m hungry ...” “No!” I scream. “NO!!” His face twisted into a rictus of animalistic rage. Then he hissed at me, revealing teeth that had grown hideously long and sharp. “... Mommy! Open up! Open up, open up, open up! ...” At that moment, perhaps if I was someone else, I absolutely would have. I would have, if I hadn’t known the truth. And I thank Christ every day that I knew, because that truth planted itself firmly into the reality of what was happening. But I could not look at my son ever again. If I looked again, if I even only glanced again, even that steel-cold dagger of truth wouldn’t matter. I’d get sucked right into those dark eyes. I squeezed my eyelids shut again and turned my back. “... MOMMY!! LOOK AT ME!! ...” His shrieking was horrible and hellish. But now I was sure: its voice echoed only in the warrens of my mind and heart. I got up and ran into the bathroom, locked the door. And for the rest of the evening all I could do was sit on the floor, in the corner, with my palms pressed over my ears against the distant tapping and scraping at the window in my bedroom across the hall. This has gone on for a year. Not every night, but still far too frequently. Sometimes he shows up with a dark substance smeared around his lips and his cheeks. So far, I haven’t opened the window. I’ve been able to distract myself, as I’ve mentioned. But I think I’m getting weaker.
My sanity can only be stretched so far. It feels like it’s fraying like a rope being pulled too hard in opposite directions. I miss him so much. I love him, of course. It’s why I can’t bear to tell anyone our names. A part of me is glad he’s still alive. Yes, I’ll readily admit that. It’s so much better to know that than the truth — the terrible, terrible impossible truth: that a year ago I found him in bed, cold as ice, without a pulse. Yet at the same time, I know it’s not any kind of way to exist. And he doesn’t want my love. No, I don’t think he wants love at all. And he’s still out that window, scratching, begging me ... begging his mother. It’s so difficult. God, I miss him so very much. Even when I try everything I can still hear that tapping, that scratching, the tiny sound ricocheting off the inner-walls of my skull. Maddening ... it’s maddening ... and all I’d have to do is open my eyes, open the window, and say, ‘Come to Momma, sweetie. Come home.’ But I can’t look at him. I can not look. And above all, I can’t invite him inside. That’s how they get you.
At the End of the Line Destiny willed that humanity would find nothing but dust and thorns amidst the squall. From the tree’s hollow we crawled; The truth of our origins we’re forced to haul. Finding comfort among the mass, Together, we choked on reality’s toxic gas. Stripped of all identity, We melded into one entity And united, we breathed in serenity. I once realized that I, too, was part of the flies Only to be drowned out by the deafening roar of their cries: Hymns praising our "divine" defendant, Portrayed resplendent and transcendent, Ringing from the mouth of my descendant. But the truth Is never pure in the eye of the sleuth. I was made to doubt; Made to tread the unholy route; Made to survive amidst knowledge’s drought. Humanity has established a great empire of false hope, Supplementing truth for naive idealism to help them cope. The despair of creation I now know And with enlightenment I glow. The error of our ways, I want to show. I contemplated how to pierce their warped illusion And in the knife's mirror edge, I saw the conclusion. As I messily burrowed into my own brother’s skin, I asked “What have I become?” with a mad grin; Praying that humanity would finally wake up to our sins. For the reason we all breed, plead and bleed Is because we choke out reality with self-deceit's weeds. My family looked at what I had done, The weight of my actions bearing down on them like the sun.
The tears my brother had shed Were in their stead; And upon similar sacrifices, we were lead. Saints, martyrs and innocents alike give their bodies for society to tread: My family was just the next string to be woven into death’s grand thread. Reemerging from deep night, I watched as they succumbed to phobias and fears; Overcome by angst, impossibility courses through their veins and their flesh sears. “My sins are too great to bear,” they said through sneers. The last of them forsook me as the tears I swallow; My brethren retreated back to the hollow. To be ripped away from acceptance's warmth by a mighty bird? I only wanted my voice to be heard, And now the truth has been irrevocably blurred. Sour thoughts spilled in my mind; And to all reason, I am blind. In a lonely cabin, the rope was strung; "Do it; just do it," the voices in my head rung, Until their commands spilled from my necrotic tongue. At the bell’s final toll, I realized my true role. Revelation after revelation had shown That I was truly alone; The solution finally arrived as I sat on my throne. My brethren retreated back to the hollow: "Will I follow?"
I had an imaginary friend as a child by terabytepine My father recently passed away. My mother passed a couple years ago, so it was good to know my father was no longer alone, you know? My older sisters and I were going through their things, cleaning up the house, basically going through the motions as each of us dealt with it in our own ways. We started to find all the nostalgic things my parents had kept throughout the years. My sister Riley found her teddy bear and immediately broke down. Can't say I didn't cry a little over it too seeing her hold it again. My other sister Lauren found an old bracelet she made with mom. She had put in a box and completely forgot about it, but she wore it the rest of the day. We started to lighten the mood and point out the silly things we were into as kids. I found an old windbreaker suit Lauren had as a kid, it screamed 1980's with its gaudy colors. Lauren then found an old blanket Riley slept with till she was at least 16. We exchanged hardy laughs over how ridiculous we kids were and how our parents ever put up with the crap we were into. The nostalgia really didn't hit me until Riley pulled out a picture I drew when I was probably four or five. I barely remembered making it, but after seeing it all the memories came back. They started to tease me over why I made it. It was for my imaginary friend. I had this imaginary friend, Jeremiah, like every other kid that age. You talk to them, play with them, pretend to do things with them even though they really aren't real. I made a couple drawings for Jeremiah, but this was the only one I kept. I think I was about seven when I finally stopped that whole "imaginary friend" phase. I was probably a little old for an imaginary friend by then, but I was extremely introverted as a kid so my imaginary friend was my release, so to speak. We kept going through all the belongings, but the thought of Jeremiah stayed with me. I didn't necessarily grow out of the imaginary friend thing, I distinctly remember deciding to stop. It was a conscious decision, which was a pretty big deal for a seven year old actually. My parents had something to do with it, but they never really forced me to stop. They also
didn't buy into it whenever I talked about Jeremiah. My sisters continued to tease me about how much I played with Jeremiah, pointing out everything of mine they picked up and asking "so is this yours, or Jeremiah's?". I found it funny for a little bit, and it helped relieve some of the pain at the time. It started to bug me, though, as to why I stopped having an imaginary friend. I couldn't remember the reason. I decided to ask my sisters if they remembered anything about it. Me: "Do you guys remember when I stopped believing in an imaginary friend?" Riley: "Yea, you were like seven or something" Me: "Do you remember why?" Lauren: "You started getting really weird. I think mom and dad told you to stop." Me: "Nah, they just ignored me, I don't remember them ever telling me to stop." Riley: "You did get weird though, saying really creepy stuff for a seven year old." Me: "Haha what? I don't remember this." Lauren: "Yea, you started saying he'd get violent and yell at you." Me: "So you're saying I was a bipolar seven year old?" Lauren: "Well, not you, but your so called imaginary friend Jeremiah. Which I guess was ultimately you, so yea, you were bipolar haha." Me: "Oh ha, ha, real funny" A couple minutes later my brain clicked. Lauren was right, he was getting violent. I thought that was weird as a kid, and it was when he "hit" me that I decided to stop. Even as an introvert I knew friends wouldn't hit each other so I didn't want to have Jeremiah be my friend anymore. I was such a messed up kid, but at least everything made sense now. I set the picture I drew for Jeremiah back into a box to be brought out to the cars. Riley: "Hey guys, look at this." We walked over to her holding an old photo of our parents house. We knew the house itself went through many upgrades and renovations, but we had no idea it was old enough to be taken with an old quarter plate style camera. You know those old black and white photos where everyone had to remain absolutely still, otherwise it'd blur? Kind of along
those lines. I looked over her shoulder and just about had a heart attack. It was a family that had lived in the house long before, and the little boy in the photo looked exactly like how I imagined Jeremiah. Down to the misshapen eye brows, half smile, and everything. I didn't tell my sisters. I helped pack up the rest of the stuff in silence, and half chuckling at their jokes. At the end of the day we packed up the cars, and went home. It was a long day of sifting through memories and feelings. I left everything in the car and wanted to go straight to sleep. I laid in bed thinking about the photograph Riley found. I have no idea where my parents would have even gotten a photograph like that. I kept thinking about it, hoping the more I thought about it the more I'd remember the boy in the picture didn't look like Jeremiah. After an hour of laying wide awake I went out to the car and grabbed the picture I drew for him as a kid. It was an ordinary kid's picture, poorly drawn stick figures, and an almost illegible name in the corner. When I got inside, the house lighting shined through the paper and I saw there was writing on the back. I broke down. Sorry I hit you... - Jeremiah
If Hell exists, I found the gate. by LeoDuhVinci The following is the final entry from Ash Stirling’s journal, the last of his family line, and leader of a crew of thirty that died in a mine collapse resulting in the permanent closing of the mine. Recorded by his maid, who believed him insane. In the first week of eighth grade, my teacher asked my class to research our nationalities. Reinaldo, a seat to my left, said he could track his lineage a hundred years back to his ancestors sailing across Atlantic from Spain. John to my right was half German, and being barely twenty years after the end of world war II, his lineage stopped suspiciously short on his father’s side. Tim was English. Mary, French. Chang, chinese. Then, after calling upon the rest of the class, Ms. Francisco peered above the lip of her clipboard at me with a frown, “Bring your project forward. It’s time for you to present.” Even after one week of school, Ms. Francisco and I had already found several differences between us. Undoubtedly she had heard of me from my teachers reaching back until kindergarten. I knew she had waited to call upon me last after seeing my project, a poster board blank save for four black and white photographs super glued on to a bed of dirt. “This is my father,” I said, pointing at the bottom most picture, which was in color, “Aiden, from the mine. “And this is his father,” I pointed at a black and white photograph of a man with a scraggling beard reaching down to his waist, “Vulcan, from the mine. “And this is his father, Fino, from the mine,” I gestured at a still photo, slightly out of focus, of my great grandfather leaning on his pickaxe. “And his father, Saraph, from the mine,” I finished, pointing to a hand drawn portrait of the earliest ancestor I could find. Despite the years, the age gap, and the errors of the artist’s hand, visitors at my house often remarked on the likeness between myself and him. Perhaps it was the
angle of the nose, the set jaw, or his narrow face. But I thought it was his eyes- searching, always searching from it’s place above the mantelpiece, though his body was long buried in our back yard. “And I am Ash Sterling, a from the mine.” “No, Ash.” Said Ms. Francisco, her voice taking the tone of a lecturing to one who was slower than the rest of the group, “What nationality are you? What country is your family from?” Ms. Francisco had moved here the year prior, and she was unfamiliar with the culture of our town. My family was known as one of the mudwalkers, with a line that stretched back to the opening of the mine. Some people even joked behind our backs, saying that us mud-walkers were so dirty that we crawled out of the mine itself. But we were proud of our heritage. “Here,” I replied, “We’ve been here since the mine began, and no one can remember further.” “Well it’s not like you just popped out here,” Said John, the German, giggling from the front row, “everyone comes from somewhere.” “We’ve been here since the beginning of this town. And everyone does come from somewhere, don’t they, John? Even the nazis.” My foot was in the principal's office before his giggles subsided, and I took the chair I had claimed as my own by the door. I had been there so often that the cushion had begun to conform to the contour of my ass, and my father no longer put up a show to the principal that he cared when he picked me up. “You done did right, Ash,” My father said, a cigarette smouldering out the left side of his mouth, “The mine gave us everything we got, and will continue giving. Like father done said, you just got to dig deeper. We done been here longer than anyone. This is our town. It doesn’t belong to these outsiders.” He flicked the cigarette, and an ember fell on his exposed arm, but his face remained still. A little ember never made us Sterlings flinch. That was twenty five years ago, and today my father coughed the last of the dirt from his lungs before I immersed him six feet under in it. And on his deathbed, he asked me to look behind the portrait of Saraph on the mantel, where I found a small leather bound notebook. Like all things
in our house, dirt fell from the pages as I brought it to his bed. “Ash, don’t never forget who you are. The mine, the mine is our birthright. This is the journal of the grandfather of my father, Saraph. Many said he went insane in his age, but I think he saw some truth. Keep it, it belongs to you now.” I took the journal from my father, and he fell away from this world, a cigarette burning to a stub still in his lips. When tried to lift him from the bed, I knocked over an ashtray on his dresser, and it scattered over his sheets and lifeless form. Despite hours of scrubbing, I never could remove the stains that outlined where his body had rested upon the sheets, and the holes remained where the live embers had burned into the cloth. Sometimes, when I walk past his room deep in the night, I can just smell a whiff of smoke from inside. I had worked in the mine since I was seventeen, and by twenty I was known as one of the best men who had ever set foot in the tunnels. And when my father passed, I took his position as head of our forty member team, known for exploring deeper than the others in search of fresh silver veins. Each night I built a fire in my fireplace, stared at Saraph’s picture with the same searching eyes that would stare back, and read his notebook. Saraph’s words often wound in circles that could well have contributed to why he was deemed mad. But I was determined, and picked out the passages that seemed to bear the most importance. From Entry 1 Thirty of us escaped from that wretched place, and earth has closed behind us. We escaped like none ever had, but left behind treasure, a treasure too heavy to carry. Here we shall build our town. *From Entry 24 The brightest gems are found the deepest. This we know. This we have known, and have seen with our own eyes. And we shall take them. * From Entry 39 Silver from the mine, connect to the silver in us. The pure belongs to us. From Entry 47 The tunnels collapsed overnight with my hope. They seal us off.
The Last Entry We have failed. Soon age will take me. Alas, I am reclaimed. And as the years passed, I drove my team deeper into the mine. I had dreams that filled my mind at night. Dreams of silver below, stretching farther than I could ever reach, to the core of the earth that burned hotter that I could even stand. I had explored all of the deepest regions of the mine but could find no new silver. All the regions but one. “Today we investigate the softer tunnels,” I said, staring out at my team. The majority of the members had families stretching back as long as mine, though there was a click of outsiders who had only been on the team for a generation or two. At my statement, one of them spoke up, his voice crumbling like fresh dirt. “The soft tunnels? The one’s prone to collapsing, without enough stone to hold them steady?” “Those are the ones. The last time they were touched was a hundred years ago, at the opening of the mine. Technology has advanced since then, and we can reach what our fathers could not.” “It’s too dangerous, even now.” He said, and the other outsiders murmured around him in agreement. “We press on, whether you come or not.” Five of the outsiders left our team that day, and our numbers dropped to thirty five. We began carving into the soft tunnels. Progress was fast as the rock here was already broken apart from tunnels that had fallen in years before. And as we dug deeper, we found bones in the rock, bones that looked far too much like my own and were accompanied by mining helmets and tools. On the hard walls I could see where pick axes had once bored into the stone, until even those fell away and the hard rock returned. But then, five weeks into digging, we broke into soft rock again. On these walls I could see the marks of digging utensils unlike I had ever seen. They looked like five prongs rakes, and it took me a day to realize they matched the contours of my own fingernails, and appeared as if they dug up, not down.
Then we found more bones, though these were accompanied by no mining gear. Their ends were scorched, burned into ash that flaked away as we removed them. Dissent grew among the outsiders, and two more quit. “I don’t like it,” Said one of the remaining three, “How’d these bones get here? Ain’t nobody been this deep. Maybe fell through in an earthquake?” “I dunno,” Said the other, his headlamp flickering, “Maybe they ain’t human. Maybe something else lives down here. Some other creature.” The the third whispered, in a voice that echoed down the cave walls and caused even my best men to stir in their boots. “Maybe we should stop digging. Maybe we weren’t meant to dig this far.” Then the writing on the walls began, and though I locked the gates each night, I knew one of the outsiders snuck down into the tunnels after dark to try to scare us away. The first appeared, written in charcoal at most recently unearthed portion of tunnel. Return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return. And the first of the three outsiders quit, cursing his way up the tunnels and back to daylight. We were thirty two. Another week passed, and I found myself sweating so much from the heat that puddles formed in my boots. Then the second message appeared chiseled into the wall. Punishment to the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation. “It’s Exodus,” breathed the second of the outsiders, before he too departed. We were thirty one. Then the last message appeared in silver writing. Greed brought you down here, and greed will bring you back. The last outsider left, and we were thirty. But even as the air grew thinner, the tunnels warmer, and the earth looser, I commanded my men to dig deeper. Today I struck iron, and we dug about it, revealing an archway embedded into the rock. There was no writing on it, and I cannot be certain it was human made, but I have never seen something so well formed in nature. Tomorrow we mine through the archway, and we find silver. I feel it in
my bones.
Never Take Advice from the Toilet Stall Graffiti by Human_Gravy “God, why does this shit happen to me?” Ian drunkenly shouted with his head in the toilet. With a mighty heave, the contents of his stomach splashed into the unsavory hodgepodge of waste that only a broken toilet at a hole-in-the-wall bar could amass. Ian rose from the porcelain prayer position and as he left the stall, his eyes went to the graffiti on the bathroom door: “Don’t worry. There are plenty of fish in the sea” It was like magic. He suddenly didn’t care about Stacy leaving him anymore. He felt better, way better, in fact. It wouldn’t last. A week later, Ian was back at the bar again, drinking away the shame of getting fired for having sexual harassment complaints filed against him at work by several co-workers. “God, why does this shit happen to me?” Ian cried. Another night of too much alcohol forced him over in the clogged toilet. He was certain his vomit from last time was still floating in there. He saw the graffiti from last time was crossed out and replaced with: Choose a job you love, and you’ll never have to work a day in your life As he read those words, the shame magically disappeared. He could do better, much better, in fact. It wouldn’t last. A month later, Ian was back again. He couldn’t find a job he loved and the rent was past due. “God, why does this shit happen to me?” Ian questioned and then vomited again. The graffiti was crossed off once more and replaced with: No need to worry. It will all be over soon
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
The only magic trick I know by manen_lyset When I was a kid, the only thing I wanted to be when I grew up was a magician. As it turns out, being a magician takes patience, practice, discipline, timing, and, of course, showmanship. None of which I was ever good at. Forget being a master of illusions, I was a master of trying once, failing, and never trying again. I only ever managed to learn one magic trick. A real show-stopper. The first time I did it was on my wife, and it went great! I was elated. Later on, I did it on a business partner. Then, a few friends found out about it, so I performed it to some and for others. Every time, it went off without a hitch. This trick doesn’t require sleight of hand like most magic tricks do, so it’s not toochallenging for a first-timer, but it does require a bit of misdirection and some upper body strength. Not everyone can do it, is what I’m getting at. If you want to see it done right, you should come to a professional. And who better than me? I’ve had years of practice perfecting this magic trick. I’ve got it down to a science. I promise, you’ll be blown away. If you’re willing to pay a reasonable fee, I’ll gladly perform it in front of any audience of your choosing. Just give me a name and a place. So, if you want me to show you how to make a body disappear, come on down to Hamid’s Oriental Rug Bazaar and ask for Mikey. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. No refunds.
How to feel more human by manen_lyset It's normal to be a little down in the dumps after surgery. I spent months in recovery after my procedure, watching from afar as people walked around and enjoyed their lives. The world kept turning with or without me, and I started to feel more alone than I ever had in my entire life. I spent endless hours wasting away the day behind my monitor as staff administered IV treatments, checked up on me, changed my bandages, gave me sponge baths, and swapped my hospital gowns. Nothing but white walls as far as the eye could see. I felt weak. I felt less than human. It's no surprise I fell into depression. As though sensing my angst, the nurse came in yesterday with a bag of clothes. She smiled and said, "Let's get you dressed. You'll see, it'll make you feel more human!" And, you know what? She was right. It's hard to imagine, but something as simple as getting out of a hospital gown and into a pair of jeans can make a hugedifference for emotional well-being. Clothes don't make the man, but they do make me feel much more human. They raised my morale. I was a cake without icing -unappealing and incomplete-, and the clothes made me feel whole. They were the icing on the cake, as they say. I feel much more human now that I look more like them. They'll never know I'm not until it's too late.
Everybody Who is Dead BY FRANK STANFORD When a man knows another man Is looking for him He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t wait To spend another night With his wife Or put his children to sleep. He puts on a clean shirt and a dark suit And goes to the barber shop To let another man shave him. He shuts his eyes Remembers himself as a boy Lying naked on a rock by the water. Then he asks for the special lotion. The old men line up by the chair And the barber pours a little In each of their hands.
Flies on Shit BY FRANK STANFORD To the gentlemen from the south to the tourists from the north who write poems about the south to the dumb-ass students I’d like to ask one lousy question have you ever seen a regatta of flies sail around a pile of shit and then come back and picnic on the shit just once in your life have you heard flies on shit because I cut my eye teeth on flies floating in shit
You BY FRANK STANFORD Sometimes in our sleep we touch The body of another woman And we wake up And we know the first nights With summer visitors In the three storied house of our childhood. Whatever we remember, The darkest hair being brushed In front of the darkest mirror In the darkest room.
The Wolves BY FRANK STANFORD at night while the dogs were barking Baby Gauge and I crawled under the fence with knives we made out like the rattlesnake melons were men we didn’t like the new moon ones were wolves I would cut a belly this way he would cut a belly that way the flies came around the sweet juice it was blood to us we tasted it we licked it off the blades we decided not to kill the wolves we wanted to be wolves we stuck the knives in the ground the moon shined on them we turned the pilot caps inside out so the fur would show that way when we crawled under the bob wire a little piece would get caught we wouldn’t though we wanted to leave trails but no scents we tore the melons open we licked the blood off our paws we wanted to be wolves and in the morning all those dead men with their hearts eat out
What About This BY FRANK STANFORD A guy comes walking out of the garden Playing Dark Eyes on the accordian. We’re sitting on the porch, Drinking and spitting, lying. We shut our eyes, snap our fingers. Dewhurst goes out to his truck Like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing And brings back three-half-pints. A little whirlwind occurs in the road, Carrying dust away like a pail of water. We’re drinking serious now, and O.Z. Wants to break in the store for some head cheese, But the others won’t let him. Everybody laughs, dances. The crossroads are all quiet Except for the little man on the accordian. Things are dying down, the moon spills its water. Dewhurst says he smells rain. O.Z. says if it rains he’ll still make a crop. We wait there all night, looking for rain. We haven’t been to sleep, so the blue lizards On the side of the white porch Lose their tails when we try to dream. The man playing the music looks at us, Noticing what we’re up to. He backs off, Holding up his hands in front, smiling, Shaking his head, but before he gets half way Down the road that O.Z. shoots him in the belly. All summer his accordian rotted in the ditch, Like an armadillo turning into a house payment.
Part 3 Watch: How Zoology Disproves Noahs Flood by Aronra (Youtube)
Weariness of Men BY FRANK STANFORD My grandmother said when she was young The grass was so wild and high You couldn’t see a man on horseback. In the fields she made out Three barns, Dark and blown down from the weather Like her husbands. She remembers them in the dark, Cursing the beasts, And how they would leave the bed In the morning, The dead grass of their eyes Stacked against her.
The Truth BY FRANK STANFORD Nicanor Parra I’m not going to lie Through my teeth to you Like the poets from Minnesota, The South, and the West, And New York City. Most of all in life I would like to fuck a thirteen-year-old again, And I don’t have any hesitations About saying I’d rather be Marlon Brando Than I would T. S. Eliot, etc. I have more respect for Muhammad Ali Than any other living man. Of course I’ve tried Esquire, But my shoes aren’t platforms And I don’t know shit about canoes. Although I can’t prove it, Most poets work for the highway dept. There are more of them than there are Flies and engineers. And I stink like a dead mule under an overpass.
The Arkansas Prison System BY FRANK STANFORD Is like a lyric poem with seven basic themes first the cottonpicker dragging behind it a wagon of testicles a pair of pliers which can fill in for a cross in a pinch then there is the warm pond between the maiden’s thighs next we have some friends of yours and mine who shall be with us always Pablo the artist the pubis of the moon Pablo the cellist panther of silence Pablo the poet the point of no return and in case of emergency the seventh and final theme of this systematic poem is the systematic way death undresses in front of you
Cold Dark Corner by Blake Duffy There's a cold dark corner in the back of my room, it speaks to me and says I'm coming for you. As I lie on my bed in the fetal position, my eyes are closed hoping and wishing. Maybe that one day my dreams will come true, that I don't have to be here so down and blue. The corner keeps talking about how I'm going to die, all I can do is lie there and cry. As the corner gets closer and takes me in, my soul starts to burn as so does my skin. My bones shall lie there turning to dust, my bed surrounding nothing but rust.
I Will Wear Masks by Joe Dirt In times of trouble and insanity I carry masks to disguise the pain I carry secure behind my eyes I can never let out again the misery I hide to hell with my dignity to hell with my pride from this day forward and for ever more I will mount this mask that will be my lore No reaching out when I am weak no solace will I seek when you look for answers when you say your prayers all you will see is masks and no pain that I bare.
Burn The Beauty by Elizabeth McCrorie One does not own beauty, One creates it. In their dreams They feel they can obtain it. All alone, in a dark nights rest. All their thoughts..... Lifeless. Cursed by change Hidden by lies, Running from the truth Beauty now dies. They don't understand They don't really care. Beauty now burns Smoke in the air. Years go by And age seeps in. Beauty's worn out Life is giving in. Death creeps up, Beauty now cries. You're all alone In your beautiful lies!
Losing Myself by Remnant My eyes close I'm holding onto my memories and hatred. my slumber all alone in my head... so silent. I can't explain the way my tears run blood along my veins if I let go of my pain I'll cease to be, give into the plague... war is coming, I can hear it in my heart blood will flow along the grounds of the innocent, I can't deceive the darkness anymore... I'm letting go, I'm losing control of myself... you beat me down, so low and now I'm crying my soul I'm losing control. you led me to a place where I can't feel my face... death is just an anesthetic for what's to come a body left behind with no face feeling numb
all alone I cry here fading into nothing all alone I lie here dying... ...losing myself...
Darkness' Grasp by Leah Sarah-May Wells I'm swimming all alone in a pool of darkness and I feel like darkness is slowly pulling me under I yell for help but no one is there to hear it I begin to see the water at eye level and I kick and flail fighting to stay above the darkness But the darkness won't let go of its hold on me and I slowly begin to give in to the feeling that lies below the water line the waters starts to fill my lungs the lungs that once held so much life yet now they allow the murky water to replace that I know that this path doesn't lead to happiness But why doesn't someone grab my hand pull me from darkness's grasp? because no one knows I stand at the boundary the boundary between light and dark so I give in to the thing that holds me All of the strength and all of the courage that I once held in my heart can't save me from the water So I slowly slip below the world of conscientiousness undetected by the occupants of that world I don't want to fight anymore I've given into darkness
Just A Small Cut by Kassie Crimson red fills the bowl and I think I'm going to be sick. With every thing spinning so fast I cannot breath. Walls closing in and everything fades. Fashes of light come by, one, by one. Feeling sleepy not knowing your name. Not knowing mine. There it is. my favorite thing of all this, ah the feeling of pain is gone from before and new form enters me. Laying here waiting for you to come home. I open my eyes and see flashes of you and me from before you went. You walk inside. You call to me and wait for an answer. You hear small light breaths coming from the bathroom. thinking it is me, you walk down the hall with a smile. the kind that makes your knees go week. You walk in. Oh god, is all you can think. I'm trying to look up at you but I can't move. a cold chill comes over me as you pick me up. You say we are going to the hospital and that everything will be ok. You rush me in. Blood running down. The nurse rushes you to a bed so I can lay down. I can hear you asking her something. But I can't make out the words. I feel something cold and wet touch my face then my arm. I feel the prick of a sharp object go in my right arm. The nurse says that I need stitches because the wound is to deep. I feel the thread go in and out through my arm. And a band-aid go around and around. After I have slept for two days they let you in. I can move again and open my eyes. You say that I got 76 stitches because the cuts were way to deep.
And that I almost died. I pull off the band-aid and look. I see over 20 cuts and begin to cry. You tell me its ok and we will get some help. About 5 years later. We have two to deal with ourselves. Jake and Emma. A beautiful baby boy and baby girl. The scars are still there. Some times I wish I could go back 5 years and change what I did do so I can make it right.
THE ICE CREAM MAN Little Johnny got a fudge pop laced with razors. Susan got an orange pop filled with hydrochloric acid. Billy got Dip N’ Dots dipped in fire ant poison. 97 more to go. A new park everyday; new deaths every night. He was careful, always making false leads, always covering his tracks. He was clever, he was quick. He always made sure the poisons varied, so there was never a link to the ice cream. The hydrochloric acid took two days to kick in and the fire ant poison started as flu like symptoms. The razors, well, he just threw those in as a nod to the old classic poison scheme. He liked keeping them close, but not too close. Anti-freeze lemon pops; those took a while to perfect, but in the end, he got it right. The chocolate bon-bons that turned them into cement from the inside out he had bought from a fellow down off Bourbon Street. They had cost a heavy penny, but it was worth it, as it took his count down to 80. In Ashland, Oregon, he mixed a variety of snow cone flavors with sap from the Chobani Tree, causing them to dissolve into mulch the minute their little fingers touched warm water. This brought him down to 50. Picturing the mothers scream as their children dissolved before their eyes at bath time made his stomach clench, but he couldn’t stop. Not with 50 left to go. Klondike bars injected with South Sea Coneshell venom were next. That one was good; it took almost two weeks for the poison to be absorbed, and by that time, it was too late. The newspapers of Bodi, California called it the most deadly virus of the year; he called it numbers 39-49. A tar like substance called Godtish that he bought from a wicked looking gypsy filled in the two weeks that it took the venom to work. That went into the Spongebob Squarepants pineapple pops. It shrunk them so little, not even the most powerful microscope on earth could see them. Godtish brought him down to 20. Jakku seeds went into the sprinkles. Almost every one of the children in the small town of Arnold, California asked for sprinkles. Never before had Arnold seen such a string of mass child suicides. But it was only a
tragedy to them, as his count went down to nine. He was in the home stretch now, so he picked his victims carefully. The twins from Lakeshore got two cones of arsenic. The lonely boy in East Palo Alto got a frozen black widow in his grape popsicle. Baby Gretchen got the last of the Chobani sap. Five more to go. He was parked outside Stafford Park. He watched carefully as children ran in and out of the water sprinklers. Then he turned on his music. They came to him like flies to honey. Parents smiled appreciatively as they handed him their money, oblivious to whom they were actually smiling at. The girl in the pink swimsuit got a chocolate ice cream with Jakku sprinkles. A boy named Nancy bought a Mickey Mouse Pop with rattlesnake venom. A brother bought him and his sister matching Spongebob pops. Anticipating the arrival of the last of his victims, a familiar face caught the man off guard. “Daddy?� The man smiled sadly, and then handed the boy his ice cream. 1 more to go. CREDIT: Kathleen Stahler
THE ORACLE Note: I lost interest... along the lines.. This is roughly a true story. True in that it was told to me by my father, rough in that his memory had decayed with age, leaving his recollection of the year 1975 a bit scarred. He asked me to write it down a few years back, but I never wanted to. I’m not much of a writer, and in all honesty his story disturbed me deeply. He died last month (though his death is unrelated to this story), but I wouldn’t feel right if I did not honor what he had asked of me. What follows is his story in his own words. Again, I have no real way to determine the veracity of any of it, but I know my father believed it. Whether or not you do is your decision. Your great grandfather built the railroad. There was a piece of it that ran behind our house, and if you followed it far enough, you would find The Oracle – if you believed in that sort of thing. No one I knew personally had met him, but everyone’s cousin’s best friend’s boyfriend had their own story to tell. Accounts varied wildly –he was either a man or something much worse, either in a decaying old house or an abandoned train car, or perhaps standing in the middle of the tracks, bathed in a halo of sunlight that shot out from his body like lightning. There was no coherent version of him, which may have been his doing; a way of getting people to search for him if only to figure out the truth. One afternoon, my good friend and I were walking along the railroad tracks. We both knew the legend, of course, but neither of us were looking to find him. We were in our twenties at the time, home from college for the summer. There wasn’t that much to do in small towns back then, so one afternoon, we decided to see where the old railroad, which had been quiet for years, went. We figured that as long as we stayed close to the tracks, we couldn’t get lost, because they would lead us right back to town. We had been walking for a while when the horizon bent around in an odd shape that cast unnatural shadows against the afternoon sky. As we approached, the shape in the distance grew into an old wooden table draped in a white lace cloth, unmoving despite the breeze. A man sat
facing us. His face was sheathed in the shadows of an strangely deepening evening. It seemed as though the sun went down faster the closer we got, and that if we turned and walked the other way, it would rise again. My friend and I exchanged a glance, remembering the old stories. The man was tall and thin, with a prominent brow and jawline, both of which were accentuated by deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks. He wore an old man’s suit, crisp and fitted, of the kind that were only dusted off for special occasions. It reminded me of the one my cousin was buried in two years before. “Sit,” he gestured to the two empty chairs across from him, “please.” His voice was smooth, inviting yet commanding. There was a hidden power beneath its surface. Against my better judgment, I felt compelled to take a seat. I made a mental note that the way home was behind us. He smiled as we joined him and turned to me, “Would you like a consult or a vision?” I glanced toward my friend, who was seated next to me, to confirm that this was really happening. He looked just as confused as I felt. The Oracle snapped his fingers, “Don’t look at him. Look at me.” “Would you like a consult or a vision?” His voice was firmer this time. I knew that I would have to choose. “A vision,” I told him. “Excellent!” The Oracle grinned. He cupped my face in his hands, and at his touch, I felt an electric, buzzing energy radiating from his fingertips. He pulled that energy from the air around him and directed it into my body. Though I felt like I was convulsing, I was rigid in my seat, paralyzed by the Oracle’s touch. Then, I felt my eyes roll back as I slipped under. I awoke in a stairwell, walking downward. My footsteps echoed hollowly, and my lungs were clogged with the thick scent of copper. I walked down several floors, but the stairs continued with no end in sight. Peering over the handrail, I stared down an infinite depth and shuddered at the sudden thought of myself pitching forward, over the railing and into the darkness below. As I walked down, a man walked up past me. The next level down, he passed me again. I recognized him from his suit –it was the Oracle. This went on for several floors. I began to walk faster, but he matched my pace. We continued to pass each other. Eventually, I was
sprinting down the stairwell, and he was running up at me, our steps creating a cacophony of clangs on the metal stairs. I must have traveled dozens of floors down when I turned and began to run up the stairs in an attempt to throw him off my trail. It was like he had planned every move I made. He had built this stage and directed every action; perhaps he even chose my own thoughts. As I ran up, he ran in the opposite direction. It was much more unsettling to see him running down. His menacing figure loomed taller than before. Suddenly, the Oracle launched forward and pinned me against the railing, threatening to push me over the edge. Again, I was paralyzed. He held me tightly, like a paper airplane crushed in the unyielding fist of a toddler. A loud clanging shadowed every movement, even the slightest of breaths; it overwhelmed me –steel-toed shoes drumming on metal stairs, a molten gaze so hot it burned my eyes to meet it, the grim assurance of a metal handrail against my back that the metal ground was far below, the frantic words reverberating off metal walls, the gnashing of metallic teeth, and the wailing of a quicksilver tongue. “Two days from now,” his words seemed to come from somewhere else, like they had traveled a long way before reaching his mouth. “Two days from now, are you listening?” I could not move. I could not speak. “Two days from now –that’s June 27th– will be a very important day.” “What’s going to happen?” I asked. “This is just a vision. I can’t tell you. You should have asked for a consult.” The Oracle tightened his grip and brought his face mere inches from mine. I still could not move. The railing bowed beneath our weight and as if at his command, snapped. I fell headfirst into the darkness. As I fell, the air became thicker, heavier almost, and at some point, I was no longer falling downward but upward. The cold ground became an unattainable sky. I was suspended in midair. The Oracle was gone. I dared to take a breath, but my lungs filled with water. Beneath me was an infinite darkness; above me hung the sun, a pinprick in the swirling surface of the water. It cast a single spotlight that illuminated me. Beneath me, the ghostly white figure of the Oracle appeared, his arms outstretched toward my dangling feet. I scrambled for the surface. It was
like climbing a mountain. The weight of the water held me in place like a writhing ant under a forceful thumb. My ascent was slow and agonizing, but I escaped before he could grab me. The moment I broke the surface was accompanied by the blaring of a car horn, so loud it shook the water. I returned to my body, which I had left slumped over the table. I began to cough up water in between each gasping breath. The sun had almost disappeared entirely in the time I was inside that twisted dream world. How long had we been gone? Surely someone will come looking for us, I told myself. All they would have to do is follow the tracks. A troubling thought occurred to me. Would anyone be able to find us? Was this reality, or just another trick of the mind like the stairwell? Had we left the real world for good? Leaping up from the table, I went to grab my friend and pull him away when the Oracle pointed at me. “Sit down!” he commanded. Every muscle in his body tensed, coiled like a cobra poised to strike. Reluctantly, I sank back into my chair. Satisfied, the Oracle turned to my friend, “Would you like a consult or a vision?” “Don’t!” I warned. “It’s not your turn!” The Oracle hissed. He returned his venomous eyes to my friend and repeated, “Would you like a consult or a vision?” I shook my head, pleading him not to answer, to just get up and run home, but I think we both knew that would be no use. “A consult,” he said. “Excellent!” Just like he had done with me, the Oracle placed his hands on either side of my friend’s face. When he pulled him away, his eyes stared straight ahead as if he were in a trance. The Oracle stared at him intently for a few moments. I wanted so badly to get up and run, but I couldn’t leave my friend. It was dark now, darker than I had ever seen the night. I could not see the moon or any stars. Part of me worried that I was still asleep and that this was more of my vision. My friend’s mouth moved as if he were speaking, but no sound came out. The Oracle seemed to understand what he was saying. He
nodded solemnly and brought his hands to his face once again. Suddenly, my friend snapped awake and began screaming. He shot up from the table and sprinted away. I followed closely behind him, not looking back. We ran for what felt like hours and did not stop until we reached my house. We raced inside, slammed the door behind us, and locked it. My heart still racing, I peeked out of the window. The train tracks were empty. The Oracle had not followed. I told my friend what I saw during my turn and then asked him what happened in his. “It was weird, man. When I went under, I woke up, like… outside of my body. I was like a ghost or something. I could move around, but I wasn’t really there. I couldn’t interact with anything. I tried to touch the table, but my hand went right through.” He was silent for a moment, probably wondering whether or not he wanted to tell me the rest. “I saw my mother, but I… I don’t think it was my mother, if that makes sense. She looked just like her, but you met my mom. She was a nice lady.” My friend’s mom had died when he was a child. I couldn’t help but wonder how the Oracle knew. My vision was something that he could have shown anyone, but how did he manage to create an experience that was so specific to my friend? “She looked like my mom and sounded just like her, though she was translucent, much like me. But the things she said weren’t things my mother would ever say. They were cruel. She told me that she hated me and that she was glad about what was going to happen.” “What’s going to happen?” I asked. “She said I’m going to die.” My friend looked terrified. “Did she say when? Or how?” “No. I tried to ask, but then the Oracle brought me back.” Again, he was quiet. Then, he leaned closer to me, afraid that someone could be listening in on our conversation, and asked, “Do you think it’s true?” “No,” I said. “I mean, it can’t be. He was just some freak that messed with our heads. Maybe he drugged us or something.” I wanted to believe what I had said, but I couldn’t shake the dread that still lingered in the pit of my stomach. I drove my friend home and went to bed. I felt better in the morning,
but not totally normal. I was still freaked out. We decided not to tell anyone about what had happened because we knew no one would believe it. It would be better for us to just ride this thing out and get on with our lives. June 27th finally came. I didn’t leave my house. I was determined to prove the Oracle wrong. This was not going to be a big day; it was going to be as boring as I could make it. That evening, my friend called and asked if I wanted to catch a movie. I said I wasn’t feeling up to it and went to bed early, eager to get the day over with. If nothing happened on June 27th, the Oracle was wrong. I was relieved when I woke up on June 28th. My life was back to normal again, and I felt like I could finally forget about what happened that day out on the train tracks. But when I went down to get breakfast, my mom was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me. She told me that my friend was in a car accident last night. On his way home from the movies, another driver fell asleep at the wheel and drifted into the wrong lane. He swerved to avoid a head-on collision, but his car broke through the guard rail and fell into the lake. He drowned. A wave of dread passed over me, and I felt like I was going to throw up. The memories of our encounter with the Oracle flooded back to me all at once. Even all these years later, I still think about that summer. I don’t know if the Oracle told use those things because they were going to happen or if he made them happen himself. I still wonder if everything would have turned out the same way if we hadn’t sat down at that table. CREDIT: K. Brown
A Questionable Glory Hole This is some kinda of fucked up masturbating story... come on...
“We don’t have time for this!” Art, Reilly’s father, shouted. “We’re almost home. Can’t you hold it?” “Dad!” Reilly hollered back, his muscles tense, beads of cold sweat popping out on his pockmarked forehead. “It can’t wait!” “Jesus Christ, we’re already a half hour late,” Art muttered, and swerved his old Subaru off the New Jersey Turnpike into an old rest area that’d been closed for as long as he could remember. “If the door’s locked, you can sh*t outside around back,” he instructed, as Reilly bolted out of the car and waddled across the littered parking lot toward the men’s room. “Poor b*stard’s not gonna make it,” he thought. “Please don’t be locked, please don’t be locked, please d–” Reilly thought, clenching everything he had to avoid a humiliating disaster. The door to the bathroom was not locked. Not anymore, at least. An
old Master Lock lay in pieces on the chipped tile floor. There was no electricity; the only light coming in was from the clearly-unwashed skylights. The air, if what he was breathing could be considered such, was thick and fetid. Used. None of that mattered. The nearest stall was open, and a grimecaked, waterless toilet, beckoned. He barged in, dropped his pants, and let go. He sat, his elbows on his legs and his hands pressed against his eyes, until his body allowed him to move again. He sighed with relief and moved his hands, finally taking in the filth of the room around him. It’d been a long time since anyone had cleaned the place, but not long since it’d been used. With a feeling of disgust, he glanced over to where the toilet paper should have been. Then he saw it. “What the f*ck!” Reilly exclaimed, pulling the front of his shirt down and clamping his legs shut. An eye was studying him from a jagged hole in the stall. “Um, can I have some privacy please?” he stammered. The eye blinked. Its veiny lid took a full second to close and open again. “Dude, come on.” Outside, Reilly’s dad honked the horn twice. It was the universal “get moving” signal. But Reilly wasn’t paying attention to his dad. There were sounds coming from the other stall. Wet, squelching sounds. Not the intestinal cacophony that’d been emanating from his own stall, but doubtless biological. Whatever they were, he couldn’t place them. The closest thing he could think of was the time he’d tried to chew a whole six-foot ribbon of Bubble Tape when he was eleven. It was a similar noise, but still unique. Unsettling. The eye moved around lazily, studying Reilly and the stall around him. He wondered how it was possible the person on the other end hadn’t been put off by the performance he’d just given. The entire bathroom was borderline uninhabitable. Just then, Reilly heard breathing. It started off as sighs, but then grew labored and intense. “Oh gross,” he thought. In another hole, maybe an inch above the one housing the eye, something moved. “What the…” he wondered.
Thick, wet lips pushed through the hole. A tongue slid out from between them, long and swollen and red. A heavy strand of saliva dangled from its tip. Reilly yelped. It wasn’t the sight of the mouth that frightened him. It was the orientation. How a mouth could be so close to, as well as above, an eye, confused and disoriented him. He’d had enough. There was no toilet paper in the stall. A wadded, crusty copy of an adult magazine lay open on the floor like a felled bird. He tore out a redhead and dragged her along his backside, then hiked up his pants and ran out of the stall. He could’ve sworn a soft voice followed him as he left. “Come and hide and seek.” Back outside, as he hustled to the car, he could see his father was furious. “Your sister’s party started an hour ago!” he bellowed, his voice clear through the open windows. Reilly got in the car and the shouting continued. “Christ almighty, it’s bad enough I have to drive all the way out here to get you because your sh*tbox car sh*t the bed, now your mother’s gonna be pissed at me because I can’t help her with a house full of screaming kids. God damn it, Reilly.” Reilly didn’t say anything. He was replaying the events from inside the stall. What the f*ck had he seen? Art snarled and hissed while they made their way to the exit, then turned right twice to double back on the tree-lined road to their house. The woods looked extra foreboding on the cloudy September day. Reilly knew those woods. They spanned from his backyard all the way to the Turnpike about a mile away. Art sped down the road until they reached their driveway. As they pulled in, they saw hordes of ten-year olds running and playing in the front yard. Leah, Reilly’s mother, stood on the porch. The forced smile stretched across her face did little to hide the stress and irritation she felt. “I’ll f*ckin’ kill them both for leaving me with all this,” Leah thought, as she watched her husband and son pull into the driveway. “You stink,” Art commented to Reilly before they exited the car. “Go take a shower and I’ll deal with your mother and the kids. I want you here to clean up once Hailey’s party’s over. Don’t think about going anywhere.” “Yeah, yeah,” Reilly murmured, and they headed toward Leah, whose
smile couldn’t compete with the glare of disdain she was leveling at them. Reilly walked past her without saying a word. He went inside just in time to hear the beginnings of the whispered argument between his parents. “How the hell was I supposed to know his car wouldn’t…” Reilly shut the door. The house was quiet. Everyone was outside playing. From the kitchen window, he saw Hailey in the middle of the yard, ordering around her assembled acolytes. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. He did stink. Discarded, rest-area smut does not a good bathroom tissue make. Reilly trudged up the stairs toward the shower. He stripped, adjusted the water, and stepped in. The steam enveloped him in a cocoon of moisture. He stood under the showerhead, letting the cleansing water run down his body as his mind returned to that filthy stall. He couldn’t stop thinking about that mouth. The eye was disgusting, but it wasn’t particularly disturbing to him. He knew there were perverts out there. It didn’t surprise him that on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike there was a creep who, for whatever reason, wanted to watch a sixteen-year old on the toilet. Gross, but whatever. The mouth was an entirely different story. Even disregarding the fact it was above the eye, which Reilly had written off as being a second person who must’ve been practically on top of the guy with the eye, there was an aspect to it that was lurid. P*rnographic. He’d seen his share of p*rn. He was sixteen, for Christ’s sake. But he didn’t have any sexual experiences of his own. Nothing beyond a grope here or a squeeze there – nothing that ever turned into anything more than lonely bedtime jerk-off session. Reilly hung his head and closed his eyes. He imagined the redness of those lips. Not artificial red. Not lipstick — but red from blood pulsing under skin that shone with a silky sheen of slick saliva despite the dimness of that dank room. And the tongue. The muscular, agile tongue hanging low between those wet lips, a long strand of drool with a fat droplet at the end threatening to break off and splatter on the cold floor. Why had he been shown that mouth? Reilly opened his eyes and realized he’d been stroking himself throughout his recollection. He was deeply aroused by the thought of that mouth. The context of it didn’t matter – the sh*tty bathroom, the watching
eye – he didn’t care. He wanted that mouth. And he knew it wanted him. He emptied his balls into the drain of his family’s shower as muffled shrieks of the partygoers bled into the din of splashing water. Reilly washed himself and got out. He toweled off and put on a fresh set of clothes before joining his parents downstairs. The kids had come back inside. It was cake time. Fourteen girls sang “Happy Birthday” while Reilly’s mind drifted back to the stall. The mouth, again. This time, though, it wasn’t its shape and wetness. Rather, what it said as he rushed out of the bathroom. Words he’d only partially heard and had tried to reconstruct. “Come and hide and seek” didn’t sound right to him. It didn’t make much sense. He was being watched, after all, so there wasn’t much hiding being done. It only occurred to him after his shower that the words might have been, “come inside and see.” “Come inside and see” was better, but it was ominous to him. Nebulous, too. It could mean a lot of different things – one of which, and his teenage brain couldn’t help but think it, was that it wasn’t just two creeps on the other side of that stall, but some kind of monster. Reilly snickered to himself as a slice of cake on a paper Steven Universe plate was pushed in his direction. “The girls in p*rn are the ones who say ‘come inside,’ dummy. And that voice was soft and hot. I bet it was a woman and her husband who gets off on watching his wife service other guys. And I missed out.” Frustrated, Reilly went through the celebratory motions an older brother needs to perform at his younger sister’s party. He endured her friends, obeyed the orders of his parents, and, when the party was over, cleaned. It was after dark when everything was finished. “I’m going upstairs,” Leah announced. “I’ve done enough today. Happy Birthday, sweetie.” She kissed Hailey on the forehead and left the room. “I’m right behind you,” Art said, and followed her. Reilly was left with his sister, who was playing her new Zelda game. She was ignoring him, which was not unusual. It’s what he’d been counting on. It meant he could go do what he’d been planning since Hailey had blown out her candles. He grabbed a flashlight and left the house. No one heard him leave.
He walked out into the quiet night, toward the woods. Toward the New Jersey Turnpike. Reilly had taken this route in the past. He’d even seen the old rest stop, but had never given it a second thought. Now, though, it was his first thought. His only thought. “Will they be there?” he wondered. “Could they have waited?” Part of him knew the answer. They’d be there. They’d waited. It’s what they’d been waiting for all day. It’s what they were craving as much as he – the man’s wide, watchful eye and his wife’s wet, inviting mouth. Reilly fondled himself as he walked, too turned on to help it. It would be his first. He’d seen it so often in p*rn, but it was never anything more than a detached fantasy. A fiction that never involved him. This was different. She wanted him. Him. “Come inside and see,” the voice whispered throughout his reeling mind as he speed-walked through the woods toward the sound of traffic. After a little over a half hour, he saw the Turnpike. On his left, about a quarter mile away, he saw the rest stop. Cars and trucks raced by, ignoring the dilapidated stop with the prominent “Closed For Renovations” sign that had kept all but the most desperate travelers away for the last fifteen years. His speed walk turned into a jog, then a run. He ended the journey in an all-out sprint, rushing up to the men’s room door and pushing it open before stepping inside. It was pitch black, aside from the beam of his flashlight. The only sound came from the traffic outside, but that seemed far away. “Hello?” Reilly gulped. He was panting from his run. And sweating. Through his jeans, his erection jutted out in front of him like a divining rod. No one answered. The air was offensive and fetid. Hot, too. Much hotter than it had been earlier in the day. He crept past the useless sinks toward the stall from before. The stench of what he’d left in that nonfunctioning toilet was nauseating, but no nausea was strong enough to overcome the desire he felt. The desire was colossal, overmastering sense and logic and sanity. He was a teenage boy who was certain he was about to have his first sexual experience, and it was all he knew. All he was. “Hello?” he called again. The word hung in the thick air, refusing to echo off the filthy surfaces of the bathroom. He opened the stall door and
shined the flashlight around. The holes were still there. One right on top of the other, just a few feet above the floor. “Waist height,” Reilly realized. The beam of light moved from left to right, over and over and over, and he noticed he was trembling. “Are…are you still there?” he asked, ready to check the other stall to see if the couple was waiting for him. Before he could, the eye appeared in the bottom hole. “Yes,” Reilly hissed. “Yes. I’m ready.” “Come inside and see,” a voice sighed from the other side. “Come inside.” Two plump, crimson lips pushed through the other hole. They were dripping with saliva as thick as corn syrup and shone in the dim light like sun glinting off an apple after a rainstorm. “Come…..inside.” Reilly watched as strands of saliva stretched, unbroken, between her lips as her mouth formed the words. The eye looked back at him. “I want you,” he whispered. Her long tongue slipped out from between her lips and stood outward, erect, waving back and forth as a trail of drool leaked from its entire surface in a clear ribbon. Reilly placed the flashlight on the back of the toilet and dropped his pants around his ankles, exposing himself to the eye on the other side. Its pupil dilated. The salivation from the mouth above intensified. He could feel heat emanating from it like a small furnace. He closed his eyes and stepped forward. The tip of the tongue brushed over his erection and Reilly gasped. He knew if he hadn’t masturbated earlier, he would have climaxed right there and then. But he could take his time, now. He could savor this. Reilly stepped forward again and let the mouth and tongue envelop him. The sensation was beyond anything he’d experienced – beyond anything he’d even fantasized. It felt as if his entire body were being bathed in the sanctifying warmth of the hot, willing mouth. He moaned and writhed with shocked pleasure, pressing his pubis against the gritty particleboard wall of the bathroom stall as he allowed the gifted tongue and bottomless throat to caress him. Lost in a haze of ecstasy, he pushed his hips back and forth, feeling pressure building inside him. The sounds of wet sucking and gulping were overtaken by a gentle, omnipresent hiss, like the sound of a CRT television at full volume with nothing on screen. He knew he couldn’t last
much longer. Seconds before climax, Reilly heard the voice again. “Come inside and see.” His eyes snapped open and he looked down. The red lips, as fat and slimy as two banana slugs, were still wrapped around him. The eye below was peering up. “Come inside and see.” Reilly’s org*sm tore through him and his knees buckled. Everything went white, then gray, then back to normal. The mouth was still on him. The voice again: “See.” Suddenly sensitive, Reilly took a step back. The mouth remained latched on. He squirmed. Something warm dripped on his face and he looked up. Another pair of drooling lips was six inches above his head. “What the…” he muttered, and pulled himself out of the mouth. He had to pull twice. It was clear she’d wanted to hold on. “See,” he heard again. But it wasn’t from the mouth he’d been using. Or from the one near his head. He grabbed the flashlight and looked around the stall, then shuddered. More holes – countless holes – had appeared in the walls of the bathroom stall. Some had eyes, some had mouths. All the mouths were dripping and oozing and whispering, “see.” The eyes bulged and jerked back and forth, watching every one of Reilly’s movements. “I…I gotta go…” Reilly stammered, reaching down to pull up his pants while fumbling for the stall door with his other hand. The door wouldn’t open. Hundreds of tongues reached for him. Reilly shrieked and backed away, falling onto the toilet. The tongues, unable to stretch, fell back flaccidly against the walls. Drool poured in a torrent onto the floor. Reilly was panicking. The stall door went all the way to the slick floor. He couldn’t crawl under. He reached again to hike up his pants and succeeded, then tried to get onto the back of the toilet so he could climb over. A symphony of racking, retching gags filled the room. Every mouth was making the sound. The tongues flopped uselessly against the eyes below them. Reilly couldn’t get onto the toilet. It was too slippery. He sat, paralyzed with horror, as the gagging yielded veiny, pink tubes from the dripping mouths.
“The throats,” he realized, with hideous clarity. “They’re gagging up their throats.” With each gag, more interior surface prolapsed out of the mouths. In seconds, they were longer than the tongues. All the eyes were on Reilly and the gagging mouths grinned and choked out “see” between each esophageal spasm. The first throat to reach Reilly latched onto his finger as he tried to brush it away. It held and pulled him off the toilet, into the wall of mouths and eyes and throats and tongues. He screamed and screamed and screamed until the nearest throat disappeared down his own, then all he did was choke. Reilly stopped living soon after. The police never found him. His family never had any closure. He ended up being an unsolved case – just a teenage boy who went missing after his sister’s birthday party. But not if you know where to look. Not if you go to that unused rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. Not if you meet the same fate as Reilly, because then you can know, as the lips coax and the tongues lap and the throats stretch to suck you up, that one of them belongs to him. And, soon, you.
I'm away, so leave a message after the beep! by whenindoubt_121 *BEEP* Hey neighbour it’s me, Craig. Hope the vacation was all good, but I’m just letting you know not to worry about what you find in the house when you get back. The soil footprints are me, don’t worry there. Also, I borrowed your spade and accidentally destroyed it so bought you a new one, sorry. Your dog was making a lot of noise too, but don’t worry about that, I managed to clean it up. Again, sorry. Yeah, there was some wild weather recently so that would explain your door being knocked off its hinges too. Anyway, that’s pretty much everything, so yeah. Oh, wait yeah there was also this random thing, where a letter slipped through under the door while I was in your house picking up the mail, and the letter asked to be fed. It was kinda weird considering it came from the closet. The door was padlocked though, so I didn’t worry about it. Anyways, see ya… whenever you get back.
Still Alive by Chopped_Lettuce When I was lying on the floor of my college classroom with a bullethole in my stomach, I realized something I had never considered before. I was okay with dying. I lived a good life and made the most of my time on earth. Plus, I wouldn’t have to take finals. However, I wasn’t prepared to wake up in a hospital, unable to move at all. As my mind raced, trying to accept this worst case scenario, I overheard two words from the doctors that solidified my terrifying fate in my mind. “He’ll Live”
What Do I Know? by low_kix 'Write what you know.' It's one of the first things you learn about writing. Write about what you know, what you're familiar with, pull from your life experiences. This ensures that your stories feel genuine. Readers can sniff out bullshit rather easily when a writer is out of their element. But what does that mean for me, a writer of horror stories? I mean, I didn't always consider myself a genre writer. I sort of fell into it. I wanted to try my hand with a few short stories and I found it rather addicting. It didn't hurt that these first few stories I shared with the world seemed to draw a modest amount of positive feedback. And the readers, they wanted more. They pressured me for more dark tales. So how do I continue to tap a creative well that isn't filled with personal experiences? After I've developed my few half baked scary movie ideas into 500 word sounds bites, what's next? I can't exactly become a serial killer, and study the way victims plead for their life. Way too risky, easy to get caught... Perhaps I could watch others though. Do a little detective work, track down someone else who's doing the dirty stuff and simply observe. Intriguing, but I wouldn't know where to start to be honest. But my basement. I could use my basement. The door is thick, nearly soundproof. It locks from the outside. Cameras have been installed for observation. A laundry chute that can double as a way to send food, and water. There's a group of kids at the local theater every Friday night. I don't know if they ever actually see a film, but they can be lured around the back of the building easily enough with the promise of cheap drugs. How long can someone deal with total isolation? How long can they go without food? What are people willing to do for their freedom? Do people sleep when they fear for their life? A lack of sun exposure, that has to lead to some interesting side effects right?
I'll write a few more stories I suppose. I think I have a knack for it.
Standing at the door. by bypurple I stood there, face pressed close to the rough, splintered door in front of me, my breath breaking on the heavy wood and curling up around my face. I knew this was coming. For years, I knew that as the oldest son, it would be my duty. Father knew as well, and during the harvesting season, he would come home late, smelling something awful, and head upstairs without a word. Mother and my sisters were scared, though they tried to hide it by busying themselves at the fields. In my small village, with its brown, squat buildings, we all worked the land, eyes cast downwards, shoulders and backs hunched. Rain was scarce, sunlight even scarcer, and we had little time for anything else. We kept a stick of ironwood standing in the middle of the square, wrapped with boughs of juniper, dipped in honeyed wax. When the ironwood ignites, that’s when we know. It usually happens at the start of a growing season, or right before the freeze. This time, it happened on my birthday, seven years since the last. My father came home that day, smelling even stronger than usual, and sat me down at our table. He handed to me an iron dagger, strung on a silver necklace. For luck, he said, as he wrapped it around my neck, his gnarled fingers working slowly. Grandfather wore it when he stood, and another boy was chosen. He told me then my duty, though I already knew. A week from when the ironwood lights, stand at the door to the house after dusk. Face the door. Breathe slowly. Do not move. Do not make a sound. But no matter what, do not look behind you, no matter how much you may want to. And so now, here I stand, my face and fingers made numb by the icewind. Something is out there now, something that arrived when the last rays of the sun vanished behind the mountains. It’s threading its way through the mist that blankets the village. All the doors and windows must
be shuttered now. I heard the crackling of the ironwood as it was taken, and I heard the soft padding of its feet on the ground. I had hoped it wouldn’t be me, but I think that some part of me had always known. As the slow shuffling gets closer to me, I concentrate on the door before me, only trembling slightly. As the light from the burning ironwood, now just a few feet away, makes me cast a shadow, I stand still. I’m proud now, because I’m standing still and not making a sound, even as its claws start slicing into my belly and it begins to chew into the fat on my back. My blood begins to drip to the ground, bright red. I’m the proudest because I don’t look behind me to see the beast. I know that if you did, afterwards, it eats your family as well.
THE TERRIBLE OLD MAN BY H.P. LOVECRAFT It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery. The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle, the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer. Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport
blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless greybeard, who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago. Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them and their presumable metallic burden with a covered motor-car in Ship Street, by the gate in the tall rear wall of their host’s grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure. As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci, and Silva met in Water Street by the old man’s front gate, and although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two visitors. Messrs. Ricci, and Silva were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken door.
Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered motor-car by the Terrible Old Man’s back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily tender-hearted, and he did not like the hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough search become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single dim street-lamp he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he had expected; for his colleagues were not there at all, but only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the colour of that man’s eyes; now he saw that they were yellow. Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motor-car found in Ship Street, or certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle village gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble, one’s reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his unremembered youth.
JEFF THE KILLER (REBOOT) Author’s note: Credit for the characters of Jeff, Liu, Keith, Troy and Randy go to the original author of Jeff the Killer. This is my remake of Jeff the Killer, voted for through a community challenge in 2015, to become the new Jeff the Killer story to be featured on the Creepypasta Wiki. This is not the original story, but rather a retelling. I hope you enjoy it. The day Jeffrey Woods and his family arrived at their new home, the sky was overcast and the weather was muggy. The gray skies seemed to punctuate his mood. Jeff was not thrilled to be here. Their new home was beautiful though, a true example of his father’s new found success, but still, it wasn’t the home he’d known. A week after they’d settled in, Jeff and Liu woke up early. The sky was a crisp and gorgeous blue, and although the Louisiana heat was playing its usual cruel tricks, the brothers decided that a morning bike ride to explore the area would be just the right ticket to combat the slight pangs of homesickness that they’d both been experiencing over the last week. “I miss home,” Liu blurted out, as Jeff was smearing salsa on the microwaved burrito that would serve as his breakfast. “Me too Liu, but I guess this is home now, so we just sort of have to make the most of it.” “I know, but all of our friends and stuff are back in New Orleans. Remember that building we’d always sneak up on top of and watch the city lights come on, I miss that,” Liu responded, sounding down. “Yeah, and ZM Video, the owner knew us and would always let us rent R-Rated movies without our parents, and he’d always hook us up with a free video game rental if we got a few movies… yeah, I miss that too, but Liu, we have to…” Liu interrupted, “I know, we have to make the most out of this, but still, this place just seems so fake, and mom and dad still treat us like we aren’t even here.”
“Yep, they do. I was sort of hoping the new house would improve their mood, but what can we do?” Liu had no answer. Jeff finished his breakfast and the two boys left the house to mount their bikes and explore around a bit more. As it turned out, the subdivision they moved into was rather close to a cluster of stores in a small shopping center. Village Shopping Center was the name of the short row of businesses. Within these were a Pizza Hut, a Chinese restaurant, a tobacco store, a Sprint store, and, what Jeff and Liu were most excited about, a video store. “We’ll have to get mom or dad to come down here and open up an account so we can rent movies,” Liu mentioned as Jeff flipped a box over to read the description of a horror movie. “Shit, you’re right,” Jeff snapped, feeling a bit of frustration at this thought. He knew getting his parents to actually come down here and set up a membership would take forever, since their usual after work routine was to go off into separate rooms until they got hungry enough to come out and speak. Jeff glanced over at the girl working behind the counter, “Maybe I can go over there and sweet talk her into giving us accounts,” he joked. “Yeah right Jeff, one look at you and she’ll probably ban us,” Liu remarked back, a smile broad on his face. “You doubt me little man?” “Doubt you? The guy who’s kissed two girls and almost touched a boob, never, please go on over and lay on all the charm.” “Whatever, I totally could have banged that girl, but her parents came home and….” “Last time you told me that story, you said her parents were out of town and her sister came home…” Jeff became flustered and while in the process of trying to make yet another come back, the girl behind the register removed all doubt by speaking to the boys herself.
“Hey, aren’t those your bikes?” the young woman asked, pointing towards the glass window. Jeff and Liu looked over and saw three boys outside, two of which were riding around in circles on the Woods brother’s bikes. They would spin them around and then jump off, letting the bikes crash onto the pavement, just to stand them up and ride them again. The two boys riding the bikes were both slim in build, while a heavier boy stood on the sidewalk, drinking a Red Bull and watching. Jeff and his brother made their way towards the doors of the video store, when the fat kid saw them coming. Jeff couldn’t hear what he said to his two friends, but he made some sort of gesture while shouting, and the other two boys dumped the bikes where they lay, and walked towards the sidewalk, directly towards the two brothers. “Those your bikes?” one of the boys asked as Jeff and Liu entered the summer heat. “Yeah, why are you riding them?” Liu asked sharply. “We just saw them there man, relax, figured someone just left them out for us,” the same boy responded, as his two friends joined him on either side. Jeff, determined to make a good start here, tried to change the course of this confrontation. “Well, they’re ours. We just moved here about a week ago, we live over on Fairmont Avenue, a few blocks from here. We were just checking out the neighborhood.” Jeff hoped that a civil tone could turn things around, but he could tell by the insolent look on the kid’s face that this was a difficult gamble. “Good for you, you moved somewhere,” the fat kid remarked. “Oh yeah Troy,” the first boy spoke, “they moved into that piece of shit house with the gravel driveway. I was wondering who would move into that place.” “Well Randy, now we know,” the big kid, apparently named Troy, replied. Jeff, still trying to salvage the conversation, tried peaceful banter one more time. “Okay, so you’re Troy and you’re Randy, well I’m Jeff and this is my brother Liu, we just moved here from New Orleans.”
“You ain’t in New Orleans now,” the third boy, who’d just now decided to speak, remarked. “Yeah, and who the fuck said you could call us by our names?” Randy asked, that insolent, privileged smile never leaving his face. Jeff smiled and responded to Randy, “Well, I guess I could have called you a fucking asshole but I figured I would give you the benefit of the doubt.” In that moment, a flare of rage replaced the smirk that had rested on Randy’s face throughout this entire exchange. The other two boys, Troy and the still unknown third member of his band, seemed to be momentarily struck silent. Perhaps they weren’t used to being stood up to. “Oh I’m sorry, was that language too adult for you?” Jeff asked. “And you, quiet boy, we know this isn’t New Orleans,” Jeff stated to the slim kid that had reminded him of his geographical locations, “because if this was New Orleans you three would already have gotten your asses kicked for touching someone else’s shit.” The slim kid looked back and forth at his two friends, however, Randy, clearly the leader, seemed to know what to say. “Keith, you gonna let this little bitch talk to you like that?” Jeff knew this part. And while he wanted quite badly to sock Randy and his pals around, a real concern suddenly invaded his mind. If he and Liu got into a fight on their first week in this new neighborhood, their parents would freak. He could practically hear it now. And while things had been far from perfect in their home, even after the move, there was a peace that had fallen over the family, and Jeff, fighting his urges, decided to do his best to keep it. Jeff looked over the three, very well dressed, very privileged looking suburban kids before them, and dismissed them. “You guys are boring, come on Liu, let them continue their play dates without us.” Liu laughed at that and followed behind his brother towards the bikes. However, Randy and his little gang of would-be toughs would have none of that. They moved to block Jeff and his brother once again. “Where you going pussy?” Randy asked, shoving Jeff. Jeff could tell that shove had no real conviction. Randy was trying to figure him out,
seeing where his buttons were. He’d push harder eventually, but Jeff swallowed the slowly building anger within him once more. Liu took a bit more exception to the shove. “We’re going to your mom’s house, me and my brother saved up a couple dollars from doing chores and we hear she doesn’t charge much.” As the words left Liu’s mouth, Randy appeared to only register a small portion of it all. Randy Hayden had grown up in Mandeville. His father was a partner at a local firm that made a lot of money, something else that Jeff would soon come to learn. Randy and his friends, while the same age as Jeff, had grown up in very different circumstances. They were used to being listened to; they were used to being feared. In fact, Randy, the target of the insult, just stood there. It was actually Troy, the fat kid who stepped forward, fist balled, eyes squinted in anger. “Who you talking to?” Troy shouted, and took a wild swing at Liu. Liu, who was both in better shape and had sparred with Jeff a time or two during his time spent boxing, was able to avoid the punch, but just barely. Had that been all, it may have once again ended there. Troy was clearly taken by surprise at Liu’s speed, and actually didn’t attempt another punch. However, these were bullies, kids that ran in a pack for a reason. The skinny one, Keith, stepped around and threw a punch that connected with the left side of Liu’s face. Jeff had seen enough. He’d been shocked at how quickly this evolved into blows, even though he’d expected it from almost the start. When he’d first met Randy and his friends, he’d been curious. From there he’d developed an annoyance with them, and slowly that annoyance had evolved into anger. However, upon seeing Liu punched, seeing the small trickle of blood form on his brother’s lower lip, upon seeing the smug look of satisfaction on Keith’s face, that anger that Jeff felt, suddenly exploded into a rage that he’d never felt before in his life. Jeff Woods did not hesitate. He stepped forward, his feet automatically falling into the correct stance that he’d learned from the boxing classes his father once enrolled him into, and delivered a powerful right hand to Keith’s face. The skinny boy had no time to register shock or pain. The punch caught him by surprise, and his knees buckled. Keith went down to the ground in a heap of confusion and dawning fear.
Randy, the so called leader here, was almost too shocked to move. He’d had quite a lot of experience starting fights, but no real time logged in losing them. He’d never felt control of a situation slip. He was used to being in charge. So now, seeing one of his friends go down so quickly and easily, left him in a state of shock that he had no idea how to address. Troy on the other hand seemed to have a plan, throw another punch. He moved towards Jeff deceptively faster than his weight would seem to allow, and threw two equally fast punches. Jeff however had no problem side stepping both attempts. Troy, seeming lost for actions, actually dropped his arms, as if to say, ‘gee, what do I do now?’ Jeff had the answer. He moved in, throwing three hooks to Troy’s stomach. The hefty kid’s eyes went as wide as pie pans, a fitting analogy, Jeff thought. He staggered back, clutching his throbbing stomach. Jeff wasted no time, and stepped in once more, fetching a sharp punch to the big kid’s jaw, causing Troy to promptly fall on his ass. Jeff was reminded of King Hippo from the Punch Out game he used to play. He couldn’t help but smile. Jeff now turned his focus on Randy. He advanced on the boy, feeling something new forming inside of him. He still felt the anger, the rage actually, at the antics of these three assholes. They had the nerve to mess with their bikes; the nerve to insult two kids they’d never met before, and of course, the ultimate offense, touching his brother. However, mixed in with this rage was also a sweet, enjoyable pleasure. Not only was he kicking their asses, but he was loving every second of it. It was as though the joy of showing them up was perfectly blending with the rage he felt towards them. Together, it formed into a sadistic, controlled sense of power. That was, until Liu stepped in front of him. “Jeff, stop, that’s enough!” “Why stop now Liu, they wanted this,” Jeff replied in a flat voice that Liu had never heard come from his brother’s mouth. “She’s calling the cops, look!” Liu shouted again, and this time, Jeff came back to reality long enough to listen. He glanced over at the video store clerk, and saw her on the phone, talking frantically and pointing
towards the parking lot. Suddenly, Jeff’s strange sadistic haze collapsed, and he regained his former self. “Fuck, let’s go!” he stated quickly, and he and Liu mounted their bikes and rode towards the parking lot exit. “Yeah, you better fucking run!” Randy called behind them. Jeff and Liu paid no mind and peddled away. A few blocks down the street they dismounted their bikes and began to walk them together. At first, neither brother spoke, then Liu broke the silence. “Jeff, thank you for standing up for me back there, thank you.” “Yeah, those guys were pieces of shit, they had it coming,” Jeff replied, looking down at the street as they walked. “What… what happened? I’ve never seen you like that before?” “Just defending myself Liu, what was I supposed to do, let them beat you up?” “I bet they go to our school, I bet we’ll see them there, and they won’t forget this.” “Who cares? We didn’t ask to move here, we didn’t ask for any of this. Mom and dad just wanted a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood, and we were along for the ride whether we liked it or not. Think I give a shit what these rich asshole kids think of us?” Jeff stated, and went back to looking at his feet. “Think we’ll get in trouble?” Liu asked. “For what, defending ourselves?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right, they did start it,” Liu answered, and to the brother’s, the matter was closed. However, things were far from over. They found that the trouble they believed they’d escaped was in fact waiting for them at their front door. Jeff and Liu saw the police cars well before they arrived at their driveway. Two cop cars, both parked in front of their house. Both of them felt their stomachs drop, as they well knew why the police were there. The brothers entered the living room, to see their parents sitting on the couch, the two cops standing up, leaning on the wall, writing in their
notebooks. “What did you two do?” Shelia practically screeched as the two boys entered the house. Liu, younger and less centered than Jeff, began to fall on the defensive, “Some kids tried to jump us down by that video store, they were messing with our bikes, and when we went outside, they got in our faces!” “That’s not the way we heard it!” Matt Woods interjected, his voice firm and ripe with anger and dissatisfaction. “No dad, that’s what happened,” Jeff began to explain. “We were down at Friendly Video, looking around the store, when these three kids started riding around on our bikes. All we did was walk outside, and the kids started talking trash to us, trying to provoke a fight. When we tried to leave, one of them punched Liu.” Finally, one of the two cops spoke. His name tag read Williamson. “Boys, we have some serious complaints about the two of you. From what eye witnesses at the shopping center say, you two started the confrontation with Randy and his friends.” Jeff took notice at how familiar the cop’s tone was when he said Randy’s name. This was a small town after all, and there was a good chance that this cop coached Randy in little league, or drank beers with his dad. Hell, it was even possible that this cop could be an uncle to one of the bullies. “No sir,” Jeff replied, “we didn’t start it, they did. We just wanted our bikes, we just wanted to leave. They blocked us.” Williamson continued, as though he’d heard nothing Jeff said, “Several witnesses, including the video store clerk, say that you swung first. They say that the boys were riding your bikes, but let me ask you this, did you chain your bikes to anything, or did you just leave them outside the store?” “What’s that matter?” Liu demanded. “Well son, if you just left your bikes lying around in the street, you can’t exactly blame Randy and his friends for riding them, now can you?
It’d be different had you secured them somehow, but you just left them there.” “Mom, dad, you’re not buying this crap are you? You know me and Liu don’t start fights, when have we ever? These three punks messed with us, and if you can’t tell that these cops are taking their sides, then you need to open your eyes!” Jeff knew he was skating on thin ice, but that rage, it demanded some sort of satisfaction. “Jeffrey, do not speak about these officers in that tone of voice, and do not speak to us that way either. Now, it’s pretty obvious that you two aren’t happy here, that you miss your old home, but starting fights in the street isn’t going to change anything!” Jeff’s mother snapped back. “Listen boys, you’re lucky. None of the parents want to press charges. This will be reported as a simple scuffle between teenagers. But be advised, you’re both on notice. This is a quiet town, not like New Orleans. We don’t tolerate this sort of behavior over here. If you see Randy, Keith or Troy, I highly suggest you tell them you’re sorry. We’ll be keeping an eye on both of you, so don’t let this happen again. You don’t want to have an arrest record, do you?” Jeff felt his anger bubble over, and he could not hold his tongue. “Who is he to you Officer Williamson? Is Randy your nephew? Is he a friend’s son? Or maybe you go over and screw his mom while you’re on duty? Which one is it Officer?” “That’s it, both of you go to your rooms!” Matt Woods apparently found that he wasn’t a mute after all, as he ordered his sons out of the room. Jeff and Liu walked up the stairs, however, they refused to hang their heads in shame or feel any regret. Neither of their parents spoke to them for the rest of that day. Jeff and Liu stayed upstairs, venting their shared frustration to each other. They’d been screwed over, even at their young ages, they knew that. They took some solace in the fact that they at least hadn’t been arrested or cited, but still, they saw what was really going on here. “That cop, he was protecting Randy,” Jeff whispered to his younger brother. “No shit,” his brother replied.
“We have to watch ourselves; we have to take care of each other. You saw it down there, even our parents didn’t stand up for us.” “Yeah, what the hell was up with that?” Liu asked. “Imagine, their fucking image, that’s what’s up with it. All they care about is fitting in here. They want to make sure they blend in with the rest of the Stepford families. No more fighting, if we see Randy or his two fuckhead friends again, we just walk away, okay?” “But Jeff, you can kick the shit of them, why would we walk away?” Liu asked. “Because I can’t kick the shit out of the cops Liu, I can’t kick the shit out of mom and dad, and that’s what would get us. Fucking Randy and his pals are protected here, you and me, we’re not. So, if we see them, just avoid them, okay, please?” Liu nodded, “I feel like a little bitch though, I owe Keith for hitting me.” “No you don’t, I paid him back for that, and paid his fat friend too. I hope they just leave us alone now,” Jeff sighed. Jeff and Liu didn’t hear from their parents for the rest of that day. They remained in their rooms late into the night, and finally came down to eat after they were sure their folks had gone to bed. Liu said that he felt relieved about that, but Jeff had a sinking feeling that the worst was yet to come. Jeff was correct,the next morning, when the two brothers came down stairs together to eat breakfast; their parents were already sitting at the dining room table, staring at the boys, approving of nothing they saw. “Sit down,” Matt stated flatly. “What’s going on?” Liu asked. “Sit….down!” Matt stated again, anger dancing on the words. The boys complied without further question. Matt Woods began his diatribe, “Whatever that was yesterday, beating up some kids for touching your bikes, mouthing off at the police, disrespecting both me and your mother, that stops today!” “We didn’t beat anyone up for touching our bikes!” Jeff blurted. “Shut up Jeff, this is a one way conversation!” his father barked. “That kid, Randy Hayden, his father is a partner at my firm, did you know that? Did you even think about that when you were assaulting him over your
godforsaken bike?” “You just didn’t think, did you Jeff?” Shelia added. “How could I have known that?” Matt continued, “Well, I’ve spent the entire morning talking to his father on the phone. His dad is willing to let it all go, but shit son, I have to deal with that at work now. Do you have any idea how much damage this could have done to me, to our family?” Jeff felt that rage coming back, and fought with all his might to keep it stifled. Instead, he once more tried to appeal to the two adults’ parental side, “Mom, look at Liu’s face, they split his lip, can’t you see, it’s still swollen!” Liu turned his head to better showcase the injury. “My god Jeff, so some kid played a little rough with your brother, is that any reason to fight them? I wanted to make friends with some of the other families in this neighborhood but thanks to you… I just don’t know…” No sooner could Jeff or his brother construct a proper defense, than their father began speaking again. “So, your mother and I have talked this through. Since there are only a couple weeks of summer vacation left, we’ve decided that Liu should spend the rest of the season at Aunt Marcy’s place. We’ve already spoken to her, and she is willing to let him come out there and stay.” Both Jeff and Liu were floored by this decision. Both boys began to protest at the same time, but they saw the look on their parents’ faces. The decision was made. “Why can’t we both just go then?” Jeff asked, a last ditch effort to at least get away from his parents. “Marcy doesn’t want both of you there, she says you two are too rambunctious, and frankly we agree,” Shelia answered. And so it was, Liu was shuttled off to his Aunt’s place in Abita Springs, Louisiana, a place even smaller and duller than Mandeville, if one can believe that. Jeff watched his brother leave, and then walked back to his bedroom. He felt that rage; however, it began to feel almost… pleasant to him. He couldn’t explain it. He was furious at this turn of events, his parents had turned their backs on their own children. However, through it all, these new feelings he was experiencing weren’t all terrible. This
anger for example, he could almost taste it. It felt like thick, sweet syrup, stirring around in him. Of course, he knew the extra ingredient that would complete the flavor. That satisfying joy he’d felt when he had Randy and his friends on the ropes the day prior, that mixed perfectly with the anger, to create some intoxicating product that Jeff almost craved now. He fell asleep lying on his bed thinking about that syrup, that thick, viscous that seemed to work its way into the very fabric of his soul. He wanted it, yet he knew that it was destructive, and that nothing good could come from sampling it again. Several days passed, and tensions were high between Jeff and his parents. Without Liu around, there was nothing for him to do except sit in his room and play video games. He went outside but didn’t venture far from home. He knew if Randy and his goons showed up again, it would likely result in another fight. For a few days, that worked well, and Jeff believed he could get through this. However, his mother changed all of that on an early Saturday morning. Jeff was awoken suddenly by sharp sunlight striking his face. He heard his mother humming, something that she rarely did. Even in his half sleeping state, he knew that humming was forced. She was doing it to wake him up, and figured the added sunlight would get things there even faster. When she noticed Jeff’s eyes cracking open, she sauntered over to his bed, and began speaking in a tone that simply oozed false joviality. At first Jeff had refused. Could his mother be serious, did she really expect him to go over and make friends with Randy? He was still in bed when his mother stopped her incessant humming long enough to tell him to get up and get dressed. Once he learned why, he’d told her no, no way in hell. However, his mother was a shrewd manipulator, and she’d know exactly what would get the job done. She promised Jeff that if he did this for her, went over and made it work with Randy, that Liu could come home the next day. She’d sandbagged Jeff right into the corner with that one. He’d no choice but to agree. A short time later, Jeff and his mother were pulling into Randy’s driveway. Randy’s mother answered the door. “Hi, you must be Jeff,” she greeted. Jeff smiled wanly and confirmed that was in fact who he was.
“Hello, I’m Shelia Woods, nice to finally meet you in person!” Jeff’s mother announced, barging past her son and extending a hand to Randy’s mother. “Shelia, so pleased to meet you, I’m Bridgette Hayden. Sorry to hear that our boys had a little mishap the other day. You know how it is though with teenagers, hormones going crazy and all. Randy never gets into fights, but he explained to me that Jeff and his brother are still new to the area, and haven’t quite learned how we do things in Mandeville yet, isn’t that right Jeff?” Jeff couldn’t resist a small jab, “Yeah, sorry about that Miss Hayden. Me and Liu had no idea that it was okay for your son and his friends and mess with our bikes without asking.” “Bridgette, he gets that mouth from his father, never knows when to shut up. How about you and I go in and have some coffee and you can tell me all the great gossip around Mandeville while our boys get to know each other the right way.” “Randy is in his room Jeff, upstairs, second door to your left. I’m sure you’ll hear the sound of his video games or something,” Bridgette stated with very little humor to her voice. “Thank you ma’am,” Jeff answered, and entered the house. Jeff knocked and heard Randy answer with, “Come in.” “Hey, so, I guess you heard, our parents want us to hang out, get to know each other,” Jeff stated with little conviction. “Yeah, that’s my mom alright, she doesn’t like drama. Honestly I think she worries too much, I mean, I’m cool if you’re cool.” Jeff sat down on the floor next to Randy and struck up a conversation. “So, turns out your dad is my dad’s boss, he freaked out about the fight in the parking lot. He was actually worried that he’d get fired or something.” “My dad is like, everyone’s boss. I fucking hate it. I think half the kids at my school talk to me because their parents are somehow connected to my dad’s firm.” “Why do you hate it?” Jeff asked. “Because it’s fake, this whole damned town is fake. You’ll figure it out as you go, but trust me; everyone who lives here is just trying to pretend they’re something else. My parents make me do all this shit, all the trophies and stuff, just so they can brag, that’s it.” Jeff smiled, “I know how you feel. My dad had me in boxing class a year ago, because some co-worker of his had a brother that worked at
the place or something. As soon as that guy quit though, I was out of that gym the next week.” “I wish it was that easy,” Randy responded, “I hate playing baseball, but my dad will sure have me out there again next summer, and the summer afterwards. It’s like, he knows I hate it, but wants to make sure I’m out there with his stupid company name on the back of my jersey.” “Randy, why did you and your friends fuck with our bikes the other day?” “I told you, this town is fake, and boring as shit. There is nothing to do here. We have to find stuff to do. I mean, there are only so many times you can go hang out at the video store, or ride the dirt paths in the woods. All the girls here are stuck up, all the stores close early, there’s no mall and the movie theatre is across town. We were just bored man, so, sorry for that I guess.” “It’s cool,” Jeff replied, “I guess I’m sorry for too. Things went too far.” “You mean the fight?” Randy asked, “That shit was actually cool. Those guys, Keith and Troy, they just leech on because of my dad. It’s like I told you, I’m pretty sure their parents make them hang out with me.” The afternoon went on, and Jeff soon forgot that this was a mandatory arrangement. He actually started to find himself liking Randy, sure, their first encounter was a little sketchy, but he was coming around to the guy, finding that he wasn’t so bad once his idiot friends were removed from the equation. About an hour later, things took a new turn. Jeff heard the twin pops of two car doors shutting in near unison, and then heard the engine start up. He dropped the game controller and peered out of Randy’s bedroom window, just in time to see his mother and Randy’s mother backing out of the driveway. “Our parents are leaving,” Jeff said. “About time, I figured my mom would eventually talk your mom into going shopping, or going to get coffee, or something like that.” Jeff heard Randy pause the game. “Hey Jeff, come down stairs, I want to show you some cool stuff,” Randy invited, and Jeff followed. Randy led Jeff out to the garage. It was hot in there, with the main door shut. The garage was well kept though, and Jeff observed stacks of
magazines underneath a work bench, as well as tools and various other utility items stacked about. Standing in the small, closed in garage, with the late summer heat lingering about, Jeff began to feel a bit uneasy. Despite the fact that he and Randy had seemed to bond over the last few hours, Jeff couldn’t ignore a sense that things were different now that the adults were gone. “What did you want to show me?” Jeff asked. “Hold on, let me get it,” Randy replied, moving the magazines out to reveal a small, red box. Jeff watched as Randy removed the box and opened it. “Check it out, my dad’s flare gun,” Randy announced, and waved the red, tubular gun about. “Woah, be careful with that!” Jeff shouted, more out of shock than real concern. “It’s fine dude, don’t be a pussy, it’s not even loaded,” Randy said. However, Jeff watched as he fished one of the flares out of a back compartment. Randy then continued to fiddle with the flare gun, popping it open and loading a flare. “Now it’s loaded,” he announced. “My dad showed me how to use this last year when we went out boating. Sometimes I take it out back and shoot flares at the trees. But, maybe this time I don’t need a tree.” The change in Randy’s voice and demeanor was impossible to ignore. “Okay, well cool gun. Let’s get back in the house though, it’s hot out here, plus, I’m getting hungry, what do you have to eat?” However, as Jeff turned to walk through the small door leading back into the house, his path was suddenly blocked by two more familiar faces. “Where you going Jeffey?” the fat kid, Troy, blurted out, as he and Keith stepped forward into the garage. “Took you two assholes long enough to get here, I’ve had to babysit this faggot all day,” Randy shouted, a wicked joy was present in his words. “Sorry Randy, but Keith here had to mow his front yard before his parents would let him come out,” Troy said, a sheepish tone to his voice. “It’s cool, we’re here now,” Keith said. “What the fuck is going on?” Jeff asked, staring at Randy. He noticed that Randy still had the flare gun in his hands. “I’ll tell you what’s going on Jeff; you owe Keith and Troy an apology
for what you did. You sucker punched them, and then ran away. You didn’t even have the balls to fight them fair, so now, you’re going to pay them what you owe!” “I’m not going to fight you, okay, I’m done with that shit,” Jeff replied as he glanced about the room for an exit. “You’re right about that, you’re not going to fight. You’re going to stand there and let my boys get their licks in. Then I get mine, and when that’s done, you get the fuck out of my house. I’ll tell my mom that you got sick and walked home, and after that, if you see us again, you better walk the other way.” “I’m not going to stand here and get hit by you or your friends, so just let me go home, how about that. I’ll tell my mom that we’re cool and everyone wins, okay?” Jeff asked. Randy then raised the flare gun towards Jeff. “No, you stay pussy; you stay and take your licks.” Jeff felt that sensation once more, that sick, rich dark matter that swirled about inside of him. He could taste it now, it was heaven. In his mind, he imagined himself diving into it, swimming in it, letting it swallow him whole. He looked around and the sensation only grew. He saw Randy, standing there holding the flare gun. It was limp in his hands though, and the hammer was not cocked back. Jeff knew that Randy had no intention of firing it. He looked over at Keith, skinny and pathetic, a kid born to follow. Troy, fat and sweaty, breathing a bit heavy from his walk over, and of course, in the middle of it all, Jeff himself. He felt that pleasure begin to mix with the rage, forming the perfect product. He tried to avoid sampling it; he knew that only regret could come from indulging in it. However, when it was placed so close, when the aroma and the promise of that sweet savory flavor was only inches away, Jeff found that he could no more to stand against it than a ship in the ocean could stand against a typhoon. Jeff began to smile. “Why are you smiling at me, you queer for me or something?” Randy asked, a slight nervous tinge in his voice. “Am I smiling Randy? I guess it’s because I’m just having so much fun,” Jeff announced, and suddenly lunged towards the unprepared kid holding the flare gun. Jeff struck Randy once in the nose. Randy’s arms dropped, yet he kept hold of the flare gun. Jeff, without even needing to look, realized that Troy and Keith had actually taken a step back, instead of advancing as
they should have. Jeff delivered another strong blow to Randy’s jaw, causing the boy to drop to the floor. Jeff now turned his attention to Troy and Keith, the two tough kids that had yet to actually make so much as a move in his direction. Troy actually backed up a step and stumbled over the stack of magazines that Randy had moved earlier. Jeff took this opportunity and stepped forward, once again introducing Troy’s round belly to his fist. Troy tried to stay on his feet, but Jeff’s punches, combined with the stumble over the magazines, caused Troy to fall back, landing hard and striking his head on the concrete slab that was the garage’s floor. Keith was actually trying to back away. However, Jeff was currently standing between him and the only exit to the garage, since the carport door was closed. Jeff took two quick steps towards the skinny kid, and felt the most intense joy at seeing Keith stagger backwards, knocking his back into the wall. That perfect blend of pleasure, control and rage had come together. Jeff felt as though he was floating above the world. Somewhere in his mind, he knew there would be hell to pay for this, but at that exact moment in time, he couldn’t care less. He didn’t care about Liu, he didn’t care about being arrested, and he didn’t care if his dad got fired. All he cared about, in that fraction of time, was hurting Keith. Keith tried to make a run for it, hoping to squeeze through the small gap between Jeff and the door. However, Jeff clipped him a hard right hand to his face, causing Keith to stagger back again. Jeff could see that his knees were buckling, and took full advantage. He moved in, pinning Keith to the wall, and began to deliver blow after blow to the skinny kid’s stomach. Keith’s eyes became as large as saucers. Once satisfied, Jeff stepped back, and watched in demonic glee as Keith slowly slid down the wall, gasping for air. Randy got back to his feet, but seemed to have no idea what to do. “We done now Randy? We good, or do you and your friends need more?” Jeff mocked. “No more, we’re cool…” “How about you assholes?” Jeff asked. “It was Randy’s idea…” Keith said weakly. “Yeah man, we didn’t even want to,” Troy agreed. The debate may have continued, but the sound of a returning car broke the tension. “Oh shit, my mom is back!” Randy shouted, his voice cracking in a humorous way. It seemed that the previous tough guy had all but shrunk
back to a scared child. “So, we’ll just say that we were all hanging out,” Keith replied. “No, the fucking flare gun, if she finds out that I messed with it, I’m screwed!” “So put it back,” Jeff suggested. That sensation of rage was fading again, and he felt control returning. “Yeah, grab the magazines, please,” Randy begged. Jeff found that he rather liked that tone, that begging, whipped dog mentality. Jeff was paying no attention to Randy; he was down on the floor calmly gathering the magazines. He didn’t really care if Randy got in trouble or not, however, if his mother returned and found trouble, he feared that Liu may not be able to return home as promised. Everything else happened in a flash, both literally and figuratively. Randy, now in a panic over the trouble he’d be in if he was caught playing with the flare gun, had begun to sweat. As his hands frantically clawed over the gun, his thumbs pushed the hammer back, unintentionally. He didn’t even notice that the gun was cocked. He was turning it over in his hands, trying to quickly disarm it. He then heard the sound of keys in the front door. He knew that he had only seconds now to hide it. Everything else happened in slow motion. The gun slipped from Randy’s sweaty hands as he’d attempted to rotate it once more. He saw it fall to the floor, seeming to float to the ground, rather than fall. Jeff, busy stacking the magazines, had only enough time to register Randy’s shocked gasp. He turned to look in the boy’s direction, just in time to see the bright red flare gun hit the floor. The gun discharged, launching a speeding ball of fire directly into Jeff’s face. Jeff felt the hot flash of heat and pain tear across the left side of his face. After the initial registry of agony, there was no more thinking. Jeff began to scream, clutching the left side of his face and rolling around on the floor. For a while he forgot everything, as he was plunged into that dark, rich syrup once more, the rage almost serving to dull the pain. When he finally did come to a stable level of alertness, he realized he was in a hospital room. Half of his face was bandaged, he knew that much. He wanted to open his eyes and speak, let his family know he was awake, but the drugs still had a firm hold. He was awake, but not quite yet functioning. He could hear several familiar voices though. “Is he going to be okay doctor?” Jeff’s mother asked. “Oh yes ma’am, your son will be fine, however, he will have a lengthy
road to recovery, and will need your support. The flare struck his face and caused 3rd degree burns on his left side.” “How bad is the eye?” Jeff’s father asked. “Hard to say at this point, he’ll need to see an optometrist for further review, but the damage appears quite severe.” “And his face? What about his face?” Jeff’s mother asked, sounding deeply concerned. “Well, we were able to clean and treat the injury in time, so you’ve no concern for infection or anything of that matter. We’ll want him on antibiotics for a while, and he’ll need to have the wound cleaned and dressed on a regular basis, but all in all, your son got very lucky. The damage could have been more severe.” “Doctor,” his mother began again, “What if there is permanent damage? What do we do about that?” “As I said, an optometrist will have to examine the eye…” Shelia Woods interrupted the doctor, sounding more agitated then before, “You’re not listening, not the eye, his face! What do we do to correct his face?” she demanded. “Well ma’am, we have treated his face, like I said, there shouldn’t be a risk of infection so long as you….” She cut him off again, “Not the infection, his…. his appearance? What can we do for that?” “Miss Woods, that’s hardly a concern at this point. Once he is healed and back on his feet, you can possibly explore plastic surgery to repair some of the damage, but honestly, right now, we can’t waste concern on how he looks. What is important is that your son is healthy. He can expect to be back home in a few days, maybe sooner.” Jeff’s dad spoke again, “Okay, thank you doctor. Can we have some time alone please; my wife and I need to speak.” “Certainly,” the doctor replied. “Liu, why don’t you go down to the hospital cafeteria and get yourself a snack?” Matt Woods suggested. “But I want to be here in case Jeff wakes up,” Liu replied. “Liu, they told us that Jeff is heavily medicated. They don’t expect him to wake up anytime tonight. So, just go, and if he does come around, we’ll have you paged,” Matt replied. Jeff heard the door open and close as Liu exited. His parents both let out a long shaky sigh, but Jeff was starting to believe it was not a sigh of relief, but rather one of stress.
“We’re going to have to home school him now Matt, that’s just what it’s going to be, we’re going to have to keep him home!” he heard his mother rant, her voice sounding frantic. “What? I mean, he probably won’t be able to start school right on time, but I doubt he’ll miss a whole year!” his father responded, trying to maintain a calmer voice. “I’m not talking about that Matt, I’m not worried about him missing a week or two of school. I mean his face Matt, you heard what the doctor said, his face is going to be…. disfigured!” Shelia argued back. “We don’t even know the full extent of the damage yet Shelia, it could be minor, it could possibly heal, and you heard what he said, plastic surgery could be an option in time.” “In time? What kind of time? A year, two years, and what about in the meantime? People are going to see him and they’re going to talk, is that what you want? He’s going to be a…. a pariah! You think anyone is going to want to have him around their kids?” Jeff was hearing all of this, just letting it soak in, slowly. As his mind absorbed the words, he felt that rage return. Sick, rich, dark, that syrup of raw, primal emotion. He wanted to scream at his mother, to tell her to shut up, that he was the one lying here, half his face burned, blind in one eye, all thanks to her forcing him to go over to Randy’s house. He wanted to ask her why she left, why she went off to go shopping or have her nails done or whatever it was that she did. He wanted to know why she’d leave him alone with a kid who just days before tried to jump him and his brother. He wanted to know how she could care more about his appearance than the fact that he was lying in the hospital. However, there was still so much more that he wanted to know as well. He wanted to know how much more his mother hated him, how much more she saw him now as a, how did she put it, a pariah. He wanted to continue to swim in the thick pool of dark hatred that was starting to form from the rage and anger. That was a new one now. Before it was anger, then it was anger mixed with pleasure. But now, now it was anger mixed with hatred. And while he certainly longed to be free of it, while he most certainly preferred the false sense of love and concern he believed he’d heard from her before, he also wanted to test it out a bit more. He also began to wonder, how well would this new recipe blend with pleasure, how would it feel? Matt Woods began to speak again, “I just can’t believe he shot himself in the face with a flare gun. I always thought Jeff was more responsible
than that.” “Don’t even get me started on that,” Shelia replied, “I couldn’t believe it when Randy and his friends explained to the medics and police how it all happened. Randy was just trying to show Jeff around his house, and wanted to show him the collection of magazines his dad kept in the garage. You know boys; he was probably hoping that a couple of Playboys would be in there or something. Then he said Jeff found the box containing the flare gun, and just wouldn’t stop playing around with it. You should have heard those other boys Matt, they told me that they practically begged Jeff to just put it down before he got hurt, but he just had to show off. I just don’t know where we went wrong Matt. I thought us moving out here to a nice quiet neighborhood would make everyone happy. Jeff though, he just, he just wants to fight us on everything.” And while all that came together in Jeff’s mind, he continued to swim in that black ichor of hatred and rage. The morphine drip added a nice touch of euphoria, Jeff could almost see himself, plunging into the syrupy waters of hatred, and emerging changed. Each dip brought him so much twisted pleasure. And that was when he finally understood. He could sample the pleasure now. Not because he was enjoying what was happening, but because he knew he could enjoy what was to come. Just as the doctor had predicted, Jeff was scheduled to go home a few days later. During his time at the hospital, he never asked to see his face. It wasn’t until the last day that he finally asked for a mirror. The nurse had come in to change his bandages, as was the routine. She was a pleasant woman, she spoke to him, asked him how he was doing. He enjoyed her visits. So, on the final day, when she arrived to clean and dress his face, he asked to see himself. “Are you sure sweetheart? Would you like me to call in your parents first?” she asked. “No thank you,” Jeff replied, “I think I want to see it for myself first, without them standing over me.” “I understand,” she replied honestly, without a hint of pretension. Once the bandages were off, she handed him a small hand mirror. “Would you like me to step out of the room?” she asked. Jeff ignored her and looked at himself, taking stock of the damage. Sure enough, his face was a mess. The entire left side at least. The flare struck him traveling upwards, and burned a scar into his left cheek that
extended to his eye. At first glance, it almost looked like he was smiling on that side. The scar was still bright red, and burn tissue spread out on either side. Once it arrived at his eye, the news did not get any better. His eye was white, just a lifeless bulb plugged into his face. He closed his right eye, and found that he could see nothing from his left eye at all. The scar continued up the left side of his forehead. The damage was less severe there however. The hair on the left side of his head was burned off, leaving a few strands to stick up here and there. “Sorry sweetie, but I have to put clean bandages on,” she told him. Jeff smiled, “It’s okay, there will be plenty to time for me to admire myself later.” There was no joy from his parents on the ride home, or upon arrival. They spoke very little, and there was a tension in the car that simply wouldn’t fade out. As for Liu, he was thrilled that his brother was okay, but he didn’t know what to say concerning the damage to his face. So, after asking a few questions about the accident and the recovery, he fell silent as well. They walked into their home at dusk and Liu asked about dinner. He suggested they let Jeff pick a place, to celebrate his return home. “Just go to sleep, both of you boys, go to sleep,” Shelia remarked. She and her husband both retreated to their bedrooms as well, to argue or feel sorry for themselves, who knew? Jeff and Liu didn’t speak much that night. Jeff spent most of the evening staring at himself in the mirror. He kept pulling back the bandages and looking at the scars. Liu wanted to see them too, but felt that it might be imprudent to ask. “I’m glad you’re home Jeff, I really missed you and I’m glad you’re okay,” Liu said to Jeff as he stared at himself. “I’m not okay Liu, and neither are you. None of us are really. There is a sickness here. The only difference is, now my sickness shows on the outside as well,” Jeff replied, his voice as flat as that on an answering machine. “What are you talking about?” Liu asked. “One day, you’ll see it too. This is what happens though, this is what happens when it all falls down,” Jeff said, still peeking behind his bandages. “Jeff, I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” Liu responded. Jeff didn’t reply though, and after several moments, Liu left him alone. Liu went down to his parent’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
“What is it?” the voice of his mother asked. “Mom, I think Jeff is acting weird, you may want to come talk to him.” “Go away Liu, leave your mother alone,” his father’s voice answered. Liu, being young, had no other ideas, so he returned to his own bedroom. He didn’t know that those would be the last words he’d ever hear his parents speak to him. That night, Shelia and Matt Woods awoke together, both being light sleepers, it took little to bring them out of slumber. The sudden removal of their blanket, as it was snatched from the bed, did the trick just fine. They awoke to see a small light coming from the half-bath that was situated in their master bedroom. The door was cracked only slightly, and the light source was weak. They could make out a human shape, standing over their bed though. “What, what is going on?” Shelia grumbled. As their vision came into focus, they realized their son was standing before them. Matt reached over and flipped on the lamp next to their bed. Jeff was standing there, his bandages off, his disfigured face beaming down on them, with a long kitchen knife clutched in his right hand. “What are you doing son?” Matt asked, his mind still trying to shake out the cobwebs of sleep. “He’s got a knife!” Shelia screamed, grabbing at her husband’s arm. Matt kept his composure though. “Shelia, it’s probably the painkillers, he likely got up and got disoriented, relax for Christsake.” Jeff tilted his head to one side, still not speaking. He stared hard at his father, slowly bringing the knife up, ensuring that he saw it well. “Son, what are you doing?” Matt asked. “Scaring you,” Jeff replied, with no emotion in his voice. “Matt… do something!” Shelia pleaded. “Okay son, I realize you’ve been through a lot, but you need to go back to bed. I’m going to call the doctor in the morning and….” Jeff moved quickly across to his father’s side of the bed, his head moving about, alternating between a normal looking young man and the deformed ghoul that had been lurking in the shadows. “Okay son, you’ve scared me, is that what you wanted?” Matt asked, adjusting to the middle of the bed to put distance between himself and his son. “Good, now I can start hurting you,” Jeff spoke again, with no emotion.
His father had time to utter a single syllable, most likely to ask another question, to try and reason with his son. Jeff however, gave him time to do no more than that. He lunged onto the bed, driving the knife into his father’s stomach. Matt attempted to fend Jeff off, but the wound to his midsection rendered him into shock, and his arms fell to the side. Jeff could hear his mother screaming, but paid no mind. He wanted to finish with his father first. Removing the knife, Jeff stabbed down into his stomach three more times, quickly. His father gasped and coughed up blood, his body jerked and twitched each time the knife found its mark. After the third time, Matt Woods lay still. Shelia had backed up against the headboard of the bed. She wanted to climb down, make a run for it, but she’d balled herself up between the headboard and the end table. In her frantic state of terror and confusion, she couldn’t figure out how to do something as simple as dismount a bed. “Jeff…. Why, why are you doing this to us?” she asked feebly. “Randy started it, you must have known that, but you ignored it. Liu had a busted lip, you must have seen that, but you ignored it. I was shot in the face with a flare gun, but you believed Randy, why? So you could fit in?” Jeff asked in a low, almost growling voice. “No baby, I believed you, it was, just, your father’s job…. And we’re new here, and…. Oh God Jeff please….” his mother begged. “Tell me about home school mom? Tell me all about how you don’t want to send me out in public because of my face. Tell me how none of the other kids will want to be my friend, and how none of their parents will want to be yours. Tell me about that mom, tell me how nice it’s going to be, you home schooling me…..” “Jeff please, I was just stressed, I was worried about you that’s all… please I…. I love you…” “Mom, I think you should take your own advice, you know, what you told Liu when we got home tonight. He wanted to do something nice to welcome me home, and do you remember what you told us to do instead?” Jeff asked, as he now crawled over, cornering his mother on the bed. “What did I say?” she asked, the question coming out barely a whisper. “Go to sleep!” Jeff snarled, and drove the knife into his mother’s chest. He stabbed her over and over again, and as he did, he finally found that perfect recipe, that heavenly blend. That rage, hate and
pleasure all mixed into one perfect formula, and for a while, Jeff became lost in it all. Jeff opened his brother’s bedroom door, not surprised to find his brother asleep. He had dozed off with headphones in, so he slept through all the shouting. That was fine with Jeff. It was easier that Liu not have to hear all of that. Jeff sat down on his brother’s bed and nudged him slightly. It took a moment, but Liu finally opened his eyes and looked up. Jeff removed his earphones for him. “You’re free now Liu,” he spoke softly. “Jeff, what… what are you talking about?” Liu mumbled, still half asleep. “You’ll see in the morning. I just wanted to let you know I love you. You’ve been my best friend, remember that, okay?” “Thanks, I… I love you too. Now, let me go back to sleep,” Liu replied, already dozing off again. Jeff smiled and stood up. As he left the room, he looked back at his sleeping brother one last time, before he vanished into the night. CREDIT: K. Banning Kellum
THE CAT WITH HUMAN TEETH There I was, scratching my ninth scratch-off ticket in a row at my local convenience store. My eyes widened with hope, but also sank in with the anticipation of disappointment. The other eight representations of my gambling fuel rested in pieces inside the store’s waste bin. Revealing each number using my “lucky” penny, I scratched away, while simultaneously grinding my teeth. In a moment of displeasure, I tore the ticket to shreds and tossed it aside with the rest. It was another loser. At this point, I was about fifty dollars deep and knew I had to shake my bad habit. However, betting my smidgen of wealth was an angel in comparison to the demons I’d annexed throughout my short-lived life. I had just turned eighteen a couple months prior; an achievement of sorts for a boy with such a shaky childhood. My parents didn’t always gravitate to each other in the way that happy couples do; like flowers reaching for sunlight. No; their values were pitted against one another, through verbal quarrels and even physical exchanges. With these background altercations and the scent of booze that bled through the air and walls, getting sleep at night was like pulling teeth. Even days I was left home alone, I could swear on my life that I heard my mother and father screaming and yelling, as if they were still in the house. I’d witness the walls shake, knocking down lamps and picture frames in chain reaction to the vibrations. On top of that, I recall seeing my dad pacing in the upstairs hallway, countless times. Every time this happened, even with certainty that no one else was there, I’d search around the residence anyway. I never found a reason for the disruptions. Taking the homelife a lot worse was my younger brother Gregory, as his young mind solely paired confusion as a counterpart to the madness. At the age of nine, my brother had picked up a handful of the traits dispersed throughout the paper-thin walls. The anger, the sensitivity, even gradual changes in appetite all became a part of him as a being. Getting through school is tough enough for him, let alone the miracle that was me receiving my bright white graduation cap and gown earlier in the year. However, I’ve made a tremendous effort in aiding his educational progress, despite resistance on various occasions. But enough about that; back to my gambling woes.
I cut myself off, hoping to replace my vice with a more pleasant distraction; one that would come in the form of gray fur and paws. My older sister Jennifer, who took my brother and I under her wing in recent years to help us resuscitate, adopted me a three-year old gray cat. This was compensation for leaving me during the bad times. I decided to head home and meet the little furball, whom I predetermined would be named Smokey. Opening the front door, I was met with a brush of softness, both from a touch of fur upon my leg and within the audible “meow” that had dispensed from the adorable pet. The short-haired gray cat had seemed to already have a comfortable sensibility to my presence. In return, I knelt down to pet him, but only to be welcomed by a strained screech. The high-pitched scream didn’t come from my new purring family member, but from my sister. “GREGORY!!!” She yelled out. “Get over here, right now!” I made my way over to the hallway, in which she voiced her concern, to see what was going on. With my dismay, black marker ink was plastered across the tan-hued wall. The ink was shaped into something that made my eyes widen in shock. I was petrified. Terrifying depictions of cats with their teeth ripped out, along with a young boy tearing his own teeth out, were drawn. My little brother had crawled out of his room on all fours with a wide grin on his face and smudges of black ink spread across the palms and backs of his hands. “Gregory! Why did you do this? You made such a mess!” My sister Jennifer had yelled in exasperation. “Clean it up right now!” My little brother just stared with that creepy little grin on his face, not a single word spoken. All that was received, was a lingering silence. Up until the quietness was suddenly cut off by something frightening. An earsplitting shriek emerged from my brother’s mouth. Both my sister and I clamped our own ears tightly to protect our suffering eardrums from the noise. After a minute or two, silence returned, and little Gregory scurried back into his room, the door shutting and locking behind him. Jennifer and I, still horrified and shaken, ended up cleaning the wall ourselves. Later that night, I was woken up by the sound of deep and slow scratching, like sharp claws were being embedded into wood. My first thought was that Smokey was trying to leave the room, but he remained curled up at the edge of my bed. As I rose up from my slumber and began to step towards my door, the scratching increased in both speed and volume, the noise only ceasing when I turned the knob and opened
the door. I crept my way down the stairs, as cautiously and quietly as possible, as to not alert my sleeping siblings. However, my tactic was deemed a waste, with the clamor of what sounded like pots and pans being tossed around in the kitchen. Stepping into the vicinity of the noise, I came across the culprit. It was my cat, Smokey, perched up on the kitchen counter, knocking down the pans that hung from the backsplash behind the stove. My brain was boggled by the fact Smokey managed to sneak past me unnoticed, especially with me walking incognito. Looking down, a canvas of red caught my eye. Streaks and drips of what appeared to be blood trailed across the hardwood floor, leading to marks dug into the wall. I assumed this was the source of the scratching sounds, but Smokey was blood-free and the engravings were far too large for such a small cat to make – besides, he was in my bed when the commotion began. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but I was too tired to investigate. Hoping it was just a chimney-lurking raccoon, I cleaned up the mess and headed back to bed. The next morning was an aroma-filled paradise. I could almost taste the greasy maple bacon, as the scent gathered in the air. The poached eggs and golden-brown wheat toast danced around my imagination before I rushed down to the dining room. My sister was already at the bottom of the stairs, about to call my name, as I interrupted her with a close collision. I hopped into a vacant seat and dived right into the gloriously prepared plate of food. Glancing over at Gregory, I acknowledged him with, “Good morning! Get a good night’s rest?” However, I was met with complete silence and a defined grin once again. I expected another outcry, but instead my eyes made contact with Gregory’s hands. His fingertips showed signs of stress, but the severity of it was beyond the likeness of fingernail biting. His nails were receded down to the flesh, and the skin freshly broken with signs of blood loss. My brother began to open his mouth and motioned with a foreshadowing of vomit, then let out a mass of black liquid and gunk. The regurgitation left me disgusted and frankly, quite baffled. I immediately turned to my sister to see if she witnessed what unfolded, but it was already too late. My brother vanished from the dining room table, along with the obscure grime that spewed past the crevice in which his lips were shaped. Almost instantly after the disappearance, I woke up. The events that
appeared so real, were conceived as a nightmare. That familiar smell of breakfast again lingered around the house. I figured these scents had just temporarily carried over from the bad dream. Upon strolling on down to the kitchen, my theory was proven right. My sister had already left for work and it seemed the kitchen remained untouched. Except for one part… A subtle pulsating breath greeted my ears. The wetness of a single drop of saliva was felt along the peak of my shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest idea to look up at this point in time, but my curiosity collided with my impulse reflexes. I swear my eyes almost slivered out of their sockets, because when I stared, I was looking at something that made me question my sanity. My little brother Gregory was up above me, defying gravity, his hands flat against the ceiling as if it was the floor. He was foaming at the mouth, bug-eyed, his face pale and gray but with a reddish tint. I remained frozen in place from fright when Gregory leapt down from his perch. He immediately dashed upstairs on all fours, quicker than I could ever run. After this, a resounding animal-like whine, the kind you’d expect to hear when a cat’s tail is accidentally stepped on, roared throughout the home. “Smokey!” I yelled out as I ran up to my room. What happened from there disturbed me, to say the least. Tears hit my cheeks. My face expressed disgust in both movement and color. I was upset in more ways than I knew a person could feel. The combined emotions of terror, revulsion, wretchedness, and perplexity overcame me in this very moment. My cat Smokey laid rested with his teeth torn out, but surprisingly still conscious. I watched as my brother, with radiating yellow eyes, rip out his own teeth as well. Oddly enough, quick and easy like tearing off a bandage. Gregory then placed his own teeth into Smokey’s mouth and did the same to himself with the cat’s fangs. The scene before me was remarkable, but in the worst sense. A young male, about four and a half feet tall, with a mouth resembling a feline’s. A once cute-looking feline, altered into a humanoid appearance via its jawline. My brother picked up Smokey’s new form into his arms, walked away, and vanished right through the wall, neither of them to be seen again. Many of us are raised up in a not-so-perfect home life, but how people handle this is varied. One might grow up scratching lottery tickets, while another scratches up the walls of the home they live in. A more
vulnerable host attracts negative energy at higher rates, qualifying for a manifestation of their own demons. In this case, my brother was a target. Also, a fair warning for you. His body is still out there somewhere, possessed by something sinister, along with Smokey; the cat with human teeth. CREDIT: R.T. Maxim
BAD TRIP It was my fifth day in Gloaming, Nevada – an unincorporated township skirted on all sides by scorched barrenness. I had never been this far west before, and so the craggy, acacia-dotted desert was dazzling to my senses. I remember wishing that I could extend my stay, but also knew that doing so would be impossible. My business in the town was concluded, and the presentation had gone well. I was expected back at the home office on Monday. Rather than spend my stay at a hotel, I lodged with two old friends who had moved out to the area after graduation. Jason and Clara were old sweethearts who eventually married and moved west to “live freely and without external instruction,” as they often phrased it. They were glad to host me for the week, and I enjoyed catching up with them – even if they had become hallucinogen-fueled desert spiritualists. I was afraid to try mescaline, and I was especially terrified to experiment with psychedelics so far away from the (relatively) settled streets and services of Gloaming. Still, Clara assured me with eager confidence that the experience would be safe as well as beautiful. “When we’re way out there in the silent air of the desert,” she told me, “and the peyote kicks in and there’s no motion at all except for us and the campfire, all under a billion glittering stars…” She searched for more words, but instead could only smile serenely. “You’ll know what I mean.” I agreed to join them on one of their “trips” before returning home. … That night, as we were preparing for the drive out together, Jason retrieved a glass jar with a tin screw cap from his closet, and held it up for me to see. Inside were perhaps two hundred small, clear gelatin capsules. Jason removed the tin cap and tipped several of the strange pills into his palm for me to inspect. I saw that each capsule was packed with shredded bits of something fibrous and hazel-colored. It reminded me of tree bark. When we were ready, the three of us headed out together. Jason drove while Clara directed him out of the city, then along dozens of miles of unpaved roads. Eventually we were completely off-road, and I could feel the crags and small boulders of the landscape beneath us jostling the car as we drove. Soon Clara and Jason decided that they were
satisfied by the pristine quality of the nature around them, and so Jason parked the car. The two of them set up camp while I prepared a makeshift fire pit. When the dusk came and deepened into night, Clara lit the campfire they had built and Jason brought me my dose of peyote, along with a beer to help me swallow down the fistful of capsules. “Just eat them one by one,” Jason advised. “It won’t take long.” He demonstrated, placing a gelcap onto his tongue, sipping his beer, and then opening his mouth to show that the pill was gone. Over by the campfire, I could see that Clara was taking hers three or four at a time, pausing only to swig from her drink. Soon we had each finished taking our dose. We drank and watched the fire together, and waited for what would come next. At first we spoke aloud to each other while we waited, but before long we were sitting in silence. The emptiness of the desert pressed inward with a tangible urgency for quiet, and it had rendered us mute. Eventually, I noticed that I had become raptly attentive to the campfire flickering in front of me. Prismatic streaks of color had begun to spark out from the flame and into the night air, each one cascading like a living mote of light. I felt giddy, and noticed that Jason and Clara both seemed to have entered similar states. With smiles and searching eyes, they were watching the stars. I turned my eyes back towards the fire, eager to lose myself once again in its dazzling movement. I began to melt back into its warmth, but soon noticed in myself a strange sense that something large was moving through the darkness nearby. Turning my focus towards the motion, I saw a human shape standing alone out in the desert, only barely illuminated at such a distance by the campfire’s flickering light. If it were only a few paces further away, I thought to myself, the shape would be completely obscured by darkness. “I see something.” I heard myself say it out loud, but my voice sounded hazy and strange. Jason and Clara lazily turned their attention towards me. With a peaceful smile, Jason spoke. “What do you see, Vince? Describe it for us.” I strained against my own vision, which was already limited by the dark but now also warped by the peyote. Indeed, even the sand and the trees seemed to be moving and shifting around me. Still, the figure was not something abstract. It looked like a large man who was marching in place unsteadily, listing back-and-forth as he did so. It would take a step
forward, then two steps back, then perhaps four rapid, mincing steps in our direction again, then another three steps back. It was staring in our direction the whole time this went on. The figure’s torso bounced gently against the elastic, up-and-down motion of its knees. “I see a person,” I began hesitantly. “Or, I think I do.” I shifted in place nervously and then corrected myself. “I don’t think it’s a person. The eyes haven’t blinked at all.” Indeed, the eyes were shining bright to me, like two illuminated pinpricks against the darkness around them. They never flickered or dwindled at all as the figure marched. “It’s probably just an owl,” Clara offered, her back still turned away from the thing. “Does it seem like the eyes are darting around in circles, or making shapes in the dark?” “Yes,” I replied with a sobbing sort of crack in my voice. “But see for yourself, it’s not like an owl.” Clara propped herself up on one arm, and looked over her shoulder to follow my pointed finger. Her lazy smile turned suddenly into a deep frown, and I felt nauseous to see the way her face had dropped. Jason noticed too, and turned to look with the same, sudden loss of relaxation. It seemed the thing was really there. A series of warbling, clicking vocalizations rang out suddenly from the thing’s direction. As it continued, the procession of sounds grew more complex and strange, and soon the noise was rolling over itself like an ungodly, squealing battle-cry. It seemed to me that the thing was calling out to us deliberately, and this idea made my whole body tense up until I began to feel paralyzed. Clara and Jason began to shout at the form which still marched aimlessly without moving closer. “Get lost, asshole!” Clara’s voice rang out fiercely, but I could hear that she was growing afraid. “You’re going to wish you hadn’t fucked with us!” Jason added, projecting his voice across the desert in a similarly unsure tone. But the thing did not seem to mind their threats. In fact, it began to advance slowly and deliberately. Soon it was close enough to the campfire that I could see it more fully. I wasn’t sure, but I felt that I could see the thing spasm badly across its whole body with every few steps that it took. It was as if the creature was struggling through some kind of grand mal seizure at it moved – and somehow it was winning the fight. In my vision and in my mind (both of which were already swimming with peyote fantasies), the thing contorted and twitched like a grotesque and poorly-directly marionette.
As it lurched unevenly across the sand, seemingly unresponsive to our shouted insistences that it leave, the thing began to click and mumble its strange sing-song noises again. This time, though, the sounds it made were more like English. “Just get lost already!” Clara shouted, and rose to her feet to confront the humanoid creature that was now only a short distance away. “Juss geh loss!” the creature bellowed back, and then added a hiccupping sort of chuckle that echoed softly in the night’s silence. It did not slow its approach. “Find me the car keys,” Jason said quietly to Clara. “I’ll scare it away.” Keys in hand, Jason moved quickly to unpack a tire iron from the trunk of the car, and then stood by the campfire with the makeshift weapon brandished over his head. “This is your last warning!” he shouted. “Don’t make us hurt you!” He took several steps towards the thing, as if prepared to attack. To our relief, the creature planted its feet and stood still. Clara and I shared a glad smile before turning our attention back to Jason. When we did, however, we saw that Jason had dropped both the car keys and his weapon to the earth. He was now walking – lazily but deliberately – towards the thing that now stood patiently in the nearby darkness. The creature, staring at Jason with its shining and seemingly lidless eyes, waited patiently for him to join it where it stood, and then seem to lead Jason backwards into the opaque dark beyond the campfire in a marching sort of dance. It had squatted down low and craned its head forward into Jason’s face; that’s what I saw. It seemed to me that the creature had hypnotized my friend with its unbroken stare as it backed away into the dark. Worse still, the thing actually had to stoop down, drop its shoulders, and bend its knees before its eyes were level with Jason’s. Whatever it was – it was much taller than humans generally get. Clara and I both began to scream. We were so lost in panic that we couldn’t register anything besides our own begging sobs for Jason to return to the campfire – to please, please, please come back. We howled until we were both breathless, and when we finally stopped, we felt that utter and complete silence from before pour back over the desert. For perhaps a minute, the emptiness of the place was punctuated only by the soft crackling of the fire. Then there was Jason screaming – screaming from somewhere that sounded like it was an impossible distance away. He was crying out in
the kind of frantic anguish that only comes from someone who truly can’t believe the pain that they’re in. I looked at Clara in wide-eyed terror, and she mirrored my expression perfectly as her head swung around to look back at me. As suddenly as they had begun, Jason’s lamentations died into silence with a slushing, drowning sort of final gasp. I was too petrified to move, but Clara was already on her feet. She hoisted me up by the front of my shirt and ran me over to where the car was parked. Before I could even fully register what was happening, she had pushed me into the backseat, and then rushed to retrieve the car keys from where Jason had dropped them on the ground. Soon she was back, sitting in the driver’s seat and doing her best to start the engine despite her badly shaking hands. “Which way is the road into town?” She whispered urgently, as if afraid to raise her voice too loudly. “Which way did we come from? Answer me, Vincent!” “Just go,” was the only response I could muster. “Just get us away from here.” I felt an overwhelming vertigo at that moment, as if my spirit was trying to escape my doomed body, and so I shut my eyes tightly to regain my orientation. After a short while sitting like this, I realized that Clara wasn’t talking to me anymore. In fact, she wasn’t making any sound at all. My head was swimming so badly that I had been certain the car had at least lurched into motion, but when I opened my eyes Clara was sitting placidly in the driver’s seat of a stationary vehicle. She was staring silently through her window. As I followed Clara’s gaze, I saw that the thing was back – perched on its haunches a short distance away. The illuminated orbs in its eye sockets were focused on her. It was drawing her away from me. I pleaded with Clara not to leave me alone as she removed the keys from the vehicle’s ignition and dropped them casually to the vehicle mat at her feet. She stepped out of the car and towards the creature. I stumbled dizzily from the backseat, and attempted to grab her around the shoulders. In automatic response, she elbowed me viciously in the guts and left me winded. I collapsed against the car, and when I found the strength to raise myself up again, she and the creature were gone. I struggled desperately to get the car back into motion, but the combination of mescaline and adrenaline in my system made progress difficult. The steps involved in starting the engine, then putting the car into drive escaped me, and the lettering on the manual gearbox felt alien – as if I had forgotten the Roman alphabet completely. It did not help that as I was working to start the car, I could hear Clara’s voice (always so
sweet and calm before tonight) now screaming wildly with a throat that sounded choked with gore. Clara always spoke like music: pleasant, and soft, and wonderful. What tore through the cold desert air now, though, were ragged and wordless gasps of pitiful agony. The silence that eventually followed was worse, though. It told me that I was all alone. I turned to peer out the driver’s side window from where I sat, still having failed to start the car. I could see that the creature had returned – once again lumbering playfully out from the obscurity of darkness, but this time directly towards me. I felt as if my panic would cause me to faint at that very moment, but mortal fear galvanized me to keep fighting. I finally managed to summon the engine to life, but pressing on the gas only caused the engine to rev in park. I could feel the creature’s eyes on me, and I knew that it was nearly at my window. I turned my back away from the window as deliberately as I could while still pressing the clutch down with one foot, and gripped the stick shift to pull it into a new (but arbitrary) position. My vision was swimming too heavily to discern precisely what gear I was now in, but I did not care so long as the car would start moving. I faced forward and prepared to step on the gas, but suddenly found myself staring directly into the eyes of the creature. It was perched on the hood of the car now, and watched me through the windshield with those bulb-like, electric eyes. I closed my own eyes tightly, in a final bid to resist the thing’s hypnotic lure. I was preparing myself to die, but a monstrous shriek and the sound of wild, receding footfalls broke my terrified meditation. It sounded to me as if the creature had suddenly been attacked, and was now fleeing. After remaining motionless for several moments with my eyes shut, I noticed the faint sensation of sunlight on my eyelids. Sunrise was breaking over the distant mesas. The creature was gone, and it occurred to me that such a horrible thing could only exist in hellish darkness. For the first time since the creature had appeared, I felt as if maybe I could relax. Completely distraught, I drew the deepest comfort I’ve ever known from the warmth of the sunlight on my face. I lost consciousness without realizing how exhausted the night had left me, and slept for a few hours. When I awoke, I found that the peyote had mostly worn off, too. Feeling mostly sober now, I drove straight into town to find help for my missing friends. I went to the police, and tried to tell them my story in a way that would
seem at least halfway believable. I admitted everything that I could, knowing full well that it all sounded like a stereotypical “bad trip”. Skeptical and more than a little annoyed, a pair of officers eventually agreed to follow me out into the desert to investigate the details of Jason and Clara’s disappearance. Together we found the remains of our campfire, and a snarl of erratic tire-tracks in the sand. But there was no sign at all of my companions. Nor did the officers detect any signs that a struggle had occurred anywhere near the site. The police soon concluded that the disappearance of my two friends was probably a simple matter of Clara and Jason having been surprised by the strength of mescaline. “They thought they were prepared by their previous experiences,” said one of them, already walking back towards the cruiser to drive us into town again. “And so they trusted themselves to wander out into the night alone.” “Shared delusions are fairly common in these sort of scenarios,” the other officer agreed. “You were lucky it was your first time trying this stuff. You were too overwhelmed to follow them, and so you stayed by the fire instead. That, and the fact that you sat in the car with the engine turned on until sunrise, probably saved you from freezing.” He paused and raised his gaze upward, as if stopping to feel the sun on his face. “We’ll do our best to find your friends out here, but in all honesty I’d be surprised if they survived the night.” … I’m home now, safe, and far away from whatever that terrible creature was. Or at least I think I am. But I’ve realized something awful, and more and more the idea is driving me crazy. There’s no way for me to be completely sure that I’m not still out there, hypnotized and being led to my death while the fantasy of escape goes on. Let me try to explain it a little better. Every night since I left Nevada, I keep having the exact same dream. Every. Single. Night. The same terror plays out in my mind in precisely the same way, and it always goes just like this: I’m driving out of Gloaming. It’s around noon, just after the police have told me, “We’ll do our best to find your friends.” I’m glad to be heading home. I consider calling my mother before I begin driving, but then realize that I don’t know what I would say if she answered. I’m still shocked and exhausted, so I decide simply to make distance between myself and the town. I press eagerly on the accelerator as I drive, and yet for hours it seems as if I can make no progress. With a creeping sort of anxiety, I
realized that there has not been another car in sight for hours. Even the signage on the roadside has dwindled away to nothing. My surroundings are now like an unfinished painting: jarringly without details. This is nothing like the road on which I had originally traveled into town. I don’t recognize anything. With a suddenness that rends my heart from top to bottom, the steering wheel melts away from beneath my hands. The car, the road, and even the sun above me all dissolve in an instant. I find myself standing in the undisturbed sands of the desert, teleported back into the almost perfect darkness of that gruesome nighttime. The creature looms and croaks a sound nearby, staring directly into my eyes. I realize that I’ve been looking back into its face for who knows how long. The safety of that morning’s sunrise – the relief of my narrow escape – they were all simply delusions inflicted upon me to occupy my mind as I march myself towards execution. In this dream, my waking life is the fantasy. I am still out there with the creature. The thing howls at an ear-splitting volume, and I brace my hands against my skull in an attempt to resist the sound. Still, my knees buckle and I fall to the ground. The thing is inches away now, and I can see that it draws oxygen into itself from a number of chitinous vents which dot its chest and neck. Periodically, they suck inward like gasping mouths before relaxing again. As the thing leans in to consume me, the sounds it makes become quieter and more discrete in tone. It begins to suck air more rhythmically, and releases each breath with a low hiss. “Haaa… Eeeeeth… Haaa… Eeeeeth…” As I feel it finally touch me with its hand-like appendages, it chokes out words. “Eeeeeth… Don’t you… Haaa… Miss your friends?” With a slobbering, suctioning sort of sound, the flat and featureless jawline of the creature unfolds into a gaping maw. Chevrons of razoredged teeth present themselves from fleshy folds all along the inside of the thing’s throat (which has now spread open like the distended jaws of a snake.) Now exposed to the air, they shimmer against the blackness of the night like stars. In this dream, I am still under the effects of the peyote, and so I see ghostly emanations of impossible color snake outwards from the creature’s face and form. Quivering hallucinations pool around the thing, like lesser nightmares gathering to join it. Jeering, ephemeral demons spring through the night air towards me with each eager spasm of the thing’s face. Fractals drip from its lidless eyes, and I can feel that I too am
weeping. ‌ In this dream I can’t stop having, the sun does finally rise over that expanse of forsaken desert, but I am not alive to greet it. CREDIT: David Feuling
WHEN SCIENCE FOUND GOD I’ve never much cared for religion. I mean, it’s interesting and all; the old parables and philosophic insights from people two millenniums removed from the present. I particularly enjoy the books of the Apocrypha, and the Bible’s magnum opus of Revelation, if for nothing else than the interesting stories. Even some of the tenants, like an emphasis on strong family bonds and moral stature I can resonate with, but in terms of a giant omnipresent entity that created everything yet loves us unconditionally, watching our every move from unseen planes – yeah, I don’t know about that. I still don’t ascribe to a singular religious doctrine, but knowing what I know now… well, let’s just say the title of atheist would be a little disingenuous. Staking my flag in that camp would contradict all the principals of which my life has been founded upon. Try as I may, I cannot in good faith deny or refute what I myself witnessed. Calling whatever we discovered ‘god’ may in time prove a bit inaccurate, but there is no denying it, we found something. Science has at times become this sort of monolithic and infallible institution. One that suffers from the ostracization of fringe concepts that fail to breach the egotistic blockade. It is all too often wielded as a trump card to negate all that doesn’t assimilate to the prevailing narrative. Too often outlandish claims are torn asunder because no metrics exist to properly digest them. For all the good it has brought, science is not and will not ever be an absolute. Nothing is. Absence of proof, is not proof of absence. And what happened out there, in that lab deep below the streets of Stockholm, now stands as a testament in my life, to all the ventures humanity has yet to embark upon. It serves as an anchor, and if ever I find myself drifting away into the blissful seas of cognitive dissonance, it is there to remind me how small and naïve I truly am. I graduated from UCLA with a Bachelor’s in physics, and an incredible opportunity landed in my lap. One of my professors had put in a good word for me with a lab out of Stockholm. I was contacted and offered an internship. One of dozens to be extended the opportunity. I accepted the
offer without a moment’s hesitation. From there I uprooted my Californian lifestyle to move halfway around the world to the frigid north of Sweden. I was not prepared for the cold. Most of my summers were spent in a bikini, frolicking on the sandy beaches of Santa Monica and lounging in the sun. Sweden might as well have been another planet. Temperatures would plummet to a bonechilling negative 30 in the winter. Lucky for me though, I had a marvelous host family who helped me acclimate myself and integrate into Valhalla. I was brought on to the team and slowly began the arduous process of melding into the group. They were all incredibly kind and welcoming, but still the feeling of being woefully outclassed by my colleagues was thick as tar pitch. The project consisted of over fifty men and women, all of them among the best the world had to offer. They hailed from Germany, Japan, Poland, Hong Kong, South Korea and many other sovereign states. It was a melting pot of some of the greatest minds I’d ever met. Seeing them in their element and marveling at the way their minds hurdled asinine topics to delve straight to the cortex was altogether incredible, and more than a little intimidating. The expressed goal of the coalition was to study the behaviors of quarks, protons, and other particles in the subatomic realm to further decode the complex world of theoretic energy matrices. By extension, the group also allotted resources to develop tools for observing and decoding quantum entanglement and string theory. These principles were still in their infancy at the time, and none of us could have ever imagined the enormous magnitude of the things that were to come. The lab had its very own particle accelerator, which I myself pretty much obsessed over from day one. Most of the concrete data however, was relayed from the lab in Geneva, home of the large hadron collider. I even got to see the magnificent machine in person on a few occasions. One thing that has always staggered me, is the amount of incredible achievements capable when pursuit of knowledge guides the way. However, the complete polar opposite is also true, as curiosity without empathy all too often yields crimes against humanity. As you may already know, the large hadron collider was the first machine capable of synthesizing the particle known as the Higgs-Boson. The machine is a particle accelerator built in a 27-kilometer loop. It uses
a state of perpetual vacuum and temperature colder than that of outer space to accelerate particles to 99 percent the speed of light. These particles collide with one another, creating spectacular outbursts of radiation and results which are believed to be similar to that of the big bang on a much smaller scale. It is also through this process that the infamous Higgs-Boson can be synthesized. Some call it the ‘God Particle’, but many physicists are not fond of the omnipotent moniker. It is in a way suitable though, as it is ubiquitous and can spontaneously manifest or dematerialize through processes which are not yet entirely understood. It is a sort of bridge between matter and antimatter. The entity that binds the ethereal with the corporeal. It is the place between light and dark, hard to define, as once light ends, shadow begins, and vice versa. The exact moment of intersection is difficult to pinpoint, but there is a definitive moment, and that moment is the HiggsBoson. It was once thought that matter could only exist in one place at a time, however the particle slit test of our progenitors proved otherwise. A particle accelerator was used to eject electrons between one of two microscopic slits. They naturally assumed the electrons would pass through either slit A or slit B, and when directly observed, their premise was corroborated. However, when an imprint background was installed to bypass direct observation, they noticed a peculiar detail. The electrons produced what is known as a wave, or interference pattern on the imprint like ripples in a pond. This meant that the electrons were interfering with themselves while simultaneously passing through both and neither of the slits. It was at first thought to be a false-negative and outright impossibility, but thousands of repeated experiments all reached the same conclusion. There was no denying it anymore. Matter can exist in more than one place at a time, and reality is altered simply by perceiving it. The world of particle physics is a strange one, and one which we have only just begun to glimpse the majesty of. At times it may even require us to suspend our own limited human understanding of things, to contemplate things beyond our minds comprehension. It was this idea which was the tabernacle of all the group was trying to achieve. To unravel the mysteries of the subatomic universe, and better understand reality itself. The group was funded magnificently, and state of the art equipment
was provided from lavish donors from all around the world. My contemporaries and I began to study the processes again from square one. This consisted primarily of monitoring the nature of particles and testing the same process over and over ad nauseum. Progress was slow, and many failures were soon under our belts, but you can’t build a house without chopping down a few trees. It took years to decode part of the formula, but eventually we learned that the behavior of these particles could be predicted under certain pretenses. They could also; to a certain extent, be directed. Programmed to inhabit separate locations at the same time, giving them the perceived ability to exist in two places at once. In reality though, it was more akin to a transfer of locale via microscopic slits in the Higgs-Boson. We realized it was not a matter of travelling to, but instead travelling through. Through the fabric of space itself. With electrical stimuli and coordinate based geo-synchronization, one could manipulate these particles to transfer locations faster than the blink of an eye. The machine used was primitive compared to later iterations, but its true potential was not lost on us for a moment. Time went on, and the technique was further refined, most readily in the distance were particles able to be transposed. It started as only a few nanometers, but eventually we could transfer particles several feet. It was through this process, that blueprints for an entirely new type of machine were first devised. It was to be a machine unlike any before it. Instead of electrical stimuli sent through circuits and wires, it was transferred directly from one location to another. Wireless energy transposed through space. This greatly improved computing capabilities and allowed the machine to act and calculate much quicker than anything ever seen before. Initial ideals for the machine were skeptical at best, but as time went on, the real significance of its potential became apparent. When combined with a suitable processor and digital interface, it soon began decoding encryption and translating mathematic ciphers in a fraction of the time of anything seen before it. It didn’t stop there, though. With a binary converter, it wasn’t long before human physiology itself was soon able to be deciphered and converted into convenient little anagrams and simplistic formulas. This soon gave the machine the ability to replicate human tissue and organs from fetal stem cells. When given raw biomass, it could manufacture a duplicate heart or lung. One which
was genetically indistinguishable from that of the donor’s DNA. On one occasion, the machine even managed to regrow the arm of an amputee war veteran. Most of us thought it couldn’t possibly work, that the nerve endings on the man’s arms would be unable to be resuscitated after so long. But after seventeen hours in surgery, when I saw the vet move his new fingers for the first time after transplant and cell resuscitation, I knew we had discovered something special. Diseases became able to be observed on a molecular level and eradicated before gestation. A virus or bacterial strain could be genetically reprogrammed to attack and destroy itself rather than the host. HPV, AIDS, the black death, the common cold, strep throat, gonorrhea – none of them stood a snowball’s chance in hell against the unrivaled power of the machine. It could even reprogram human DNA to desired proportions, eliminating extra chromosomes and restoring neural pathways to reverse entropic cognitive illness like Dementia and Parkinson’s. Even pre-birth conditions like cerebral palsy and microcephaly were in the process of being all but eradicated. It wasn’t just organic material either. The machine could take a block of carbon and alter its isotopes to create carbon-14 and elicit radioactivity. This proved interesting for further power possibilities as the machine demonstrated potential for creating its own fuel source, but there was another more pertinent discovery. By changing the number of protons or neutrons in the atomic nucleus, the given element’s atomic weight was altered, thereby turning it into another element altogether. The machine held the power to change the very building blocks of the universe itself. It could turn copper into gold, bromine into iodine. I think it was then that we first realized the scope of what it was that we had created. The applications for the machine seemed endless. It could write books, clone living organisms, and alter the very elements beneath our feet. It was the philosopher’s stone, the holy grail, and the all-seeing eye in one convenient little package. The Deus ex Machina. The world’s very first quantum computer was born. One important distinction I would like to make, despite the rumors; the quantum computer was not in fact an AI. It had computing power which was eons beyond that of a normal computer, and the ability to perform almost any task given to it, provided the necessary accommodations were implemented. For this reason, it was not allowed to make decisions
for itself. Many in the group were justifiably nervous at the prospect of an artificial intelligence somehow gaining sentience and going rampant with the power of quantum manipulation. We really had no idea where our experimentation would lead us, and so the decision was made early on, to prevent it from thinking on its own and going all Skynet on us. The computer was a beast of burden, happily doing any task given to it, but it was us that held the reins. That was when the bureaucratic troubles first began. A lot of donors for the project, and even a few of my fellow team members, had their own ideas on how to best utilize the machine. Every nation involved wanted it for themselves and had their own vision on how best to implement its capabilities. Several members of the coalition ended up leaving the project or being outright dismissed, promising to return with a battalion of lawyers at their back. One man was even caught attempting to smuggle data from the lab, and detained to await prosecution. The reigning project overseer was also relieved of duty. In his place, Dr. Henryk Lundgren assumed the role of director of operations. Dr. Lundgren is a dear friend, and a brilliant mind. That’s what makes his fate lie so heavily on my heart. It’s a tragedy what befell him, but I won’t act as though he wasn’t responsible for stoking the flames. Lundgren managed to settle the group down and unite a divided faction of researchers who all held their own agendas. He made the executive decision to keep the computer in the hands of the international team and continue to study it for continued data analysis and eventual replication. All those who didn’t abide were dismissed or removed physically as the need arose. Lundgren had toiled for years on development of the machines virtual capabilities, and decided it best to invest more heavily into it. It took months of development, but soon a fully-functional Sims-esque program was up and running. The simulation was modeled to be an exact carbon copy of our own world and held all the coordinating pieces within it. All the people, animals, and nations. Augmented control apparatuses were then developed to allow us the ability to view the computer’s creation firsthand. The simulation it created was so visceral, that none could even perceive that they were in a simulation at all. Test subjects were exposed to their own loved ones within the program and could not distinguish them from their real-life counterparts. I even took it for a spin a few times.
I was hooked up to the monitor via a neural cortex interface, and had my mind rendered into the simulation. I awoke to the sights of sunlight peeking through my blinds, and the sounds of cars outside. Around me on the walls were posters of Harry Potter, JoJo and the X-files, among countless others. I recognized immediately where I was. It was my childhood home, an apartment complex in Sacramento. The simulation was so detailed, that even my old raggedy-Ann doll with the missing eye was there. My parents were both there and acted in accordance to how they would behave in real life. My dad even made new corny jokes in a fashion that suited his personality. It wasn’t a memory though, it was an entirely new scenario, concocted by my mind and the quantum simulation. My parents are both deceased in real life, and getting to spend time with them again was‌ indescribable. Even if they were just simulations, the experience was profoundly cathartic for me. I ended up leaving the simulation in tears, overwhelmed by the experience and the ability to speak with my parents once again. It even made dealing with their absence a little easier in the real world. After all, I could now speak to them any time I wanted. I found myself never wanting to leave the matrix. Dr. Lundgren subsequently questioned me about my experience, and I was all too happy to relay the things I had seen. He listened intently, with simple occasional nods and one-word responses. His grey face wore a smile, and cheeks dimpled in delight, but his eyes were far from the present, and worried. We held a meeting with all staff members sometime after. Lundgren stood and paced in front of the group, silent and mind swirling in thought. When he did finally speak, he held our undivided attention. He walked through all that our little group had managed to accomplish, and all the things we had learned on our journey. All the miracles unraveled and translated into digital coding, and all the advancements made. It was not a triumphant voice however, it was somber, as if none of it truly mattered. He then first proposed his new theory. Here we were, with an entire simulated universe at the tips of our fingers. A digital reality created and maintained by a machine we had built. A simulation which was so authentic, that none could tell it apart from reality itself. And if we had the power to create that, how did we know that our own universe was not the result of the same process? How did we know our reality was not in fact a simulation?
An unnerving silence befell the rest of the group as Lundgren concluded his epiphany. All in attendance seemed to silently contemplate the idea, with a noticeably nervous aura now lingering. There wasn’t much said after that, but there didn’t need to be. We had an entirely new goal. Upon returning for work the following day, I immediately noticed that several of our colleagues had abandoned the project without so much as a ‘goodbye’. Only 7 of us remained, among which was the prestigious Henryk Lundgren. He was changed though, his upbeat optimism and inquisitive attitude reverted to an impatient gibbering wreck of a man. He became hostile to prolonged questioning, and I could see the idea gnaw on his mind as he walked the tightrope between madness and genius. At times he even appeared on the verge of psychosis. He would ramble and talk to himself, and pretty much stopped leaving the laboratory altogether. We set our sights on a new task; to dismantle and test the hypothesis of Lundgren. To develop an ability to break through the boundaries of our suspected simulation and peer beyond our own reality to glimpse whatever may lie on the other side. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore by that point. Life may be accidental, consciousness too, hell even complex organisms like human beings the result of genetic evolution and a bit of luck. However, simulation is not accidental. It requires an immense amount of dedication, programming and logistics. Not to mention, power and maintenance. The ability to synthesize digital worlds is not something learned or accomplished by accident. It takes time, resources, and brainpower to even attempt it, and even then, it’s no guarantee. The one concept that was off the table immediately, was that the theorized simulation was the result of natural phenomenon or random cosmic alignment. If Lundgren’s hypothesis was correct, and our universe was indeed a simulation, then someone or something had to be pulling the strings behind the veil. Powerful as the quantum computer was, even it did not have the ability to glimpse directly into higher dimensions. As stated before, it took commands only from us, and could only perform tasks which we could coherently articulate to it. We realized rather early that directly viewing outside the boundaries of the universe was likely not possible. The only option was to send a message. Through remedial experimentation and dozens of ponderous sleepless nights, we finally had a breakthrough. Our reality is based on
laws. Laws of motion, laws of attraction, laws of physics. These laws cannot be broken accidently, but with quantum technology, they can be manipulated. Many believe that intelligent extra-terrestrials were first alerted to humanity when the atomic bombs fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Ours was essentially the same idea. Demonstrating that we had the capability to toil with the quantum world in hopes of eliciting a response from a higher being. If we could ‘break’ or ‘bend’ one of these laws of reality, then perhaps the orchestrator would be compelled to respond. One of the earlier discoveries we had made was that of the concept of reverse time. Time is a measurement of something that occurs, and without anything to observe, time is meaningless. The concept only makes sense when in the presence of matter. The two concepts of space and time are coterminous, like light and dark or hot and cold, one does not exist without the other. Where there is space there is time, and where there is time there must be space. The opposite of matter is not nothing, but anti-matter. A true nothingness or void of anything substantial does not exist. It cannot exist based upon the nature of existence itself. Antimatter is the invisible material which operates unseen and fills all the gaps which matter does not. All of it held together by the Higgs-Boson. If an opposite of matter exists, then an opposite of time must as well. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and all reactions must remain proportional to force exerted. By utilizing the quantum computer, we had the ability to send protons back in time… sort of. We could make them exist where they once had not by using dark energy matrices and particle superpositioning to put them in two places at once. The discovery had actually been made some time earlier, but never officially tested. It was restricted and marked as unbroachable, as many of our patrons were rightfully concerned by the prospect of unintentionally altering the past. Doing so could create a butterfly effect and wreak havoc upon the present. We were told vehemently that the reverse-time experimentation was forbidden, but now we had a legitimate reason to take interest. It took some convincing on our end, but eventually we were successful when we promised to unveil the greatest discovery yet. The parameters were set within the computer and the lab was prepped for the operation. A single seed of dianthus caryophyllus was placed in a transparent reinforced container in the center of the room. The specimen was placed on damp resin paper, and several little green tendrils had
sprouted from its shell. The idea was to reverse the symbiotic metabolism of the test subject and cause it to rapidly revert to a zygote state. The seed would be directed to perform it’s life cycle backwards, thereby contradicting the natural forward flow of life and time. The parameters were finished, and Lundgren stood by the machine. He glanced to each of us individually with a sullen demeanor and nervous twinkle in his eye. He looked to me last, and I nodded. Lundgren took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and flipped the switch. Immediately the tendrils within the seed began to retract. They disappeared within the shell soon after, and the seed shrunk until the point in which it was no longer visible. The computer alerted us that the task had been completed, and silence descended upon the crew. We stayed that way for several seconds until a commotion from the computer drew our attention. An array of flickering lights and sirens began to wail like banshees, indicating an error of some sort. Suddenly, the seed reappeared and began to grow at an impossible rate. A mass of wriggling green tendrils erupted from the shell and pressed firmly against the case within seconds. It swelled within and the chamber violently ruptured a moment later, sending shards of glass catapulting throughout the room. I managed to duck away just in time, but others in the group were not so lucky. One man, Reginald Diabek, was struck with a shard in the neck. The piece cut a gash across his throat, causing a thick crimson to spill forth from his gullet. He collapsed to the ground as others began to rush to his aid. Before we could reach him, the engorged serpentine appendages of the seed ensnared him, slithering around his neck and abdomen. Diabek gurgled and terror filled his eyes as the green pythonic roots began to constrict him. I watched, at a loss for words as Diabek’s wound sealed. His grey hair turned to a dark brown. The wrinkles on his forehead and bags below his eyes dissolved into his skin in a matter of seconds. The blackheads and liver-spots on his cheeks soon followed suit. All of us watched, stupefied as the process continued onward and Diabek appeared to age backwards. Diabek had to have been nearly sixty years old, but in a matter of moments he appeared as though he was a young man in his early thirties. He then went young adult, then juvenile, then teenager. Diabek screamed in terror as his voice cracked from a gruff, raspy tone to a high-
pitched pre-pubescent shriek. His body shrunk in his clothes and his extremities retracted within his coat. By the time we had reached him, he was gone. We didn’t have time to gawk, as our stupor was interrupted by the computer blaring a warning siren, and a flickering plethora of lights designated an external problem of some sort. The display was a failsafe designed to protect the computer from malicious outside sources. Most of us thought the firewalls of the quantum computer were enough to prevent any attempted breach, but apparently, we were wrong. One of my colleagues scrambled to the kill switch. He was poised to throw it, when he was halted by a sudden shout from Lundgren. Lundgren stood, eyes wide as dinner plates and mouth agape as he stared at the main monitor of the computer. The warning display had ceased, and only a single screen remained active. Upon it was displayed a single loading bar, with approximately twenty percent of it being filled in. This indicated only one thing; something was being downloaded. We immediately surmised that it must be a virus or other malware of some sort. A prospect once thought impossible based on the security measures of the computer, and yet the download persevered. All attempts made to restrict the download and halt its progress proved futile. We exchanged nervous glances with one another, torn on whether to pull the plug and save our creation from hostile insurgence or allow it to continue to whatever ends. The call was eventually made by the investors outside the room, who had since been notified of the development. They demanded power be cut, and the machine be saved. The computer represented a colossal investment, and the costs to repair or replace it if any damage were to ensue was not something taken lightly. Begrudgingly, Lundgren followed orders and commanded shutdown protocol. It was done straight away, but the machine did not power down. It continued, impossibly, and without a direct power source sustaining it. Panic began to erupt from the lab, and power to the entire facility was ordered to be cut from the mainframe. It was done within seconds, and the room fell into darkness. The only light that remained was that of the main monitor as the download reached the halfway mark. The computer groaned and whirred under enormous duress as hundreds of fans shot to life to attempt to cool the leviathan machine. We stood back, unable to make heads or tails of the development. There was simply no possible way the machine should’ve remained
active, and yet it was. It continued to fill up the progress bar, powered by the fuel of some unknown outside source. With no other viable solutions at hand barring physical destruction of the computer itself, we could do nothing but await the culmination. The download finished several minutes later, and the room fell into pitch black. We deliberated for a moment, before deciding our only recourse was to power up the computer once again. The mysterious file weighed in at an impressive 100,000 terabytes, enough to fill hundreds of normal hard drives, but just another drop in the ocean for the quantum computer. Once full mobility was achieved, a single never before seen prompt filled the screen. “Unknown file type. Do you wish to execute the file?” All attempts made to bypass the prompt failed. We quickly used a separate program on another screen to trace the file’s origin, but to no avail. Now, there is no hiding from a quantum computer behind a proxy or VPN. It uses algorithm-based process combined with ping response speed to determine probable origin up to an accuracy of 99.999%. We’re talking response time measured in millionths of a second, but for a quantum computer, it’s like the ABC’s. Sure, it gets it wrong once in every million attempts, point being it always has a guess. This time however, we received a new message. “Unable to determine file origin.” Lundgren took a step back and pondered the situation and wiped the beads of glistening sweat from his brow. With nothing else at our disposal, he realized there was only one option left. And so, he gave one last command. “Open it.” The computer began to render the file, the process taking several minutes to complete. It was entirely in binary code, and eventually translated to a single message. Upon completion, two words in a white font sat silently amidst a black background. I never thought two simple words could have such lasting effects on my psyche. Those two words that have made me question everything I thought I ever knew. The computer fizzled out moments later and shut down. All of us just kind of left after that. I returned home, overwhelmed by the events and left with a mystic sense of terror instilled deep in my stomach. The following morning, I was called by one of the investors. He informed me that someone had broken into the lab late the previous night and sabotaged the operation. The lab was lit ablaze and soon reduced to a smoldering pile of ash, and the
quantum computer was damaged beyond repair. Whoever had done it possessed a security card and seemed to know the exact process required to dismantle the automatic sprinkler system. Police held a single suspect in custody. A man who appeared as a neurotic mess in the center of a maniacal nervous breakdown. He was tried and convicted some time later and declared clinically insane. He was ordained to a mental health facility in northern Sweden, and it is there that he remains to this day. That man’s name? Henryk Lundgren. I’ve never been able to properly assess just what it was that happened that day. The event has left me shaken and confused in more ways than I could possibly list. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be whole again, I just can’t be. I know the truth, the reason for our meager existence. We had reached out far beyond, and something answered our call. Whether or not it was truly what we would call ‘god’, I can’t say. But I will say, after what I saw happen to Diabek, and what became of Lundgren, I can’t think of a better word for it. I think god is something we never could’ve imagined. It holds us all within the palm of its hand, and with a simple flick of the wrist, we would cease to be. There is no love, there is no salvation, there is only that which lies beyond the margins of reality. That which we have no possible hope of understanding. One thing is also certain; it is watching us, and it does not want us meddling in that which we have no business seeing. We are set amidst an ocean of infinite black seas, and it was not meant for us to travel far. That final message could not have been clearer, and anytime I find myself drifting, I remember those two simple words relayed by the quantum computer in its last moments of life. “TURN BACK.” CREDIT: Zacharius Frost
My son disappeared six years ago, and I keep finding his belongings. by Trainer_AssKetchup My wife and I have always lived a quiet life in the country with our son, Wesley. Our 9-acre property is surrounded to the north and the east by a forest, where Wesley would often go play with his friends or by himself. For his 8th birthday, I had gone into the forest with Wesley to help him make his own tree fort where he could stash his comic books, Game Boy, toys, and treasures that he would find while exploring the woods behind our house. He amassed quite the collection of interesting rocks and bugs (which he stored in mason jars) in his forest base, and he spent most of his free time just a few hundred yards away from our house. It was a peaceful life that we had for ourselves. I would take our car into work on the weekdays and bring my wife to town right after Wesley’s bus arrived to take him to school. Each day was the same routine, and we spent the weekends together at the house. In short, we were all very happy. This week is the sixth anniversary of my son, Wesley’s, disappearance. To this day, we don’t know what happened to him on that brisk autumn evening, but from the moment our twelve-year-old son left the house we had a sneaking suspicion he was never coming back. On Friday, August 23, 2013, our daily morning ritual happened as it always had; I would wake up, eat breakfast with Kim and Wesley, and we would wait together until the bus arrived. Wesley had a half-day at school today, so he would return home before me or my wife were able to get home and watch him. This wasn’t a big deal, he was 12 and could look after himself for a few hours. We told him to call my cell phone as soon as he got home after school that day, to make sure he was home safely. As Wes climbed up the stairs onto the bus, my wife began to tremble and eventually break into tears. Neither of us knew what she was crying for, but we waved our son goodbye and both climbed into the car to finish off the work week. My cell phone rang at exactly 12:33 that afternoon. My iPhone played the default “Marimba” tone and I saw that I was receiving a call from our
home landline. It must have been Wesley, who had just gotten off the bus and ran into our home, obeying my instructions to call. When I slid my finger across the screen and answered the phone, the only thing I heard was the empty dial tone of our home landline, as if he hadn’t typed out my number yet. I called out his name a few times through my cell, but there was nothing. I tried calling back, but there was no answer. He did as he was instructed, called Dad as soon as he got home, and must have sprinted out the door to go play in the woods. I thought nothing of it until I got home. I picked up my wife from the store on the way back to the house. The porch lights were on, which was our family’s way of indirectly saying, “Someone’s home!” Upon entering our house, I called out to Wesley to see if he was in his room. I got no response, so I assumed he was still outside in the woods, even 5 hours after his call. My kid always loved that fort that I built him. Kim began making dinner and I changed my clothes and went to the spot in the woods where my son and I had constructed his home away from home. It was starting to get dark, so it was a bit difficult to see through the woods. I spotted the light from his treehouse lamp on through the window and, as a dad should, began silently creeping up the short ladder nailed into the tree to scare the crap out of him. When I reached the top, I quickly swung the curtain-door open and let out a roar in an attempt to scare my poor, unexpecting son. However, after scanning the small room, Wesley wasn’t sitting in his beanbag chair as he normally was. In fact, the chair and his entire collections of rocks, bugs, comics, and games were completely gone off of the wooden shelves. The only things in the room were the lit citronella camping lamp that we had given to him when we built the treehouse, and a single Sketcher’s sneaker lying in the middle of the room. The shoe was facing the doorway. I walked over to pick it up and examined it in the light of the tree house lamp. Nothing was unusual about it, but it was Wesley’s. I peeked out the window, wondering where my son could have run off to with only one shoe. The darkness had started to creep over the entire forest, and it would be very dark in no time. I called out into the twilight several times, with no response. He was probably waiting in hiding to scare me, and it was working. I was terrified already. I left the lamp on and descended the ladder of the treehouse, continuing to scan the dim area for my son. I called and searched for thirty minutes in the dark, getting no response. I was beginning to panic. Sprinting back in the
direction of our home, I noticed that the light in his room was on. A wave of calm and relaxation washed over me. He must have snuck home while I was out here searching for him, little bugger. I opened the back door and entered the kitchen, immediately greeted by my wife, asking about the shoe in my hand and where her little Wesley was. I explained what happened, and she told me he hadn’t come home. Once again beginning to panic, I sprinted down the hallway to his room and flung the door open. The light to the room was off, and the interior was completely bare. I know that I saw his light on when I was returning home from the woods. I flipped the light on with my right hand, still clutching his sneaker with my left. The room was completely empty. His bed, dresser, posters, rug, and bookshelf were completely gone. My wife heard my scream and came instantly rushing to my side, then she screamed too. We didn’t scream at anything we saw, but by the complete lack of something that was before us. Wesley and his possessions were nowhere to be seen, besides the shoe that I clutched. Examining it once more in the bare light of his room, a single word had appeared on the sole of his shoe, but only when viewing it in his room. The word didn’t appear anywhere else in the house, only his room. The word "DON’T" was clearly visible in black block letters on its bottom. Kim immediately called the police and reported a theft, kidnapping, missing child, breaking and entering, everything. I had already grabbed a flashlight and was combing the woods, looking for any signs of my missing child. The police arrived, and I told them everything that had happened. The police helped us search the woods and surrounding area for hours. We searched for days. Then weeks. Months. Wesley never returned to our house. Once a week I would visit his hideout in the woods which was now overgrown from the months spent untouched, and I left food and water in hopes that he was hiding somewhere in the woods, but the food just sat on the floor, rotting and filling with bugs. The time blended together, and we began to gradually lose hope of ever seeing our boy again. An entire year passed, and I continued to make weekly trips to the hideout just in case he would someday return. August 23, Wesley’s disappearance anniversary, landed on a Saturday in 2014. I reclined in silent mourning on my loveseat while I recalled the events of exactly one year ago. As I sat on the couch, my cell phone rang. The caller ID was our home landline, but I looked over to see our clunky phone set in its home on the dock. No one was using it. The time on the clock next to it
read 12:33. I frantically answered the phone, hoping to hear something, ANYTHING. Dial tone. Just like one year ago. Today I had brought Wesley’s favorite snack, Cheetos and an Arnold Palmer Sweet Tea to bring to his hideout, but I forgot them on the counter as I sprinted out of the house. It didn’t matter. I climbed the ladder of the fort and flung the curtain open. It had smelled bad because of the rotten bread that I had left last week, but I would take last weeks’ meal back to the house whenever I left. Half expecting to see the bare room as I had every single week following his disappearance, the long burnt-out citronella lamp flared on with my entrance, revealing the object sitting in front of me. Wesley’s other shoe, once again facing the door. In stunned astonishment, I scooped up the shoe, examining it for another word. Once again recalling one year ago, I sprinted as fast as I could back to the house. The light of his room was mysteriously on. I blazed past Kim in the kitchen and beelined straight to Wesley’s room. I paused for a moment outside the door, noticing that no light was visible under it, the same as it was one year ago. I opened the door as Kim ran down the hall and followed me. She realized what I had discovered, and together we shared the same mixture of anguish and hope as I flipped on the light switch. The empty sole of the shoe now displayed another single word, “BOTHER”. We looked at each other in silence as the tears streamed down our faces. I placed the shoe next to its partner in the center of the room, reading the phrase “DON’T BOTHER”. Each year since, my wife and I have found another piece of Wesley’s clothing in the treehouse. The clues only appeared on August 23, after I received the phantom phone call from our home landline at exactly 12:33. When I received the call in 2015, I had requested the day off from work. I waited, with phone in hand, at the bottom of the ladder of the treehouse. As soon as my expected call rang, answered, and repeated the dial tone, I flung myself up the ladder into the treehouse. Same scene as before. Curtain open, light on, and object in the middle of the floor. This time, Wesley’s pants lay on the floor, feet facing the door. Grabbing them and sprinting to his room felt all too familiar. I flipped the light on once again and read the next word on them, printed this time on the butt of the jeans. This year, the word was “LOOKING”. August 23, 2016. It became tradition for me on these days to miss all other obligations. I wanted to figure out this mystery of my son. The time
was 12:32, and I sat cross-legged in the empty hideout, waiting as the seconds ticked by until the inevitable phone call. To my surprise, my phone clock ticked to 12:33, and no call arrived. I waited for another minute. Then five. Then ten minutes. Giving up, I descended the ladder. Once my feet touched the ground, my phone instantly rang. Home landline. Repeat last year: the curtain, lamp, and object. This year was Wesley’s shirt. The same striped, long sleeve t-shirt I had last seen him in. In his bedroom, I read the next word, printed across the back: “FOR”. I already dreaded what next year would bring. I knew that the next word was going to be “HIM”. Some sadistic asshole had kidnapped my son and stole all of his possessions, and now they were toying with me, throwing in my face the fact that I completely failed as a father. August 23, 2017. I waited outside the hideout for the call once again. I stood on the tiny deck in front of the curtain until I received the call, but it never came. It seemed that nothing would happen until I was completely on the ground, away from the treehouse. I climbed down the ladder, received the call, and returned to the fort. Wesley’s underwear. This was a bit messed up, if you ask me. However, each article of clothing I had retrieved from the fort was completely clean, as if it was washed that day. The underwear was no exception. Returning to his room, my hunch upon the next word was completely proved wrong. “ME.” Placing the underwear next to the rest of the clothing, I read the words in order. “DON’T BOTHER LOOKING FOR ME.” Now, it’s 2018 and my son’s disappearance anniversary (if you can call it that) was three days ago. Nothing showed up in the treehouse. No phone calls. No clothing (I checked). Nothing new was added to this puzzle of his disappearance. I checked his room last night, to see the five pieces of clothing in the room as I did quite often, but nothing was there. On the sixth anniversary of his disappearance, all the articles disappeared. No one could have taken them, I had boarded up the window to Wesley’s room and locked the door three times over. Those clothes were the last mementos that me and Kim had of our little boy, and now they were gone, too.
Someone is skulking around my house and trying to intimidate me. by ann1er This whole thing started around a year ago. I tried to post it back then but got rejected because “wall of text”and I was too busy to fix it. I was only reminded of it when last week the first occurrence in several months reminded me of the entire thing, and of course sharing it with you all. I live in a ranch style home in the middle of Missouri on 1.8 acres of nothing but woods. We bought the house almost 2 years ago. The house was vacant for over 8 months before we purchased it, and the realtors had problems with squatters about three months into the house being for sale, but said nothing had happened since. My elderly grandmother lives with me as I am her caregiver. It’s just the two of us and our dogs. We moved into the house in early October of 2016. The first incident occurred in March of 2017. We started seeing a bunch of plastic bags and trash around the back of our house, further out than either of us go. Didn’t think much of it but did make a mental note that raccoons or something could be getting into our trash, I put some bungee cords on the cans to hold the lids down and wrote it off at that. One night I was coming home much later than normal around 1:30am. All of the land is fenced in, but there is one back gate. Near the back gate I saw a bunch of trees rustling. There is a lot of wild life in our area so I assumed that’s what it was, but I got that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and decided to go check it out. The ground was dry enough that I was able to drive through the yard in my car with the doors locked. I shone my headlights on the trees and a man came running out of them. If that wasn’t terrifying enough, he ran straight for the gate as if he knew exactly where it was, opened it and left. I was absolutely terrified so I called my dad who lives in the area. He explained to me how large the population of homeless people is in our area, and that he’d be over the next day to put a lock on the gate. About two weeks after the first incident, I was letting my dogs outside. The one had already went inside, and the other was playing hard to get as usual. I began calling out her name. It wasn’t even dark outside. After
about three calls another voice, distinctly male, started calling out her name. She began barking aggressively and running for the house. I was freaked out, but again let my family talk me out of making a call to the authorities. About a month passes, my grandmother has a habit of forgetting to close the garage door behind her. Around 11pm our neighbor from across the street knocks on our door, he says he was outside smoking and he saw two men standing in our garage talking. He said as soon as he started walking over they ran off. What scares me the most about this event, is they stole nothing. And there was plenty to steal. We have a brand new refrigerator, leaf blower, power tools, and my grandma leaves the keys in the car. They were just talking. This time I called the police and they told me in the nicest way possible they couldn’t do shit, if there was another incident to call them and not to scare the men away. The final incident of 2017 happened probably 3 months after the prior one. We have a sun porch attached the outside of the house, the door connects to the kitchen, and the outside door to the deck. I don’t know if I explained that right, and if anyone wants me to I can post pictures. Basically we left for several hours to go grocery shopping. We came home and all our deck furniture was stacked on top of each other, and the screen ripped off the sun porch door. I called the non-emergency hotline for my area and again said with no idea who these people are nothing could be done. About 2 weeks ago now, we had our white vinyl fence power washed. Because the fence is quite old, a post came off of the fence and the company that power washed the fence didn’t know how to fix it, and we didn’t blame them so they had no reason to. We left the post in the front yard but up against the fence. We came home a couple of days later and the post was nailed back up with a smiley face sticky note attached to it. This very easily could have been a kind neighbor, but I was immediately spooked. Cut to Saturday of last week. My grandmother is able to drive again but doesn’t have her own car. I’m busy working around the house so she decides to take herself to the doctor. My grandmother leaves the house through our door connected to the garage, and I lock it behind her. It never dawns on me to check to make sure she has closed it. About 20 minutes after she leaves someone starts heavily banging on the door. When I say banging I mean it sounds like the swat team, someone was putting all of their force into banging on that door. My dogs are going nuts
and I don’t know what to think. I start to think maybe my grandma left something and is trying to get my attention, but the little voice in the back of my head stops me and tells me “there is no way that little old lady is banging on that door like that.” Suddenly it stops and I hear a deep (again distinctly male) laugh. I grab the baseball bat out of my bedroom and lock myself in the bathroom with the dogs. I realize I’ve left my phone outside the bathroom but I was too afraid to go out of the bathroom and get it. I took the lid of the tank of the toilet so I now had two weapons. Nothing happened and I hid in that bathroom until my grandma was home again. So that’s the story. I know there wasn’t some big confrontation or climax, but I fear the story may not be over yet. I don’t known if any of these events are connected at all, but I’ve got it in my head that they are and I’m driving myself nuts to a point where I’m afraid to be alone in my own house. The only reason I even included the fence is because there hasn’t been a single sketchy thing happen all 2018, and then someone fixes the fence, and less than a week later another scary encounter. I honestly don’t know what to think. I will update if anything else happens. So rather this is one or multiple people I really hope whatever this is is over. And whoever is doing this let’s not meet.
Publication Date: September 2nd 2018 https://www.bookrix.com/-amd935e35df1e85