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Submissions Re-Opening… Finally. [August 15, 2015 -November 15, 2015]

August 15, 2015 at 12:00 AM

Hey everyone!

First off, I just want to thank you all for being patient and understanding while I sorted out the issue with the submission form. I know that many of you have been holding on to hopeful submissions for months now, and I’m sure it was disappointing when I wasn’t able to open submissions back in July as per my original plan. However, after testing a new submission plugin and monitoring how it affected our database while acting as the Contact Form only, I think that – knock on wood – we have a solid replacement and I now feel comfortable re-opening submissions.

Due to the extremely long ‘dead zone’ without any new submissions, this open period will be much longer than usual – three full months, as a matter of fact. It starts tonight, August 15th, 2015, and will end on November 15th, 2015.

A few things to keep in mind:

  • We currently have pastas scheduled up until September 23rd; this means that pastas submitted starting now will not be published until at LEAST late September, possibly far later depending on where you end up in the queue. We were extremely lucky that the submission form shenanigans happened to coincide with my having an unusually large amount of stories in my ‘to publish’ pile; so much so that we’ve been able to bump up to two stories a day for July, August, and September!
  • If your story is specifically tailored to be posted around Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, or any other specific timeframe, please make sure to tag it as ‘Seasonally Spooky’ – I do try to schedule those posts when they’re thematically appropriate.
  • I’ve added a new option in the tag field called “Historical Horror” – if your story is inspired by or set in a specific time period or tied to a historic event, please select this tag!
  • There is now a field on the submission form for people with ALREADY EXISTING author tags to enter their tag. If you don’t have a tag at the time of submission, leave this field blank. I will of course be double-checking and if I can’t verify that you are the ‘owner’ of that author tag, the story will not be placed in the tag. If you fill out the author tag field with anything but a valid author tag, it will just be ignored. This means that even if you’re eligible for a new author tag, you still need to use the correct form to request yours (and yes, that form is back and functioning again, too)!
  • The new submission form has a WYSIWYG text entry option; this means you can format your pastas exactly as intended without having to know html. I will do my best to honor your formatting – but if you do anything silly like try to submit a pasta entirely in massive lime green text… not going to happen, sorry. For those of you who prefer to enter your html manually (or have no formatting needs at all), you can still enter your pasta in the ‘Text’ tag without having to mess with the visual editor at all.

As always, this post is EXPLICIT CONFIRMATION that all submissions from the prior open period have been processed. Please do check your email (including your spam filter – but of course, if you read the FAQ before submitting, you already whitelisted ‘creepypasta’ in your spam filter, right?) to make sure that you didn’t get any last-minute messages from me before you submit any edited pastas. If your story was accepted and you’ve made rewrites in the interim, please follow the steps outlined in the FAQ to make sure we get your newest version posted instead. If you’ve rewritten a story that was rejected entirely (you received no response from me whatsoever) or was placed on Crappypasta, you can resubmit it as normal.

Remember: if your submission did not receive a response, it was rejected. Please do not resubmit the exact same pasta simply because you didn’t receive a response; this is a complete waste of both your time and mine. However, if you rework your rejected story, you are more than welcome to resubmit.

That’s all for this announcement! I’m excited to see what you have all been working on for the past few months, so get to submitting!

August Creepypasta Book Club: The Gift of Fear

August 2, 2015 at 1:01 AM

It’s been awhile since we did a book club post, huh? I had originally intended to post this in July instead of the Discussion Post; however, so much crap was happening on the back-end side of the site (multiple DDoS attacks, the submission form turning evil after the last plugin update and causing the server to overload itself, etc) as well as various offline issues that I ended up just having to shelve this post until things were a bit calmer.

So if you were wondering why there was no Discussion Post last month, that’s why. I had originally intended to have submissions re-opened (check the sidebar Submission Status for the latest update on this; please don’t derail this post with questions that are already answered there – when submissions re-open, it will be a separate post) all the way back in the beginning of July; so I had felt that having that announcement + Discussion + Book Club would have left the front page looking a tad too bloated. But it seems the site had other ideas about how things should play out, so here we are. Better late than never, right?

SO.

The book that we’re going to talk about this month is very well-known; given that it’s almost twenty years old and spent a lot of time on the Best Seller list, many of you have probably heard of it already. However, it’s striking how well it’s held up and how relevant it remains – many of the scenarios the author details are still happening every single day.

The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker is, obviously, about fear. Specifically, how to identify when your fear is actually your intuition trying to warn you of incoming danger. Those of you who are fans of detective novels, games, and TV shows like Sherlock, Ace Attorney, etc, are probably already familiar with the idea that our unconscious mind notices clues and cues that our conscious mind, for whatever reason, filters out. I see a lot of discussion in our comments sections about the plausibility of how much (or how little) a protagonist notices and deduces before shit hits the fan (so to speak) in any given pasta, so I thought that this might be a topic that everyone would find interesting – and certainly worth applying to both their real lives and their writing.

From the Amazon Editiorial Review:

“Each hour, 75 women are raped in the United States, and every few seconds, a woman is beaten. Each day, 400 Americans suffer shooting injuries, and another 1,100 face criminals armed with guns. Author Gavin de Becker says victims of violent behavior usually feel a sense of fear before any threat or violence takes place. They may distrust the fear, or it may impel them to some action that saves their lives. A leading expert on predicting violent behavior, de Becker believes we can all learn to recognize these signals of the “universal code of violence,” and use them as tools to help us survive. The book teaches how to identify the warning signals of a potential attacker and recommends strategies for dealing with the problem before it becomes life threatening. The case studies are gripping and suspenseful, and include tactics for dealing with similar situations.

People don’t just “snap” and become violent, says de Becker, whose clients include federal government agencies, celebrities, police departments, and shelters for battered women. “There is a process as observable, and often as predictable, as water coming to a boil.” Learning to predict violence is the cornerstone to preventing it. De Becker is a master of the psychology of violence, and his advice may save your life.”

Over the course of the book, Mr. de Becker discusses and analyzes a lot of horrific scenarios; from the person making an eerily prescient joke about a coworker who – just a few moments later – then showed up to shoot up his workplace (perhaps not so eerie; the joker had actually noticed the warning signs but was consciously suppressing them) to a woman who escaped being killed by subconsciously noticing very small details about her attacker’s behavior – it’s honestly fascinating to realize just how much information we absorb (and both apply and ignore) about danger on a daily basis.

At this writing, The Gift of Fear is widely accessible; Amazon Prime has it included in their free lending library, it’s available for under ten bucks in most markets, the audiobook is available on Audible, and of course, given its age and popularity, your local libraries will likely have multiple copies. So please get your hands on a copy and join us in discussing the book in this post!

A few questions to get you started:

  • Have you ever had an instance in your life where you noticed the signs as detailed by de Becker and listened to them, only to find out later that your intuition had saved yourself from a sticky or dangerous situation?
  • What fictional characters can you think of who use this sort of hyper-attention to detail and intuition? Did you realize that such a habit was something we all do, or did you think it was more of a ‘superpower’ that these characters had exclusively?
  • How aware of such signals do you try to be when writing your own creepy stories? Do you think there’s a line where a character becomes unbelievable if they pay too much (or too little) attention to danger signs and their intuition?
  • Can you think of any pastas that use this idea, whether as an overall concept or by having the protagonist particularly attuned to their intuition?

Please have fun discussing this book! As always, the basic comment guidelines apply: be excellent to each other, even if someone posts an opinion that contradicts your own.

Contest has been removed due to total lack of interest/entries. Clearly, I need better ideas for giveaways, so if you have feedback/ideas feel free to let me know either via the comments here or Contact Us!

Additionally, the book club idea seems to be falling rather flat. I probably won’t do this again, unless anyone has a major lightbulb flash of inspiration on how to make the idea more appealing/interactive.

*Amazon affiliate links are present in this post. If you use any of them to make a purchase, the site received a small kickback. I use this revenue to pay for the site expenses and contests like this one, so you get a billion thanks if you use our affiliate link to make a purchase!

The Door Game

September 1, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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Rating: 7.9/10 (28 votes cast)

“Yo, James hurry your ass up!” Damon roared from across the parking lot, standing next to our limo and waving me and Becca down. I quickly stole a kiss with Her before taking her hand and jogging toward the limo with her. We werent in there for more than a moment before our other friend Felix shoved a flask of Jack Daniel’s in our face.

“I made sure to get one for each couple,” He winked at me with a huge grin, “It isnt prom night without Sir Daniels!” we all burst out laughing. I took a swig from the flask before passing it over to Becca, and shifted my gaze to my childhood friends. There were eight of us total and we had all been friends since grade school and couples since late middle school. The gang consisted of Jamal, Krisie, Pat, Jade, Felix and Dayna, Becca and I, and boy were we an interesting bunch.

“So whose place are we exactly going to again?” I asked, as Becca leaned her head on my shoulder.

“The new guy, uh…,” Pat started, but Jade finished for him, “Dale Seer, he just moved here from New Jersey.”

“Yeah that guy!” Pat smiled, as Jade rolled her eyes at him.

Just then the limo driver swore loudly just before veering wildly to the left and right just narrowly avoiding a car driving down the opposite side of the road, leaving us all in a tangled laughing heap in the center of the vehicle. Normally we probably would have freaked out but with the amount of alcohol we had consumed at the time we probably could have wrecked and thought it humorous. We continued to talk about the events of everything that had gone on our senior year, and before we knew it we had reached our destination.

“Alrighty kiddos, I will be here bright and early to pick you up at eight, so don’t be late ya’ hear?” We all nodded in agreement to the limo driver, but as the others turned away from him I noticed his expression had become grim and he motioned me to come closer. “It’s not your time.” He muttered, before driving off. I just stared after the car confused by his choice of words. What did he mean by that exactly, and what was his deal? I just shrugged it off and went to join my friends who were all standing in front of a small eerie looking home.

The house was a light yellow and with as much chipped paint as there was it gave the home a weird poke-a-dotted look. The home almost reminded me of the Amityville horror house, with the dirt coated attic window, a rickety old fashioned porch and the occasional missing shutter. Yep this sure was where I wanted to spend the rest of my prom night.

“Wow, this Dale guy seems like a real winner.” Krissie stated sarcastically.
“Come on guys let’s just give this Dale guy a shot, I’m sure he is a nice guy!” Becca pleaded with us. She had been that way as long as I could remember. Always giving people the benefit of the doubt, and being optimistic about any situation, and that is why I loved her so much. Not only was she the most beautiful girl in school she was also the least selfish and shallow person you would ever meet. I can still remember the first time we met on the school playground. I was and still am one of the nerdish guys you would ever meet, and ironically I was being picked on by Pat when she stood up for me, and ever since then I could never get over how strong she was. Those piercing blue eyes and her dark brown hair still till this day take my breath away every time I see her.

“Ok.” We all uttered in unison, pick up our bags and making our way into the home.

Pat rushed passed everyone throwing his bag onto the floor of the entry way. Despite the outside of the home the inside wasn’t all that bad looking. The entry way was rather large, with five different doorways. The one to the left lead to a rather larger living room with a fire place, the second to our right lead to the kitchen. Two others were at the top of a flight of stairs on either side of the landing, and right on the wall at the center of the two was a large poster. The last one was dead ahead of where pat had gone through.
“Yo Dale, where you at bro.” I called out into the seemingly empty home. Everyone dropped their bags in the same spot as Pat and we got no answer.
“Maybe everyone got stuck in traffic on their way here.” Dayna suggested, shrugging her shoulders.

“Hey guys check this out!” Pat called out from the doorway in front of us. We all walked over to see a strangely large room for the size of the home and right in the center were two rows of four beds, one for each of us. Now that is creepy I thought to myself.

“Okay this is pretty weird, I thought there was suppose to be party here.” Pat pouted.

“Well, maybe there are more beds upstairs,” I stated turning to enter the entry room, and freezing after taking two steps out the doorway. I stared in horror and confusion at the sight before me, “uh guys, I think we have a problem.” I stammered while pointing to where the front door used to be. Everyone turned to see what I was pointing at, their jaws dropping in unison once they realized what had happened… the front door had disappeared leaving a wall in its place.

“That’s fucked up!” Pat chuckled.

“It’s not funny, how are we supposed to leave now?” Krissie shouted at pat, which then caused a chain of arguments amongst everyone trying to figure out what to do. As they all bickered I walked around hoping to figure out what exactly was going on. That’s when I noticed a small red arrow pointing up the stairway to the poster on the wall. I quickly walked up the stairs to the poster and began to read:

Game Rules:
Note: The game starts once the first door is opened
Rule #1- Once you open one door another random door will appear.
Rule #2- Once you open a door another door will disappear and so will everything behind it.
Rule #3- You have exactly 10 minutes to open a door, if you don’t a door will automatically disappear, along with another once you open a door.
Rule #4- Every 5 minutes I will come to find you, and the first person I find or isn’t hidden well enough to my liking I will give you five seconds then chase you.
Rule #5- If I catch you, you join me/us.
Rule #6- The game ends at day break.

Note: First door opened at 9:35pm. I will see one of you around 9:45.
Good Luck!

As soon as I finished reading the “game rules” I looked down at my phone to verify the time. It was 9:40.

“Uh… Guys,” I shouted down the stairs, “I think you may want to come see this!” within seconds they were all at the top of the stairs reading what I had just read.

“This is a bunch of bull crap!” Pat boomed after reading the poster.
“I agree,” Jade nodded, “This is obviously a joke by Dane or Dale or whatever his name is.”

“Plus this alcohol is making me sleeping, so I am going to take a nap with my chica Jade here. So smell you guys later!” he bellowed as he made his way down the stairs with Jade to the bedroom. I just sighed.

“I just feel like whatever is going on here it shouldn’t be taken lightly.” I said, meeting everyone’s fearful gazes. They all nodded in agreement.
“So how much longer do we have left?” Felix asked.

“Three minutes to go,” Becca uttered loudly, “We should come up with a plan after we hide.”

“Definitely a good idea, we will meet here before we open up any doors.” Jamal stated. As everyone spread out to hide I grabbed Becca and kissed her.
“No matter what happens I want you to know I will always protect you.” I said staring deep into her amazing blue eyes. She looked at me and got teary eyed.
“I know, you already have.” She muttered as she gave me a small smile and went to go hide.

I just stared after her for a moment, confused by the reaction she had given me. What did she mean by I already have? I looked down at my phone and saw I only had a minute left so I quickly ran and hid on the windowsill, which was rather large and shut the curtains in front of me. To be honest it felt kind of stupid to be hiding. For all we knew Dale could be messing with us and videotaping this whole thing to see if we would actually do what the poster said. I looked down at my phone. It was 9:46pm, and nothing had happened.

I sighed and was just about to leave my spot when I heard a whisper of a man counting down from five. Five, four, three, two, one… There was then a sound like one of the beds being dragged across the floor and a loud thud, followed by an ear piercing scream from Jade. I quickly jumped out of my hiding spot and turned towards the open doorway in front of me to see Dayna, Becca, Jamal, Felix, and Krissie grouped in the entry way. As I made my way to them the guys covered the girls eyes, and when I rounded the corner I saw why. Starting from the bedroom and making its way up the stairs was a trail of blood. As Jade came into entry, everyone rushed over to comfort her, and she began to cry and yell out in pain. I however looked towards the top of the stairs to see a small mound at the foot of the poster. I made sure to walk at the edge of the stair case so I wouldn’t get any blood on me, and when I got to the top I gagged, then threw up at the sight before me. Pat’s neck had clearly been broken easily at a ninety degree angle, with hundreds of cuts across his body and a large red streak up the front of his now ragged tux. My eyes then turned to the poster where his hand seemed to be reaching towards. On it was the number seven written in blood. I quickly ran downstairs to see everyone arguing, about what had just happened. Once I got to the bottom of the stairs they all stopped and turned to face me.

“Is he up there?” Jade sobbed. I just nodded my head and she immediately began to cry again. I grabbed the other two guys and brought them to the top of the stairs explaining what they would find once they got there. But once we got there, to my horror his body was gone.

“I swear he was just here!” I shouted in disbelief.
The other two looked just as horrified and shocked as I did.

“We need to come up with a plan and fast,” Jamal stated as we reached the bottom of the stairs, “and wasn’t there a door there just a second ago?” He finished pointing to where the kitchen doorway used to be. I swore under my breath and gathered everyone in the bedroom.

“Ok so,” I started a little winded; “From now on we stick together until it’s time to hide otherwise we can easily get picked off, or lose each other.”
“Why don’t we just wait for the bastard who is doing this and just mess him up,” krissie suggested, “because in horror movies that’s the number one issue no one tries to gang up on the killer till they are all dead.”

“I don’t think the killer is human that’s why.”I admitted, a little skeptical myself.

“What makes you say that?” Becca asked.

“Well judging by how quickly he was dragged up the stairs, and based on how big of a guy Pat was if a person were to drag him up the stairs it would take more than 30 seconds. Which is how long it took for all of us to group up in the entry way. Plus I saw the wounds inflicted on him and no normal person could have done that in the allotted time.”

“Alright but why can’t we just stay here then?” Dayna questioned.

“If a door disappears every ten minutes like the rules say then that would mean we would run out of doors eventually, and it also says that once a door is gone everything behind it disappears with so in theory we would all disappear.”

“Well since we are all in the same room, let’s open another door and see where it goes I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to be…” Jade sobbed as she got off her knees and made her way to a door at the far side of the bedroom. We all followed her, as she took a deep ragged breath and opened the door.

We were right back in the entry way… except it was laid out differently than before. The left door way was now a bedroom with only seven beds in it this time. The kitchen was now a large screened in porch with a swimming pool, and the stairs now only led to one door and next to it the poster.
I looked down at my watch. It was 9:50.

“Shit we only have a minute everybody, find somewhere to hide!” everyone ran their separate directions. I ran into the room that was once the bedroom and was now a study and hid underneath a desk. As soon as I was situated however I heard someone running up the stairs. It didn’t hit me right away till I heard a door open. I swore to myself about how stupid they were being, and could possibly have just gotten someone killed. But before I could dwell on the thought any longer I heard it again. The whispering only this time it was different almost like there were two. Five, four, three, two, one…
I don’t know why I did it, but I shouted as loud as I could so everyone could hear me, “Run!”

But it was too late. A second later I could hear Dayna scream followed by a loud crack and splash from the swimming pool. I sprinted out of the room to see right in the center of the entry way a large blood splatter mark, followed by a trail of blood to the pool. We were all in the door way when Felix walked out of the pool crying with Dayna in his arms. He collapsed to the ground holding her. From what I could see her whole face was caved in, which would explain the blood spot on the floor. Everyone else threw up, but I already had my traumatizing visual.

“What do we do now?” Jamal asked as he ran his hands through his hair in thought.

“We have to keep moving, so whatever it is that is doing this can’t catch us.”
“I was there,” Felix stammered, “I saw them. They took her from me! Her foot was poking out from under the bed and they grabbed her!”
“Them? Who is them Felix?” I asked putting my hand on his shoulder.
“It was Pat and another man…” he finished shaking his head in disbelief.
Everyone gasped including me. So that’s what the sign had meant by me/us. I looked down at my watch. 9:59pm, we had to get through a door and fast.
“Guys we have one minute we need to get through a door STAT!” I said taking Felix’s elbow, but he quickly shrugged me off.
“Felix let’s go!” Jamal pleaded through the doorway.
“I can’t go on without her,” He smiled sadly at us, “I love each and every one of you like family, but I must stay here with her.” Once every one left the room, I gave him a slight nudge on the shoulder.
“Catch you on the flip side brother.” I smiled weakly at him.
“No… you won’t.”

And just as I exited the room and turned to face him one last time, he was gone. I placed my hand where the door used to be and prayed that whatever had just happened to him it was fast and painless. I held in a sob, took a deep breath and turned to face the remaining four. Jamal was comforting Krissie, while Becca was kneeling down next to Jade who was now sitting and hugging her legs while rocking back and forth crying. I went to the settings on my phone and set a timer to go off every five minutes, one minute before we were supposed to be hiding and before a door would disappear.

“Get away from me,” Jade hissed at Becca, “How can you say something like that? Nothing is going to be ok! Pat and Dayna are dead not to mention that Felix just magically disappeared with her! Screw you guys, screw this house, screw this ‘game’, and…” she was cut off by the sound of my phone beeping.
“What is that for?” Jamal asked.

“I set it so we don’t get caught off guard when the time to hide comes,” I stated looking to my phone, “We need to hide now.”

“No,” Jade objected, “I told you guys I’m done with this stupid game! I am not hiding!”

Jamal reached for her arm but she instantly shrugged him off. We all started shouting at her telling her she was being unreasonable and that she needed to calm down. She just cursed at us and began to make her way to the study. As she did so however I began to hear the whispers again.

“Do you guys hear that?” I asked hoping it wasn’t just me.
“The whispers,” Becca pointed out, “yes I do.”

“Good it’s not just me,” Jamal chuckled before calling out to Jade, “Jade we don’t have time for this you need to hide!”

She stopped then in the entry way of the study and we sighed in relief that she finally came to her senses, but my relief was quickly replace with horror once the counting started.

“Pat,” She whispered loudly, “is that really you? Who is that with you?” She turned around and began to scream once they counted down to zero. She started to run toward us but as she made it half way down the hall way four figures shot out of the study, grabbed jade and drug her in by her ankles. We quickly sprinted down the hall and into the study only to find that she had been impaled on a knight statues spear, with hundreds of cuts covering her body. I swore loudly and smashed my hand on the studies desk living a large crack going through the center. I immediately regretted doing so however as my hand began to throb from the pain and began to swell. Becca put her hand on my shoulder to comfort me.

“You can make it through this Jay bear,” Becca crooned, “You’ve been through too much to let this defeat you.”

I immediately calmed down, but I couldn’t help but feel something off about Becca. She never used my nickname Jay bear, mostly because she knew I didn’t like it when my mother coddled and embarrassed me with it. Then again it helped to relax me a little.

“We should get moving.” Jamal suggested. We all nodded in agreement as we made our way to the new door in the study. We all took a deep breath before opening the next door.

We were now in a large ballroom. It kind of reminded me of the one in that Stephen King movie Rose Red, except the mirrors and such were all replaced by closed doors and there were four long rows of tables with fancy cloths and silverware laid out. There were six doors in total, but one was open and led to a large hallway, located at the very back of the room.

“Why couldn’t our prom have been here,” Jamal joked, “Oh wait, there is a creepy supernatural entity killing us off. If you ask me that would be a total buzz kill.”

Then, right on queue a banner fell down at the center of the room, which read:

NEW RULE!
Doors now disappear every two minutes!
Have fun!

“You have got to be kidding me!” Krissie screamed in protest.
I immediately added another alarm to my phone, and as I did so the door behind us disappeared. We needed to get moving.

“I say we go through the open door before it disappears,” Becca offered, “There seem to be more doors to choose from.”

“True,” I agreed, “but there is also less hiding spaces which would mean we would have to open another door in hopes of finding more, which could be risky.” As soon as I finished that thought the alarm went off. We all hugged each other and I whispered to hide under the tables and crawl our way to the front, and if they hear the countdown start, run for the open door.

Once we all were under the tables we slowly began to make our way to the far end of the room. Once I was half way I stopped as a foot came down fairly close to where I was now kneeling. I had to hold back from shouting Felix’s name as I could recognize his favorite pair of shoes anywhere. Idiot even wore them to prom. I was three quarters of the way there when I heard a loud thud under one of the tables, followed by the counting.

“Run!” I shouted as everyone got out from under the tables and began sprinting for the door. I made it to the door first, turning around to see the other three right behind me, and right behind them looking exactly as they did when they had died were our other four friends and another older looking gentleman I couldn’t exactly recognize, and there were sprinting… a lot faster than the living ones. I swore to myself as I thought quickly about what to do. I ran to the nearest door and got ready to open it as soon as everyone was through. Jamal and Becca made it through first but krissie had slipped just before the door way, and the other five were closing fast. Jamal quickly sprinted over to her, picked her up and threw her through the door way. He then turned to sprint but realized it was too late.

“Open the door James,” Jamal shouted, “I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of catching me!” I nodded and quickly opened the door I was holding, and an instant later the ballroom was gone.
“Jamal!” Krissie screamed, falling into Becca’s arms sobbing uncontrollably. Becca rocked her back and forth for a minute passing her fingers through her hair before turning to me.

“What do we do now?” Becca asked, looking teary eyed her-self.
“We have no choice but to move on.” I sighed. As Becca and I made our way through the door I had just opened I heard another door open up behind us. We both spun around to see krissie opening up random doors.

“What the hell are you doing?” I seethed. She turned to face me with with a scowl.

“I’m ending this nightmare! Maybe if it’s just me left I will win the game! Then I can get out of this hell hole!”

Becca ran quickly to the door behind us and opened it but nothing happened.
“Don’t just stand there,” she beckoned, “we need to get rid of her before she gets rid of us!” I took her hand and began running through random bedrooms, kitchens, and bathrooms. I stopped after the twelfth floor, turning to see that the door we had just gone through had disappeared. I sighed in relief and wrapped my arms around Becca, kissing her on the forehead. We had barely just caught our breadth when my alarm started to go off once again. I clenched my jaw, knowing that no matter what happened this would probably be the last time I would see Becca.

“Becca I just want to let you know-,” she cut me off before I could say anything more, with a kiss and I kissed her back.

“We should probably start running.” She stated eyeing the only room in front of us.

“You make sure you stay as close to me as you possibly can, okay? That way none of us can get left behind.” She nodded and kissed me on the cheek.
“Let’s go.” She stated as the whispers began to count down once more. I took her hand and we took off to the nearest door way. Door after door, room after room we went , but they kept coming. Never stopping once, never letting up their pursuit. I could hear Becca starting to get winded and we slowed down to a jog.

“We can’t keep this up.” She uttered between breadths. As soon as she said that I opened the next door and… it was a dead end. We looked to be in the attic now, with the large rounded glass window. I turned to see the others only seconds behind us. I turned to the glass to see that it was full of cracks and seemed like it was ready to break. I turned to Becca.
“Do you trust me?” I called to her.

“Yes!” She shouted as she followed my gaze. I grabbed her, wrapping my arms around her head and waist, leaping backwards so that I could break her fall. If I had remembered correctly it was almost 3 stories. I could survive that I told myself. As soon as we broke through the window everything seemed to move in slow motion. I could see the glass around me light up like fire flies as the sun light shone through them. I could feel Becca’s tight grip around me, and behind her were 7 hands reaching out toward us. Just as we were about to hit the sunlight, I could feel her grip loosen around my waist. I Scream out as loud as I could, reaching for her, her reaching for me as I fell and she was dragged up through the window. A jolt went through my body and I could hear a loud crack as my head banged against the sidewalk. Immediately my vision began to blur. I could feel the warm stickiness of blood forming around my head. I looked up one last time to the attic window to see all eight of them staring down at me. I turned towards the sun and closed my eyes, and everything went white.

Literally something was so bright that all I could see was white, but as quickly as it came it was gone, and all I could see was a blur of figures moving around me and muffled noises of what seemed like people talking.

“James,” called a familiar voice, “James if you can hear me say something.”
“I can hear you just fine.” I muttered. A few people began to cry, and as my vision cleared I could see people hugging each other crying tears of joy. Where exactly was I?

“James I can see you are confused,” stated the voice I now recognized as Pat’s father, which was weird because he worked in a hospital. I am pretty sure there were no hospitals in heaven, “James you have been in a coma for a month now, how are you feeling?”

“Wait what,” I spat in disbelief, “How? Was it from my fall?” I asked. Everyone there just stared at me mostly with grief or sorrowful expressions.
“James there was no fall,” Pat’s father explained, “A month ago you were in a car accident. You were on your way to a friend’s house after prom. On your way a drunk driver was driving on the wrong side of the road and struck your limo head on.” He paused a moment to let it sink in and as he did so he pulled out photos of the wreckage. What I saw completely shocked and horrified me. I stared at the pictures in complete shock, and I could see it was equally as tough for Pat’s father as well. The first photo was of Pat who had been flung from the vehicle, snapping his neck on impact. His body was covered in cuts caused by flying through the windshield and sliding across the road. The next photo was of Dayna who was also flung from the car but her head was crushed as the limo rolled over her. The last photo was of Jade, who had been impaled by what looked the exhaust pipe of the vehicle, and she was also covered in cuts made by glass. I stared at the last photo in disbelief. The photos matched the wounds that had killed his friends in the house almost perfectly, but that didn’t explain what had happened to the rest of them.
“What happened to everyone else?” I asked reluctantly.

“Well after the car struck the limo, it caused it to flip on its side and roll tossing the first three and yourself from the vehicle,” Pat’s father began, “The vehicle then rolled off the side of the bridge you were all driving across. We were able to locate two bodies inside of the limo, which had fallen into a river. The other two remain missing in the river.”
“So who were the ones found in the vehicle?” I asked having a good idea of who they were, as I began to connect the dots.

“Felix and,” he hesitated a moment as he saw me begin to tear up, “Becca.”
I stifled a sob, and nodded that I was ready for the rest. He handed me a tablet with a video on the screen ready to play.

“This was recovered from the limo. It’s footage of what happened in the limo at the time of the accident.”

Everyone’s eyes were on me as I played the video, as I watched there was one part that hit me the hardest. As the limo was struck, I lunged straight for Becca, wrapping my arms around her just as I had done before jumping out the window. I watched though as we bounced around the vehicle a few times before I went out one of the windows, and Becca’s dress got caught on the glass dragging her back in. Then a few moments later the car jolted and the tape went black.

I asked everyone to leave to give me a moment to take it all in. As everyone left I cried. It all finally made sense. They say you hear things when you are in a coma, and all the weird things everyone had said to me made sense now. “It wasn’t my time”, Becca calling me Jay Bear, that was my mom talking to me. They also say when you’re in a coma you can get stuck in the in-between. Which would also explain some of the comments they made to me about making it through the night, and me already doing my best to protect Becca. It finally all made sense. I took a deep breath to calm myself down, and once the tears had stopped I opened my mouth to call out for everyone to come back into the room but was cut off… I turned in horror as my phone alarm went off signaling that it had been ten minutes. I was in my own room so that meant that there was only one door in the entire room. I had to check. I reached out grabbing the curtains around my bed, took a deep breath and flung them open.

Game Over…?

Credit To – Blake L. Patrick

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The Fishing Trip

September 1, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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“Hold the head steady, Mr. Walker, I don’t want to cock this up.”

Swelling waves cause the ship to roll beneath my feet as I do my best to follow Professor Olik’s order. Unfortunately, the ox is not cooperating, and pulls jerkingly against the rope securely fastened to the ring through its nose while emitting low panicked bellows, its eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. Penned in the makeshift stable below deck there’s nowhere for it to run, even if it wasn’t currently on a vessel somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and several hundred miles from the nearest thing resembling land. Something has the beast terrified, although it could be it simply senses the striking woman standing in front of it with an air gun has less than peaceful intentions.

“For fuck’s sake, Charlie, I know you can pull a rope tighter than that…I’ve got the burns on my wrists to prove it.”

I flash Helen a glare as I struggle with the rope, my cheeks flushing bright red from equal parts anger and embarrassment. She responds with a wicked grin. It’s no secret we’re sleeping together, that’s how I was conned into going on this little cruise after all, but I still don’t feel the need to blatantly parade the fact around in front of her father.

Dr. Reynard Olik is a visiting professor out of Oslo whose expertise is in cryptozoology. I hadn’t realized such a degree even existed but apparently I’m not as informed as I thought. The Loch Ness Monster, the Wendigo, the Tatzelworm…Olik has dedicated years of his life to studying and cataloging the stories and legends of these and dozens of other fantastic creatures, going so far as to conduct extensive field research into claims of their existence. Due to his lean, sharp features, surprisingly cunning intellect and, most probably, his parents’ choice of names, Olik has been dubbed “The Fox” in pretty much every circle he inhabits.

His daughter Helen serves as his primary research assistant and as such is accompanying him for the duration of his stay at Miskatonic University where I’m studying for my doctorate in engineering. Her raven black hair and oddly shaded eyes, steel grey flecked with purple, give her an exotic if decidedly un-Nordic appearance. Still, she has the muscle tone of an Olympic gymnast, and at five foot ten could easily be imagined falling into the ranks of the fabled Valkyrie. I first saw her at a social mixer last fall and was immediately taken. Imagine my shock when my lame attempts to talk to her were accepted and even encouraged; two weeks later we were fucking like it was going out of style.

Our relationship stayed on that course for about six months when she informed me she would be going with her father for an extended trip during the summer as part of his research. Would I like to accompany them? The fact that she’d been naked when she asked probably helped guide my decision. That’s how I came to be wrangling a terrified ox on a Korean manned fishing boat six hundred miles off the Japanese coast.

Wrapping the rope more firmly around my hands I brace my foot against the bulkhead and pull as hard as I can, momentarily arresting the panicked animal’s movement.

“Hit it! Jesus, hit it now!” Helen professionally places the air gun between the ox’s eyes and smoothly depresses the trigger, punching the tiny metal rod through skin and bone and into the creature’s brain. Its eyes roll back in its skull and its slack tongue lolls out of its mouth before the ox collapses to its knees and finally slumps to the floor on its side.

I disentangle myself from the rope, angry red depressions crisscrossing my hands and up my arms, and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Christ! I’ve never done this before, but, I mean, don’t they usually use a cattle prod or something to stun these guys first?”

The Fox gives me a pinched look. “In your typical slaughterhouse, yes, Mr. Walker, but I’ve found it best to avoid using electricity whenever possible in these matters. There can be…unforeseen complications. Besides, certain research suggests the chemicals released in the brain due to intense fear serve as something of an intoxicating marinade for more predatory creatures…all the better for our purposes here. Stunning the beast beforehand could rob us of a potential advantage. Helen, if you would, please.”

Exchanging her air gun for an enormous bone saw, Helen enters the pen and begins working on the dead ox’s neck. The metal teeth slide through muscle and tissue as Helen manipulates the saw as smoothly as a lumberjack. It catches briefly when it hits vertebrae, but she pulls the blade free with a sickening cracking noise of snapping bone before repositioning and continuing her grisly work. I feel my gorge rise to the base of my throat and glance down at the floor only to leap away from the slowly growing pool of blood that has spread from the pen and now threatens to soak my boots.

I hastily move away from the danger zone and turn my eyes from the butchery, desperately wishing I could turn off the squelching sounds as easily.

“So, doc, tell me again exactly what we’re doing here?”

Olik sighs, “As I’ve explained, Mr. Walker, we are in search of Jormungandr, the World Serpent. Most likely it and the creature known as Leviathan in Christian tradition are one and the same. Legend has it the beast was so large it could encircle the world, to the point of holding its own tail in its mouth, although that is likely an exaggeration. According to Norse mythology when Jormungandr releases its tail it will initiate Ragnorak, the twilight of the gods.

During the final battle, the serpent will confront its father Loki’s hated enemy Thor, resulting in their mutual destruction. All of my research indicates the creature’s head will be located somewhere in this vicinity, near the Mariana Trench. As the lowest point on the planet and one of the few environments not fully explored by humans, it is the most likely location a creature that large could remain relatively undetected.”

“And it’s a fan of ox roast, huh?”

Olik glares at me, “Yes. In one of the most commonly artistically rendered stories, Thor managed to accidentally catch Jormungandr on his hook which he baited with an ox head. He attempted to kill the serpent with his hammer Mjolnir but, oaf that he was, managed to let Jormungandr escape. We are attempting to recreate this event.”

“But, professor, what exactly are you planning to do if you actually manage to catch this thing?”

“Finished!” Beaming, Helen hefts the severed ox head to her shoulder. Her hands and face are spattered with crimson and a slow trickle of blood continues to seep from the stump of the creature’s neck and drip to the floor. Her strange speckled eyes are alight with excitement and anticipation.

“Excellent, my dear, let’s get our bait up to the main deck.” Ignoring my question, the Fox turns and leads the way up the stairs, Helen following closely carrying her macabre prize. I stay a little behind and glance back at the pen. The ox’s body remains slumped where it fell, the muscles of the legs twitching and jerking ever so slightly as the onset of rigor mortis slowly takes hold. I involuntarily shudder and turn after the professor and his daughter.

When I reach the deck I notice that the sky has turned dark. Storm clouds above seethe angrily and the waves beneath respond in kind, rocking the boat more and more violently beneath my feet. The crew has gathered in a tight crowd off to the side surrounding their captain. I don’t speak Korean, but it’s obvious they’re arguing with him about what we’re doing and he is attempting to talk them down. Abruptly one of the crew steps forward and throws a haymaker catching the captain in the jaw. He crumples to the deck as a general melee breaks out around his fallen body.

It takes me a few moments to locate Olik and Helen at the fore of the ship near the large crane Olik had installed for this excursion. Seemingly oblivious to the weather and the battling seamen, the professor is guiding the baited hook over the side while his daughter works the controls of the crane. I shove my way through knots of fighting sailors and struggle to make my way to them as the ship continues to heave to and fro, causing me to stumble like a drunk. The wind has picked up and howls like a banshee, so that I have to shout to be heard when I finally reach Olik.

“Professor! It’s not safe here! We have to get back below deck! The storm is coming!”

Freezing rain suddenly erupts from the heavens, the screaming winds whipping the drops against my face so hard it stings. Lightning bolts the size of houses flash down from the sky accompanied by peals of thunder so loud they make my head ring. “Professor!” I grab the man by the shoulder and spin him around only to fall back in shock.

The man facing me bears a certain resemblance to Olik certainly, but only just. He’s younger, his face holding a certain agelessness that makes him seem paradoxically youthful and ancient in equal amounts. His eyes are alight with the glow of madness, his mouth open in a wolfish grin, “Too late! He’s too late to stop me now!” He giggles like a lunatic. Shrieking peals of laughter accompany him and I turn to see where Helen was operating the controls. Gone is my stunning Valkyrie, replaced by a hideous creature. Half of her body is covered in pale, perfect skin, the other rotting lumps of flesh the same purplish hue as the flecks in her eyes. Her cackles are lost as the wind whips itself into even greater fury, the ship rocking so hard I’m terrified we will capsize at any moment.

The ship is thrashing too hard for me to even contemplate trying to make it back to the hold. Just as I have this thought, an enormous wave washes over the deck, sweeping several sailors over the side. Their screams are quickly drowned by the raging storm. I spy a tumbling coil of rope. Desperately grabbing it, I manage to lash myself between two cargo brackets. Helen was right; I pull the ropes very tight. Temporarily secure, I look around. Astonishingly, the man who was Olik has jumped upon the bow, deftly riding the ship like an enraged bronco. Raising his arms towards the screaming heavens he howls into the storm, “Come, brother! Meet your doom!”

With that, the largest wave yet slowly tilts the ship so that it is riding almost completely to its side. From where I’m lashed to the deck, I am now practically vertical so that I have a perfect view of the roiling seas disappearing far off into the horizon. In that moment, my mind breaks.

From out of the sea protrude miles and miles of glistening serpentine coils. The scales are the dull color of seaweed, encrusted with barnacles and all matter of ocean life, for that is where they have remained for a very long time. An enormous head the size of a mountain erupts from the depths, blind white eyes fixed above a cavernous mouth glistening with dozens of rows of fangs. Opening its great maw wide, Leviathan lets loose its battle cry, its roar so loud I feel my eardrums shatter in my skull. High above in the clouds my eyes can barely make out the tiny figure of a man at the heart of the storm. Bolts of lightning seem to coalesce around him, filling him with their impossible power. Shining like the sun, the figure streaks out of the sky like a comet, flying directly at the head of the serpent.

The beast rears up to meet its foe and on impact, the world is enveloped in an incredible blast of white light brighter than the core of an atomic bomb. The stress of the heaving seas is finally too much and I feel the ship shatter beneath me. Slowly, the two broken halves descend into the seething waves, my only thought as the raging waters roll over me is that I may be one of the lucky ones. Soon, even that thought is lost as I sink deeper into the depths, my mind as black as the sea embracing me.

Credit To – Shadowswimmer77

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Lunchbox

August 31, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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We ended up going to a place I knew. John had no idea if the bars he used to frequent were still cool, or even open. The cold air shocked him back to his senses, some, and as we stumbled through a labyrinth of back streets you could tell he was thinking we might not even be going to a club. How well do you know your old buddy Charles these days? Suspicion prodding him with questions he should have asked long before setting foot outside his front door.

But the lure of the good old times, no matter how rose tinted, were too strong.

We swung off into the front yard of somebody’s house. Somebody who’d once had kids but maybe not now, maybe not for a long time, and John grunted and tripped on toys scattered across the concrete square. Either way, the parents’ hadn’t had the heart to get rid of their things.

Reaching the miniature swing set I sat down and swung back and forth a little, grinning up at John smugly. The entire structure creaked and groaned alarmingly.

‘We’re going to need the Jaws of Life to cut your ass out of that seat,’ John observed unkindly. ‘Ages four to twelve it says on the side. What are we doing here, Charles?’

Giggling a little I struggled up but the seat came with me, chains rattling. ‘Oh crap, I am stuck.’ A brief moment of panic before John managed to help prise the four to twelve seat off my adult backside.

‘Shh!’ John looked at the house nervously, though all the lights remained off. ‘You’re going to wake the family.’

‘Not bloody likely.’ I wrestled with one of those little rocking horsey things that lurch back and forth on springs, trying to lift it right out of the floor and likely to bust a gut doing it. ‘Help me with this.’

Somebody had to be fired from the toy factory. The jolly grinning beastie inviting some kid to leap into its saddle sported a stubby little horn jutting from its face that must have been quite long and wicked once, before a wiser soul had sawn the plastic down to make it less noticeable.

John loaned his twiglet arms to the effort. ‘Why are we stealing this?’ he hiss-whispered, the way tipsy people think they’re being quiet. ‘It’s not going to match your sofa.’

‘Not stealing,’ I grunted. ‘Push it to the left.’ Which shouldn’t have done anything, the springs seated deep in concrete, but which nonetheless yielded a deep mechanical click.

The entire slab we were standing on grated off to one side and John leaped away with a girlish shriek he instantly tried to cover by coughing.

I bowed, gesturing him down the revealed staircase. ‘Welcome.’

‘What the hell, Charles!’

‘Hey, we’re celebrating. What with my suddenly being un-married and all, and you offering to share your spooky secret I’m gonna treat us to something special.’

The dimly lit space we dropped down into could loosely be called a bunker, although the remains of brackets on the walls attested it’d been
machinery that had once cowered down here, not people. Now the space was crowded with any old paraphernalia that somebody had thought looked cool, glass fronted cabinets springing up all over, busting at the seams.

‘Chaar-leei!’ the bartender hollered, a stringy little fellow with less gristle to him than John and not even as tall, he could scarcely peep over his own bar.

‘Sanjay!’ I boomed back, shoving my way to a bar stool and bringing John along for the ride. ‘I’m treating my friend to the good stuff tonight, Sanjay. We’re off to see a ghost.’

‘Ghosts, now!’ Sanjay rolled his eyes. ‘What excuse for a good drink’ll you think up next? Armageddon?’

The obligatory pretty young things pulling drinks to either side of him, a lass and a lad, smiled weakly. Flashing cleavage was a cheap trick to get the sad bastards lining up on a mission to drink themselves into believing they might be in with a chance, but it was the same worn out dog of a trick everyone used. If you fell for it, more fool you. At least Sanjay ensured these kids learned their stuff, they could leave to run their own establishments someday from books to stock. And he kept them more virtuous than his own children.

‘Bric and Brac,’ Sanjay indicated with a flip of his hand, not handing the adolescents’ real names out to anyone, even regulars. ‘When you want the best drink in the city this is where you come.’

Bending to a spout he filled two grimy glasses. ‘Some say that a sip brings immortality, you’ll live to see the end of days. I’ve had men and women in here swear it gives sleep without dreams, a far more precious commodity. I call it “tears of fools.”’

I accepted mine eagerly. John merely stared at his own set down on the bar in front of him so I prompted, a little annoyed. ‘You’ve never tasted anything like this, mate. It ain’t cheap.’

Sanjay squinted through the labial light at John’s face. ‘Your friend is nervous of the yellow death. He’s a good lad to take care of his liver, you should treat it like your old mother.’

‘I do!’ I protested merrily. ‘A sherry tipple every night and shandies on Thursdays.’

‘Let Bric set your fears at ease.’ The improbably comely lad who had to be skirting the minimum for responsible service, unless they handed them out at kindergartens these days, drew a tiny amount from the tap with a spoon. Taking a tealight candle from the bar he deftly lit the spoonful with the tiniest “woomph.” Delicate blue flamelets flickered and curled across the surface.

After a moment of holding it for inspection Bric flicked it into the sink with a curse, shaking scorched fingers where the spoon had heated up.

‘Run it under cold water,’ Sanjay instructed absently. ‘You see, friend? Red means dead, just like my ex-wife’s stare but this burns blue as my girlfriend’s beautiful eyes. Spirits. What better drop to toast the paranormal?’

‘Ghosts don’t exist,’ Brac asserted from her half of the domain, having that rare ability to work and track the conversation at the same time. ‘The city would be wall to wall ghosts by now if they were real.’

‘And how would you tell?’ I wriggled my fingers at her, booga-booga style.

‘You’d know,’ Bric asserted. He figured his hand all recovered by now but Sanjay thrust it back under the running tap.

‘You know the rules. Ten minutes minimum for a burn, even a bee’s dick of one. And don’t let me catch you sticking ice on it like last time, either. Just damages the cells more.’

‘You believe in ghosts?’ Brac asked Bric curiously. Just went to show, you could work with someone ever so long and still have things to learn.

‘Used to live next to one.’

‘I call bullshit.’

‘No, really. You don’t have to see it to know it’s there. It makes everything … horrible. My family went all weird. I was off school for weeks, just staying in my room and it was like they hardly noticed.’

Sanjay in the middle looked unimpressed but Brac’s peepers were big and round, an expression that wound her age back at least another four years. Back to the age of never checking under the bed or in the closet, because it was better not to know.

I was delighted, really jonesing on the whole paranormal shtick. ‘Well come on. Don’t spare us the juicy-oocy.’

‘Dunno about “juicy.”’ Bric muttered, finally winning free of the tyranny of the sink, the spoon now cool enough to pop in the dishwasher. ‘It was my Mum started acting weird at first, and no-one except me seemed to notice.

‘I read up on it and apparently if you’ve had a loss the ghosts, well, they seem to just get at you more. My uncle, Mum’s brother passed away that year and although I’d never known him I think they were close when they were little. She’d been thinking on him a lot, going through photos and such. Said it made her realise how important it is to appreciate family, but her behaviour sure didn’t back that up.

‘One day the meat in my sandwich was raw. Just … just raw and cold, slapped between two slices of unbuttered bread and I bit into it before I realised. That was one hungry day. When I took it home and showed it to her she laughed in this vague, distant way and said, “What a silly Mummy.” That was for sure: I opened up my lunchbox the next day and she’d put a rock in it! Just … a rock. And she’d buttered it, maybe ‘cause I pointed out the bread thing along with the raw meat.’

Brac stifled a laugh behind her hands, although her eyes said clearly it wasn’t funny. Bric nodded his head. ‘Sounds silly now but I cried so
hard, all those other kids sitting around eating lunches from parents who loved them and there was me with a buttery rock.’

Now I snorted too, but I hope my face was full of sympathy.

Sanjay clapped Bric on the shoulder. ‘Lad, anytime you’re feeling peckish on my watch just say the word. Nobody does good work on an empty stomach.’

‘Much less a kid – I certainly wasn’t getting much out of school. Stopped even looking in my lunchbox. Safer to just hold it open over a bin and turn my face away from whatever came thumping out. But it got worse when Dad started acting up too. I don’t even know what he was doing: might be brushing his teeth or something, and suddenly he’d start trying to do it backwards. Had his lips sealed over the drain trying to suck back all the toothpaste foam.

‘He’d ask me to do something but if the words came out in reverse and I couldn’t understand he’d get angry, this horrible garbled back-wise yelling. He started watching me at night, too. Just sort of stood there in my bedroom in the dark, watching me. He stood in different places but his eyes were wet and I could always seem the gleam from the little light that crept under the door, staring at me. On those nights I don’t think he ever blinked.

‘That’s when I started staying home. I slept during the day so I could stay up all night and stop Dad coming into my room. I couldn’t stand him staring at me. And that’s when I felt it. Cold, a big blast of cold coming right through the wall from next door. But you could only feel it here.’ He put a hand on his chest, over his heart.

‘I know it sounds bizarre but it was the biggest relief when I realised. It meant my parents did love me after all. It was the ghost doing this to them.’

‘And ..?’ I urged. ‘Then what happened?’

‘That morning come daybreak I marched straight to my Dad and told him we had to move, there was a ghost next door and it was messing everything up. He nodded in his slow underwater way, but must have already known something was wrong and was just waiting to be told which way to jump. Before that day was out we were all in the car with everything we owned, heading off down the street. Looking about, it was obvious to see that all the other neighbours were gone. We were the last to leave.

‘I glanced back out the rear and I swear, next door’s street facing window had two handprints on it. Handprints outlined in frost.’

Sanjay gave a low whistle, shaking himself to work the shiver loose from the back of his neck. ‘Well that’s about the most disquieting thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Cover your ears, then.’ Bric shook his handsome head miserably. ‘The worst was when we made it to our new house. Mum and Dad were already shaking it off: they did a lot of hugging ‘til the air was all squeezed out of me. Dad got started on a special dinner right away to make up for all those missed lunches and Mum, well for days I couldn’t open my mouth without her trying to cram food in. I ought to have been happy.

‘But there in my new room, when I went to unpack my toys I found that there were these long, old rusted nails driven into the faces of each and every one. Every toy I loved. I did that. And to this day I have absolutely no memory of doing it, or even where I got the nails. None at all.’

Whoa. I would’ve kept that last part to myself – for a while Brac’s big shining eyes had looked ready to bestow the ultimate in tender sympathy but now … now she just looked sick. We were all that bit disturbed and couldn’t settle on where to look, especially not at Bric who might have spilled more than he meant to.

It took a stern sense of reality to return to the hazy friendliness of the bar. Or irreverence. Raising his glass, John toasted a whey-faced
Sanjay. ‘Salut. To ghosts, hey?’ The others scowled but I raised my own drink enthusiastically. The tears of fools scalded like fire, going down.

Credit To – BP Gregory

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A Dismaying Observation

August 31, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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Just recently, I’ve been able to see ghosts. Well, calling them ‘ghosts’ is still kind of a stretch. I’ve been seeing things. Weird, unexplainable things just in and out of the borders of my vision and it has only gotten worse since it began. I didn’t think too much about it at first, until it became serious enough to think about. It started about three months ago. At first, it was just lights and appliances turning on and off on their own, sections of rooms becoming oddly cold, and objects around my house would pivot on their own, sometimes even falling off of tables and counter tops. Like any sane person, I just brushed it off or justified it by the wind or something at first. However, after I could no longer look the other way on the matter, I began to expand the possibly explanations. I had always enjoyed the horror genre; watching scary movies, playing horror survival games, reading creepypasta, so the idea of something supernatural happening came quickly once I had exhausted all reasonable conclusions. I really hate to let my imagination get the better of me, but there is only so much you can try to explain on your own. Eventually, I started to see more. Faces in mirrors that shouldn’t have been there, shadows in my bedroom at night without a source, footsteps creaking just outside my door. It doesn’t happen often though. About once a week now something I can only describe as ‘weird’ will happen. I still can’t tell if it scares me or not. I’ve heard of people who experience the same things that I do, but feel comforted by it all. I guess it would be like having company over all the time, the kind you don’t mind having. It’s a sweet thought, but I just don’t feel like that. The happenings don’t particularly scare me either. I really didn’t know anything about it that I should be scared of. I mean, the idea that dead people come back completely by surprise and that you really never know what it is that brought them back; what their purpose is, whether it is good or bad, is quite nerve racking.

I wanted to know if there was any reason to be scared. Most of which on the matter I looked up online. Almost everything I found pointed to me having nothing to be afraid of; that some spirits just like to hang around without a purpose. I guess I can relate given that’s what I would do at malls and such during my high school years. I was almost completely satisfied, until I realized the question at hand that was never really answered. The one question that I didn’t want to ask, but felt like I should: Can ghosts hurt people? I didn’t want to look at my screen after clicking ‘search’, but I sucked it up and found several instances where people have been cut or burned by forces outside their own. I was really relieved to find that these phenomenon had been explained medically into a collection of various rare disorders and diseases, but it all seemed too easy. I mean, certainly you couldn’t explain everything. I’ve seen special cases where a diagnosis would be given to a patient under minimal clues just to keep the patient at ease or even just because of the doctor’s lack of understanding.

My point is: what if something happened to those people that couldn’t be explained by medical science and they had all been going to the wrong sources? It was a possibility that I was not ready to rule out. The answers to my inquiries sort of faded into an end until I typed in an even more terrifying and important question: Can ghosts kill people? I had hoped that I was heading into more improbable territory with asking if ghosts could be capable of murder when I found my answer. I’m writing this as information that we should all be aware of. Most ghosts, for those able to see them, are harmless, even friendly. There is a small percentage of instances where people have been harmed by the unseen, minor cuts and bruises, at most. Then there is an even smaller percentage inside that group, which answers ‘yes’ to my question. Spirits, ghosts, whatever you call them, not only can kill, but have killed before. While examining search engine after search engine for such cases, I found a list. It was a list of known spirits to have killed several times each and who have been considered to be the most dangerous ghosts that still haunt this world. I’m going to share with you today all the information that I was able to gather on the deadliest among them so that you may avoid becoming one of them.
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There once lived a beautiful young woman during the early 1700s in the heart of the bayou. She had long raven black hair and the brightest green eyes that ensnared any man she gazed upon. This woman made her home out of a southern Louisiana swamp. Her parents had abandoned her in that local swamp at a young age, for strange things started happening around her. Afraid for their own lives, they left her, expecting her to disappear completely. Instead, she lived off of the land and learned her way around that particular ecosystem enough to gain from its resources. She was not only beautiful, but dangerously intelligent as well, despite her never being properly schooled. Fending for herself for so long, she became comforted by living alone. The woman took to collecting whatever she could from explorers or hunters of the area that had left behind their belongings for reasons unknown. She enjoyed learning all she could about normal civilization by what she would find around the swamp, especially books and musical instruments. She loved books. Fiction, non-fiction, she didn’t care. Most of the time, she couldn’t even tell the difference between the two, believing that there was a wonderful, magical world outside of her own. What time of hers what not spent reading, she spent making music with the instruments that she would find abandoned by their former owners within the confines of the swamp. The tambourine was a personal favorite of the young woman, but she also fancied the trumpet and the drum.

One day, the woman came across a single book among her swamp. It was only a book, a much larger one than she had ever seen, but there was no pack, tent, or gear of any sort nearby, as if that was the only thing that someone had left behind. The woman believed that whatever was left in her swamp was rightfully hers and took the book back to her home. For the next several days, all she did was read that one book. It was a spell book, one used by pagans covens of that time, and it was the only object that stays with her still in the afterlife. She had no idea of the matter of witchcraft outside of her swamp or even outside of that one book. What she read from it day after day sang to her very soul. Within weeks, she had read it cover to cover, many times over. She learned many secrets still lost to most today: astral projection, immortality, how to communicate with the dead, more than she could have ever hoped to learn from any other book.

She felt as if nothing was lost to her anymore and all the questions that she didn’t know that she had, had all been answered. She began practicing spells, charms and incantations. She communicated and danced with the ghosts of the swamp on full moons. The trees and animals everywhere she went flourished with health and new life. Though she read of several curses, plagues and blood magic, she had vowed to never practice against any living soul. She loved life and the world around her, as well as respected the space and lives of other people. Not once had she held any anger or resentment against another person for she never had a reason to. She lived alone and practiced her new skills to make her world as magical of a place as she had always read about. The woman was happy.

Several months later, the swamp was continuing to thrive better than any other. It attracted outsiders to venture inside in search for the many resources it would provide them. Eventually, the woman, still learning much about her magical gifts, was found. News about a witch living in the swamp just acres from the woman’s parent’s busy town spread quickly. When the town’s mayor’s wife fell deathly ill, along with much of their livestock, the town raged into a mob and set out to kill the witch they felt was terrorizing their town. The woman was captured during the night of a blood moon and taken back to the town by the angry settlers along with her book of magic. The woman screamed and begged as the men and women of the town tied her up to a post atop a large pile of sticks and dry grass with the book thrown at her feet. Soon after, the woman began to mumble incantations under her breath, confirming to everyone that she was indeed a witch. The men doused her in oil from her head down to the book and lit a match. The woman no longer fought what she knew was coming. She stood still, continuing to speak quietly to herself the words of her book. When the match hit the wood, she was immediately engulfed in bright flame. She screamed in agony, no longer chanting or begging, just screaming. The fire ate away at her flesh, leaving nothing behind but exposed tissue and bubbling blood. Her screams echoed over the cheering of the people and lasted for what seemed like hours. Her death finally came within minutes of the fire. Her entire body had been melted away, leaving behind charred, smoking remains of what was once a human muscular system. All gone, except her book and her head. Though she had died in that fire, her head, displaying an emotion of pure serenity, is said to have remained completely unharmed. Mystified by what they couldn’t explain, they took her book and her head and threw them back into the swamp, deep where they hoped the gators and lakes would rid them of her remains forever.

Many years later, a rich young man bought up the land designating the very spot atop where the woman’s remains lay in unrest, to build his family estate. With an almost endless amount of money behind him, the work on his future home began quickly. The project leveled out the foundation, filled in gaps and tore down trees and excess foliage and began without further inspection of the land. Everyone seemed to welcome the wealthy young man’s choice of location for his mansion, except the once lively, spirited woman that became a part of the house. To this very day, her spirit has haunted the man’s house, bringing misfortune to those who seek her. It is said that her ghost resides in a small room, one you wouldn’t normally see or even think to go into. She continues to scavenge for objects left behind by living guests that may be of use to her. She has long since become tired of any other book than her own, which she keeps with her at all times. Instead, musical instruments have become a favorite of hers. Her body is never seen, but those who see her, see only her head that is said to be sitting on a small, round table in the room she occupies. Her book is supposedly sitting open in front of her so that she may continue to read long into her afterlife. Should you only see her, she will let you pass.

However, there is but a single chair next to the table. If one should sit in this chair, she knows that they are seeking her out, much like the townsfolk who burned her alive, and will give them her full attention. She looks into her victim’s eyes for only a second before her once beautiful, pacified face contorts into one of malice and agonizing hatred. Her eyes widen and sink into her skull. Her mouth opens impossibly wide, stretching back the skin on her face to the point of ripping and tearing, and screams inhumanly loud. Anyone sitting in the chair has just passed the point in which they could have still gotten out alive. Soon, they become increasingly hot; sweating for only precious seconds before their skin begins to blister and boil. Then, the sensation of thousands of years of fire washes over their entire body. The only thing they can do now is rock back and forth in the chair, unable to stand, and scream in the unending agony that once claimed that woman’s life. Your hair would fall out as muscle tissue emerges from underneath your melted skin, soon blackening from an inextinguishable fire. Those that dare her, die shortly after this point, but continue burning until what is left behind becomes dust that soon is blown away, whisked off to wherever the breezy halls take it, never to be seen again.

Number of estimated victims: 4
Name of ghost: Eleanor Leota Toombs aka ‘Madam Leota’

There was once a man, a gentleman of the ages, who lived just outside of his hometown with his adoring wife. He was a man of considerable wealth and aged gracefully long into his golden years. He was a kindly gent who loved people of all sorts. The man was very well known around the nearby town and recognized as a man among men. He would buy from their markets and did what he could to expand the growth of the town. He loved giving back to the community rather than hoarding his financial success to himself. His wife loved him so for that very reason. She had the house and the husband she wanted. All of that seemed to be enough for her, though unlike her husband, she hardly ever left the house.

Everyone was very fond of the man, his wife, and almost just as much, his house. He had the house that everyone around wanted. The man often held parties and gatherings for the people of the town at his house. His wife would cook the most amazing meals using the supplies and ingredients that her husband had once bought from their guests while the man would give tours of the many rooms and corridors of his house. The one room he loved showing off was his portrait room, where he had collected and framed some of the most amazing paintings that he had ever bought from the town’s many artists. After throwing so many gatherings, the man soon became known as the ‘host’ of the town and he wore his new title with pride. Those who asked the man whether it was the massive house or the beautiful wife that made him so happy, to which he would reply, “Neither. It’s just my way”. Giving back to and entertaining their friends made the man and his wife very happy.

Eventually, the man’s wife secluded herself all together inside the house. The man asked why she wouldn’t ever go outside but she would never give him a direct answer. He wondered if she was ill and called a doctor to look at her. Though nothing was certain to the doctor, the man knew for sure that something was wrong. His wife had always been just as outgoing as he was within the walls of their home, but she quickly refused to see or socialize with anyone anymore. Soon, the town started to see less and less of the man, and what they did see was not the cheerful old man they had come to know. His back began to slump while he walked. He was no longer smiling or caring much about the townspeople. Instead, he stayed inside to keep his wife company. At first, he would come out at least once a day. Soon, it became every other day, then once a week, then only a few times a month. Whenever anyone ould ask the man what was wrong or where he had been, he would simply reply “It’s just my way.” As the time went by, his wife grew more and more introverted, no longer talking to even her husband. He started to become less sad, but more angry. Angry at his own helplessness. Angry at the lack of cooperation from his wife. Angry at not being the person he used to be.

She was in pain and wouldn’t say what was wrong. He had no idea how to handle the situation. All he wanted was his life back, where everyone was happy, and she was the cause of that not happening. He asked ‘why’ one last time to his wife who only looked back at him and smiled sweetly. He couldn’t take it anymore. His wife hadn’t shared anything with him for months. He had become more lonely with her than even by himself. He had wanted to help her, but she wouldn’t say what was wrong or tell him what to do. The man snapped, no longer angry at himself, but more so at her. He grabbed her by the throat with both hands and squeezed as hard as he could. He shouted questions uncontrollably, like “How do you want me to fix this?” and “What do you want from me?” He couldn’t control the rage that had built up all this time. He continued to choke her and shake her with every word he screamed in her face. With what little breath she had left, she choked out her final words: “This was your way.”
She had died in his hands and by his hands. He shook off what emotion had led him to murder his wife and cradled her while sobbing. She was past the point of recovery by the time the man could finally collect himself, but people say he held her for days and just wept. He buried her in the family cemetery outside the back of the house. That same day, the man picked a single bottle of his favorite wine and finished it in a matter of minutes. He climbed high into the rafters of his portrait room, where he could be with the figures of the town one last time, and let himself drop. The man who was once loved by his friends and family, was now nothing more than a decoration for the house that had claimed him.

The man’s spirit can still be heard weeping for his dead wife all over what was once his house. Rumor has it that his body still hangs from the ceiling in the portrait room. Those that have found his body would no longer hear the man’s crying. Though not many have ever returned from the man’s house after finding his hanging body, it is said that on a wall in that same room, the words ‘My way’ have been scratched all over the walls, deep into the wood. Though many speculate what exactly it is that leads to the death of those who encounter the man’s ghost, it is believed that the spirit itself does not inflict physical harm onto anyone. Instead, the sight of the man’s body, ghost, and message is said to bring so much despair with it that whoever views them gains the man’s perpetual feeling of dread and hopelessness. Few of the people that have seen these sights reported about them after they had left the house, though most never even leave the man’s house. Eventually, no matter how much they try to fight it, they always die the same way he did: suicide by hanging after having spelled out the words ‘My way’ somewhere within the same room. This single phrase has been seen by many to be the primary indicator of the connection between the man’s victims.

Number of estimated victims: 7
Name of ghost: Edgar Price aka ‘The Host’

During the mid 1800s, a man lived happily as a very much beloved husband and father in a southwestern Mississippi town. The town was one of the largest at the time and very well known for bringing in quite a profit. The man was just well off enough to care for his family and that was all he could ever ask for. He worked day in and day out at a nearby paper mill while his ‘simply angelic’ wife, as he often described her, stayed home and cared for their two daughters and son. The man couldn’t enjoy life more than he was; he was young, healthy, and pulling in more money than he could ask for. However, a dark secret that he kept from his family and business partners emerged into the public. One day, another man came to him while he was working and asked for the money that he owed him and his boss. The man knew perfectly well that he was in several months worth of debt to a local, terrorizing mafia for their help on his financial success. The man had accepted money from one of the most dangerous and infamous loan sharks of his time. The man pleaded for more time, but mercy was long since given to the man.

The loan shark had two of his henchmen beat the man into a bloody submission, breaking his left arm in four places, his right leg in two, and fracturing his skull before pulling out a small bottle of green, fizzy liquid. He poured the substance on the man’s face and the chemical reacted immediately with a sizzling that almost matched the volume of the man’s screams. The corrosive ate away at the skin all over the man’s face and even down to some of his bone. The man was helpless, nothing could wash away what was being done to him, and all he could do was scream. No one came to his aid. No one else even really knew the man for he had only kept to his family when not on the job. His lips peeled back, no longer protecting his teeth and gums. His eyelids disintegrated and his nose melted down to nothing. The loan shark deemed this a warning, for if he did not receive the money he was owed with interest by next month, the same would be done to his family. The man was long since rendered unconscious before the shark and his men had left the scene. When the man awoke, he was still in agonizing pain. He left the site, stumbling this way and that, trying to regain a sense of composure. When he returned home, his family was mortified by what they saw. His children ran screaming and crying from the ‘monster’. His wife got out a kitchen knife and demanded that the man leave. He tried to make the case that he was her husband, but she wouldn’t believe him. He had kept from her and his children that he had received money from the mafia and his wife wouldn’t allow the disfigured man to explain himself. The woman was prepared to kill the man, no matter how much he had pleaded that he was her husband.

Without being able to speak clearly to his wife, there was nothing the man could do but leave. He left his wife and children behind, never seeing them again after that day, only grabbing his coat, his cane, and his hatbox on the way out. He no longer had his money or his home. He could not afford the operation he would need to live as much of a life as he used to have. Concealing his head under his coat and top hat, leaning off of his damaged leg on his cane, with only the hatbox to store his belongings, he made his way down south. Many many miles into his travel, he decided to take up refuge in a house big enough to hide in just until he could figure out what to do next. He didn’t know whether he should protect or warn his family of the impending loan shark or start a new life elsewhere. For the first time in his life, the man was completely lost and had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to be. He managed to break into the house fairly easily. He saw no sign of anyone living there, but expected someone would come along eventually. The man lived many days out in that house. He ate the food that had been stored, slept in the master bedroom, and read many of the owner’s personal collection of books. Eventually, the man heard the owner return and ran to hide. He found a pull down door and ladder leading up to an attic space and decided to hide there to wait for the owner to leave. He spent several hours in that attic, curled up next to a hat rack and cried. The man missed his family and was ashamed at his cowardice. He knew they would share the same gruesome fate as he did and he could do nothing anymore to stop it. He cried and cried until the attic door opened.

The man became dead silent and watched the owner of the house work his way up into the attic. The man panicked. In a blurred rage of defense, the man picked up a piece of broken glass and stabbed the owner in the back of the knee just as he walked past where the man was hiding. The owner fell to the ground screaming as the man continued to stab the owner viciously. The man looked down at the owner bleeding out all over the attic floor as an idea crossed his already twisted mind. The man grabbed the owner by his hair and held his head tight in his fist. He plunged the glass shard deep inside underneath the owner’s jaw. The owner yelled muffled screams and coughed up the blood that poured into his mouth and throat as the man dug the glass shard around the outline of his face, peeling back every square inch of skin attached.
Blood soaked both of their clothes and the owner thrashed about, but was just as helpless as the day the man lost his own face. Carving out the skin around the man’s mouth and eyes were the final touches as the man dropped the glass shard and pushed the frantic owner to the side, gargling his screams through even more thick, dark blood. The man raised the owner’s face up to where his used to be, but on himself. He felt the warm, still bloody side against his exposed muscle and bone. He formed it around his eyes and around his mouth and licked it sealed. The owner scrambled around the floor and found the glass shard. Blindly, he picked it up and crawled as fast as he could to the man, cutting through his throat on the first swing, while the man admired his new look. The owner continued stabbing the man long after he had finally died. The man allowed the owner to extract his vengeance, laughing as the glass shard pierced his skin, for the man was content with death under his new identity.

The spirits of both of these men still haunt that same house, but only that of the man has been known to still take lives. How do we know this? He will appear anywhere in the house, but is especially seen in the attic from the outside. He painfully collects the faces of his victims before he kills them. You will never know when you’re near this ghost, but so long as you’re in that same house, he is never far. Should he choose you, you will feel sharp, stabbing pains all over your body. You may not see him then, but there will be nothing you could do to stay alive at this point. He will continue to stab you until you stop moving altogether. You can only hope that what has been done already will be enough to kill you, for then you will feel every single nerve under the skin in your face being ripped apart.You will feel it peel back and tear as easily as paper. He does it slow and methodically, so that he can savor the effects of the agony he gives to his victims. It is said that the last thing you see if you are able to survive for this long is his long, insidious smile and wide, pure white eyes staring down at you through your own face. He stores all the faces he collects and never has them just out of his arm’s reach. How do we know that it is the same man and not the owner? The entity is known to always be carrying around the only two things he had with him when he came to the house in the first place: his signature cane and hatbox.

Number of estimated victims: 14
Name of ghost: Xavier Randall aka ‘Hatbox’

In 1886, there lived a beautiful woman in the city of Philadelphia. She was adored by all of her friends and family. She excelled through school and had many friends and sweethearts to show for it. She had big, bright blue eyes that would melt your heart in a single gaze. She had round, pouty lips that drove men crazy. Her hair was golden and she took especially well care of it. All throughout school, she had been told that she could make it as a big time actress just off of her looks alone, so when she graduated, she moved out of her parents’ house to try and start an acting career in New York City’s own Broadway. She was more than confident that she would become the next fresh face to capture the world, for all throughout her life everyone told her how gorgeous she was, and what was more dangerous, she knew it. People spoke of the woman as though her looks rivaled that of Cleopatra herself. No matter what she tried in life, she would usually get by on her looks alone. This woman led the easy life and sadly took it all for granted. People would go out of their way to help a woman as beautiful as her any way they could, especially the men. This woman even got so far as to make it into a show on an actual Broadway stage, and soon another and another. Eventually, she was all any of the casting directors could talk about. Every show wanted to see her sing, dance, and showcase her exceptional beauty. Her parents had given her more than enough money to live on her own while working in the Big Apple, even though she was making a decent income. She had long since lost touch with her doting parents, short of her still collecting support money from them, along with all of the friends she once had back home.

Eventually, the woman started seeing New York City and the business she had found herself in as the vicious, shallow snare for what it is. After several years of leading the exciting, fast-paced lifestyle of an actress, the easy life that had spoiled the woman for so long soon became less attentive. Though she was still one of the most beautiful young women to ever grace the stage, she was no longer the only one. What was once handed to her on a silver platter now needed to be worked for and the spoiled woman knew of no such thing as work. The woman demanded things from others, especially those she believed were less attractive than her. She didn’t feel the need to audition for roles as an actress and believed that they should just be offered to her. The older she aged, the less charming her immature rudeness became. People began to pay less and less attention to her. She started getting less work as an actress, leading to her bills coming in more than they went out, and for once she didn’t know what to do.

One day, the woman caught a glimpse of a man in the audience of one of her shows. Seeing live theatre on Broadway was for either the locals or the wealthy. Outside the theatre on the closing night of the last production she ever performed in, she began talking to the man, who could do nothing but dote upon how beautiful and talented she was. The man was from out of town and the couple spent the next couple of days sightseeing, picnicking in Central Park, eating at all the best restaurants, and having the time of their lives. Before the man was about to leave the city to go back home, the woman confessed her love for him and he agreed to take her with him. The woman left everything and everyone she knew back in New York and moved in with this rich, young man. Very soon after, they were married and talks of children were already on the way. The man was so very happy with his new bride that he went out to the best jeweler he could find and bought her the most expensive pearl necklace they had. The woman loved them almost as much as she loved her new life.

However, just months after their wedding, the woman’s husband was in a tragic, fatal accident. The woman reported to the sheriff that her husband had been murdered just after their honeymoon night. When the police arrived on the scene, they found the man’s body alone in a pool of blood. The man’s head had been severed and laid just feet from the crimson soaked stump it was once attached to. The man, along with his head, were both buried in the family graveyard. The woman showed very little concern for her husband and instead proceeded to live off of the money she had inherited from him. The police never suspected that the wife that informed them of the murder would be capable of such a crime and the real murderer was never found. It was concluded that the weapon was a small, sharp, blunt instrument; one that would have had to be swung many times to cut completely through a man’s neck the way they found the victim. Soon after, the woman had everything about her late husband, even a small freshly cleaned hatchet that she had taken out of his tool shed not long before he was found murdered, hidden away within the dark corners of the attic of her new house. The woman lived well with her husband’s money and even took very well care of his home.

After a while, collecting together all of her husband’s belongings grew dull and the woman craved for more excitement. She decided to go out and lure in another wealthy man as her next husband. Soon after, the next man came along and moved into the woman’s home after selling his for quite a profit. The man loved the woman and bought her an even more expensive pearl necklace than her last husband did. Soon after they were married, he too met with a terrible tragedy. After the woman invited her new husband up to the attic, she retrieved her old hatchet and struck the man in the neck. Even after he fell, she continued to strike the man with the hatchet, flinging his blood all over the walls and ceiling. The man could no longer scream through the amount of blood that was seeping out of his mouth as his wife continued to hack away at his throat. After his spine had been disconnected, the man was surely dead, but the woman continued to finish the job, severing the head completely. The woman collected all that her new late husband had left for her and buried him too in the graveyard next to her previous one. Within the span of three years, two more graves had been dug next to theirs.

The woman had just received her fifth and most expensive pearl necklace. She had more money and extravagant riches than she could have ever hoped for. She kept her wedding dress neat and clean, the same one that was handed down to her from her mother and that she had always worn for all of her weddings. Her last husband had already had a child, a grown boy, from his previous wife who had died due to disease. The boy had thought that the marriage between the woman and his father was happening too quickly to be genuine and suspected that the woman was just after his money. The boy went over to her house the day after the man had moved in and looked around for him. After hearing a peculiar sound coming from the attic, he went up to investigate and saw the woman, still wearing her wedding dress, hacking away at the bloody mess that was once his father. The boy went into a furious panic. He tackled the woman and took the hatchet out of her hand. He fought the woman, but it was far too late to save the life of his father. He plunged the blade of the hatchet into her chest claiming that ‘a demon as heartless as her doesn’t deserve one’. He hacked away at her chest, breaking through her rib cage and tearing through the woman’s chest. Blood soaked the woman’s wedding dress as the boy ripped through whatever fabric or muscle stood in his way. He reached into her chest, gained a slippery hold on her slowly beating heart and pulled it violently out of her body.

The boy stood and stared down at what he had done to the woman. He reached down and pulled the wedding ring his father had given to her off of her finger and threw it out of the attic window. He wanted this woman to have had nothing to do with his father. He shoved the woman’s body in a nearby trunk. All that is known is that the woman’s latest husband rests in the family graveyard next the others. As for the woman? Her body was never recovered and still lies in the trunk in the attic. The boy had hidden the woman’s heart somewhere else in the attic, not in the trunk with her. The boy, however, met with his own death in that same room for reasons unknown.

To this day, it is said that the woman searches desperately for her heart so that she may feel love again. Until then, she feels only hatred and the need for the belongings of others. Her spirit has been seen out of the window to the room she died in, still holding the hatchet she had taken so many lives with. You may only find this woman in the attic of her once home. Should you see her spirit, she will come to you as beautiful as she had always been. She will smile back at you the friendliest, most welcoming smile you could ever ask for. She will show off all that she had collected throughout the years and make you feel comforted. This is when you need to immediately turn around and leave. If you should stay, it is said that you will hear the loud, rhythmic thumps of her heart beating somewhere in the room, just out of her grasp. She will lure people in with her beauty, especially men, only to disappear before them completely.

After she has vanished from your sight, she will then reappear to you in a mirror, contorted and grotesque as the tormented soul now has you captured. You will see her beauty fade into the true monster that she had become. You will see her wedding dress dripping blood and feel her cold breath beating down the back of your neck. Cherish it then, because afterward, that’s her next target. The next thing you feel is a sharp, yet blunt strike to your neck. There is nothing you can do now to stop the malevolent entity from breaking through your neck by the force of the hatchet. No matter how hard you fight or where you try to escape to, your head will feel as though it is tearing itself from your body. This is that woman, searching so much for the life that she once had and taking from those which she could never enjoy again.

Number of estimated victims: 22
Name of ghost: Constance Hatchaway

Now, the story of these next three spirits are importantly intertwined and I shall be telling their story as such. They are also the three most deadliest ghosts in the list and in the world to date, so listen closely. During the early 1930s in northern Florida, there lived three brothers. They lived as a very tight knit family and the devastation of the Great Depression only brought them closer. The youngest brother, 24, was lanky, pale, and though he was always very spirited, the boy suffered from a dangerous case of anemia. The middle brother, 27, was the most heavyset of the three. He was known by his family as being the most well read and carried an extensive knowledge of many subjects, specializing in several fields of human sciences. The eldest brother, 30, was, oddly enough, the shortest. He worked closely with their father at a Ford assembly line and carried with him an extensive amount of long, unkempt facial hair. Soon after the crash of the stock market, their father was growing dangerously ill and their finances had been cut severely since losing his job. The family could no longer afford the medical care that their father needed. Their mother didn’t work, though she did now manage all of their money. They had just enough money left to either help their father get the treatment he needed for his sickness or for one of the brothers to go to school.

The three brothers wanted nothing more than to help their father, while the father wanted the brightest one of the three to go to school. The answer was made clear and it was the father’s final wish for the middle son to pursue his dreams of becoming a surgeon. Though they all spent much time grieving over the loss of a father and husband, everyone in the family was supportive to the middle boy, who then wished to work toward a cure to the illness that had claimed his father, on top of helping as many others as he could. Now, what makes this story so subjective is that no one is completely sure of the names of these three brothers. It is most commonly known that the middle son was refereed to as the ‘Traveler’ for he commuted to an out of state school and loved to sight see as a child. He dressed his best for school, donning his father’s coat and bowler hat. School was new and exciting for the middle brother. He loved learning new subjects along with furthering his knowledge of anatomy and medicine.

After two years of extensive medical training, the Traveler took a break and headed back home. The youngest brother had succumbed to a rare illness, one that increased his growth and metabolism almost more than his body could keep up with. He was incredibly tall and skinny. He could not gain a healthy amount of muscle tissue and in most areas of his body his bones could be seen bulging through his skin; his face, ribs, and arms were just some of those areas. His eyes grew big and sunken into his face. His lips grew wider and made his smile much more prominent and haunting. He was fully capable other than a general physical weakness and an occasional shortness of breath. Due to his childish naivety, it was nothing he ever worried about; however, his brothers kept a keen eye on him. Though his name was also forgotten with time, the records refer to him as the ‘Skeleton’ because of his hideous form.

Unfortunately, however, the Traveler ran out of expenses when the school raised its tuition far higher than he could pay, and had to move back home without a proper education. Soon after, the youngest son started to show signs of growing even more sick, the stress had taken its toll on their mother, who had jumped to her death off a local bridge. The brothers were heartbroken and lost. Neither of their parents left them any money to live off of and the job market was nearly nonexistent. The family was then almost out of ideas on what to do for money or necessities. Soon after, while reading up on the end of the prohibition and the war beginning to rage, the eldest son struck upon an idea. The idea was simple: that he and his brothers would become moonshine brewers and runners. It was a good enough idea for them and they figured that they had nothing more to lose on it. They couldn’t believe that times had gotten this desperate, but they were willing to do anything it took to care for each other. Eventually, a problem arose: they had to sell the family Model T and had nothing to run their product with. The eldest son mulled around the desperation of his family before admitting to a drastic solution to their problem, though he was not proud enough about it to share it with his family. He went out one night and took a long walk down a particularly lonely road.

About three hours into his walk, he prepared himself for what he was about to do. The brother held out his thumb and waited for passing cars. Soon after, headlights hit him and a model slowed down to pull up next to the man. The driver was heading home with his wife and two children. The brother wasted no time. He pulled out a revolver and shot the man in the dead center of his face. The wife and children frantically got out of the car as the brother pushed the bloody remains of their loved one onto the dirty road. They collapsed in sobs over the man’s body and disappeared behind the brother in total darkness as he drove off with their model. The brother didn’t answer any of his brothers’ questions about the car and soon they just gave up and accepted what was now theirs. Soon, the eldest brother was bringing in several different cars a night and eventually got to the point where they could fix up one really great car to make their shine runs in. Their shine running business was working out well, but the eldest brother could not hold onto his secret for much longer and told his brothers about where the cars were coming from. The three brothers had long since crossed over into the ‘survival of the fittest’ mindset of poverty and understood that the eldest had to do what he had to do to support them.

The shine running was pulling in just enough extra money to keep food on the table, but they felt that they could do better. Soon after, the other two brothers felt as though they too were ready to make the cross into the work the eldest brother found himself in. The plan was to pose as hitchhikers on the side of roads that didn’t see much traffic. They all had their plans on what they will do once they are out on the road. The Skeleton had a blade ready for his plan and the Traveler, the less violent one, had a syringe filled with a strong anesthesia that he had learned to make while in school. They all spread out and covered different roads.

The eldest son continued with his brute plan, while the Skeleton tried a different approach. He would target cars driving by specifically with couples in them. He held his thumb high and waited for a chance to finally show his big brothers what he could do. Once someone pulled over to pick him up, he would sit behind the driver specifically. After having ridden for several minutes, the Skeleton would pull a small blade out of his coat pocket and slice open the throat of the driver. Fighting to take control of the car, he would pull it over to the side of the road. The passenger would normally run screaming, something about his strategy that he became much more effective with in time and experience. He would catch up to the passenger on foot, hold them down, and carve out their eyes with the knife while still on the side of the road. He would be quick about it so long as to never be seen by anyone else driving by. One by one he would either jam his knife into their sockets and pry their eyes out or skewer them and render them painfully useless. So as to make sure the person never tells anyone of him or his brothers, he would rip out their tongues as well. As messy of a job as he chose to go about it, peeling out his victims’ tongues with his jagged, dull blade would usually be the last thing they would feel before death, a sacrifice the Skeleton was willing to make for his family. He made his brothers proud by collecting many cars this way over the course of many many years.

While the eldest son continued with his terrorizing plan of forcing whole families out of their cars and making them grieve in the middle of nowhere over their lost husband and father, the Traveler was a different sort of operator. He knew he was willing to do anything for the good of his family, but recreational violence was just not a part of his makeup. He too would hitchhike all up and down a lonely stretch of road searching for lone drivers in particular. He carried with him a briefcase that he used through med-school and he had it filled with various anesthetics, acids, and poisons. He knew that he would have better luck trying to subdue one person instead of many. Once someone would pull over to let him in, the Traveler would smile back at them, show his appreciation, and tell them where to go. Along the drive, the Traveler would reach into his brief case and discretely pull out a brightly colored syringe. He would plunge it straight into the driver’s chest and take control of the vehicle. Before the driver would have time to react, they would be completely sedated. The Traveler would push them over to the passenger seat and take control of his new car all the way back to his family’s workshop. At first, the Traveler would just gently push the bodies out of the car somewhere along the road, only hoping that they would awaken before any roadside critters, like snakes, scorpions, or spiders, get to them first. Eventually, he began to think to himself just how robbed he was of his experience in medical school. All that money wasted because the state colleges became too greedy toward their students. It angered him. He had been wronged when all he wanted was to help people. The people in his passenger seats could be all the schooling he needed and that all he really needed was practice to become a doctor.
He started taking the bodies back to the workshop where they stripped down the cars and held off a little room to the side all for himself. His first real victim was like exploring a fantasy land to him. He wanted to know everything there was about the amazing world anatomy and surgical arts that he had only ever read about. He laid the body across a long metal table and stripped it down. He always remembered his first cut. It was a careful one, like slowly opening a Christmas present. He was as giddy as a child as the blood poured onto the table and trickled onto the floor below him. He uncovered and removed everything he could find inside his victims: lungs, kidneys, livers, anything he could touch and remove, he did. He unraveled intestines and liked to poke the particularly ‘squishy’ things. Sometimes the victim would wake screaming, but would always bleed out his life before anyone could come to his rescue. It was so much fun to the Traveler. The more and more often the Traveler brought home victims and the more experience he had with his rusty surgical equipment, the less careful he became in his ‘teachings’. His childlike spirit was very much alive among such a macabre scene of blood and entrails, but so long as he cleaned everything up after he was finished, his family didn’t mind it.

The brothers had been carefully collecting cars from people for several months before the eldest brother was finally caught by the police. Several of the victims he left alive gave away his information to the police. Without giving up the names of his brothers, his ‘accomplices’, he was given life in prison. The other two brothers found work very difficult without their brother. The Skeleton and the Traveler decided to go on one last run to break their brother out of prison and to live the rest of their days down south. The information that I was given doesn’t exactly say how they did it, but the eldest brother was broken out of prison, which, by the way, is how he earned the name he goes by: the Prisoner, and headed south in a stolen car.
They hid out at motel to motel, using fake names, and taking every precaution to cover their tracks as they made their way south toward a small growing city where they could try to start a new life. After several days without food on their run, the stress of their inevitable capture and imprisonment was almost too much for them to handle. They knew that the police were actively looking for the Prisoner and his accomplices, but were willing to go to the ends of the world to avoid being imprisoned and separated from each other. Fueled by pure adrenaline, they rocketed down an empty highway with the police bearing down on their path and wherever they ended up is where they had to hide. After exhausting every resource they had on their final run, the trio abandoned their car on the side of the road and ran until they came across a cemetery.

Knowing that the police would be on the site in a matter of seconds behind them, and not being able to make it all the way to the town just miles outside where they had broken down, the brothers wasted no time in weighing what little options they had and jumped a large gated fence around the cemetery in the backyard of a giant mansion. Inside, they broke into and hid inside of a mausoleum. No one knows for sure what happened to them after that however. There are rumors that suggest that they lived in that stone cage as long as they could before dying of hunger. Others say they had died of fright by what they saw within the mausoleum. The bodies of the brothers were never found and they had never been seen alive since.

I repeat myself for the utmost importance: these three ghosts, the Traveler, Prisoner, and Skeleton, are the three most deadliest ghosts in the world. There is but one road in America that drives by the cemetery in which they spent their last moments. Whether it be day or night, should you just drive by that cemetery you are inviting them, enticing them. They cannot resist the temptation to rid you of what they cannot have. These ghosts are not limited to one particular place like a house; these spirits are much more unpredictable and versatile. If you drive this one road at any time of the day, you will see someone hitchhiking on the side. Whatever you do, do not pick them up. It may be mean to any person who is just honestly looking for a ride, but it is not worth the risk. At this point, the only hope you have is to pass them and look in your rear view mirror. If you still see them in the reflection outside your car, you are safe. If not, it means that they have chosen you as their ride. If this is the case, immediately get out of the car. Pull it over as soon as you can and leave it there forever. If you do not do this, you will become their next victim. Depending on how many people are in your car will depend on which brother you will have riding with you.

Should you be driving with one other person in the car, you will be at the mercy of the Skeleton. If you are driving, you will see whoever is sitting in your passenger seat suddenly look over at you. Even if you don’t look back at them, you know what you will see: blood smeared sockets and an empty jaw fallen lifelessly will be their expression. By the time you recognize it, you will feel a cold release race across your neck. By the time your car crashes, you and your passenger will already be dead. Should you be driving with a family and do not heed the warnings of the hitchhikers, your death will be simple at the hands of the Prisoner: quick, quiet, nothingness will fill your thoughts as your head agape with a tennis ball size hole through the front and back will suddenly slam against the steering wheel and the car rockets into whatever lies in its path, taking out whatever and whoever with it. Should you be driving alone, you might as well have been walking from the start. The Traveler used to be someone with compassion and mercy while he was alive, but once he’s a rider in your car, you find of him much different behaviors. At first, you will become nauseous to the point of wanting to pull over to throw up, but you don’t because you can’t. It will only get worse from there. Your nose will begin to bleed and you will have a gurgling feeling in your stomach. You will begin to cough up blood and your vision will become blurry. You try to pull over, but the Traveler won’t let you. He enjoys traveling with you while practicing his craft. Your chest, back, and stomach will be in an enormous amount of pain for what is inside you is rearranging itself. You will cough up more and more blood each time as you begin to lose muscular control and basic bodily functions. The skin around your chest and abdomen starts to pull and tear. Soon, blood will cover your lap and seat as you see the bleeding, pulsating mess throbbing just under your blood soaked clothes. Don’t worry though. Death isn’t far beyond this point, so you wouldn’t have suffered for too long. Still, I’d rather just get out, leave my car, and walk home.

Number of estimated (collective) victims: 41
Name of ghosts: the Traveler, the Skeleton, the Prisoner aka ‘The Hitchhikers’
—————————————————————

I hope this list will help you somewhere down the line; God forbid you ever come across one of these things. I really try not to let it scare me, but with everything that has been happening, I’d rather be scared than dead. This is certainly not a dare or invitation to test the rumors of these ghosts, whether you believe in them or not. They are dangerous and do not care what your personal beliefs are. Though I did dig a little deeper into these cases and, as dismaying as it is, I need you to consider this observation: all of these cases are based out of southern Louisiana and around a single house, the very same house for each of them, which means that there is only one place you will find any of these spirits.
The attic, the cemetery, the portrait room, it is all connected. There is something about that house or the land that provokes the evil around it. Though I will not say what the place is called to spare you the trip, upon further inspection there is just one short of a thousand different ghosts haunting that place to this day. I am not giving out any more specific details than that which have already been established because no one, especially any of you that have read this through until the end and clearly know of the dangers they present, should be going anywhere near this house. The house has been hidden from the public since the accidents began and just needs to never be visited, looked at, or even passed by ever again. Just remember to be careful. There are many things in this world that we still do not understand and the cost of venturing into the unknown could be your life. I pray for your safety and hope that you may never fall victim to the spirits of the world’s most haunted mansion.

Credit To – TheDivineAuthor

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A Parent’s Plea

August 30, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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Throughout my years of reading people’s stories of this nature, I have noticed that many of them speak from the perspective of a child. This is entirely apt: we’ve all been children, we’ve all had the strange and unexplainable experiences before we “grew up” and convinced ourselves we’d figured out how the world worked.

As children, the rules are flexible. Monsters, flying, magic are all perfectly acceptable in our worlds until the droll, seriousness of ‘science’ takes over.

Please forgive me if I depart from this perspective and assume that of a parent, a father. I realise that many of you good readers, for plentiful reasons, have not had this experience. Those of you who have will agree that the becoming of a parent bestows upon one the weight of all responsibility. You are the one upon whom all the power of protection, reassurance and care rests. You have in your charge a unique and precious entity, your duty to preserve and nourish it. It is a sacred and terrifying burden. Thus is was with Corley.

When my first son – how I miss him! – was born, I confess I felt lost and terrified as well as the happier emotions new parenthood brings. But plenty of others do it, I thought. Millions all over the world, throughout history, have raised children and they managed. Poorer, less educated, even less evolved animals do it all the time! I would be fine!

Oh would it were so.

The first few months were the typical mundane, hectic, calm, chaotic, messy, joyous and absurd times of modern parenting. Corley was a difficult sleeper at first; hated sleeping alone. I can sense the parents reading this smile knowingly – for aren’t all babies like this? They have to be trained to sleep alone, heartbreaking though it might be. In infancy, Corley would scream for hours if he was separated from his mother or me; long after we had passed out from exhaustion, we would wake to hear him screaming. Eventually we relented. Surely any damage done by sleeping with his parents would be less than the obvious discomfort he felt screaming all night.

He developed into a spirited, highly energetic toddler. He was tireless, rough and boisterous but just as loving and relational as one could hope for. He was a little delayed in walking, and speaking, but every child is different aren’t they? Don’t rush them, says the literature. They’ll get there in their own time. And of course, he did. For a time.

Now reader, please allow me a small indulgence. You’ve heard about the horrors of parenthood: the sleeplessness, soiled nappies, drudgery, boredom. You’ve also heard about the “joy”, and the “amazement” and any number of superlative words of “wonder” that it brings. Thus it was when Corley started talking. More so, understanding. It is known that babies and children absorb huge amounts of information before they venture into language themselves. A new word, a colour, a concept. I was especially moved when he identified with me enough to give me a name: “Bab”.

The most special part of this for me was that instant of connection between two minds – that brief eye contact where he understood something, and I saw that he did, and he saw that I saw, and so on into that endless feedback loop that signifies the connection of two minds. We adults do that every day of course, with our friends and colleagues; but when you see it happen for the first time with your own child… then, you understand why we go on about it so.

And this must be when it started. Of course I didn’t realise at the time – who would with their first child? – that something was amiss. Shortly after I had begun to see these ‘connections’ regularly, I noticed that Corley would often shift his gaze from mine to a space in the room just over my shoulder. The look of understanding in his eyes would deepen. His smile would broaden. The first time I had assumed that his mother was behind me, and he was reacting to her. He would still acknowledge me of course, but his greatest recognition was reserved for that vacant space behind me, up by the ceiling, or at the top of the curtains.

“Bab!” he would say, as I caught his attention. “Bababab!” and he would give me that look of recognition before sliding his eyeline beyond, and smile and perhaps nod faintly as he acknowledged his unseen ‘friend’.

Now. I know at this point there are a thousand reasons that this could be. Perhaps his reactions were just delayed – he needed to stare into space momentarily as he processed his infant thoughts. Maybe a fly or a wisp of light caught his fancy. Or he was daydreaming! Why would I entertain foolish thoughts of him looking at ‘someone else’? Something else? For heaven’s sake, maybe the supernaturalists are right, and children do indeed see sprites and beings and auras and faeries and dragons, before the mighty hand of ‘science’ and ‘reason’ crush out altogether the world of the fantastical! If it’s normal and happens to us all, well then what of it?!

Like you, dear reader, I scoffed at my over-concern. And I would have forgotten it by now, as Corley is almost seven, had things eventuated the way I’d hoped. But as you see by now, they did not. Far from it.

Some nights later, I was heading to bed very late, congratulating myself on my brilliant fatherhood prowess, as I had only recently got Corley to sleep in his own bed calmly and without fuss. His mother worked night shifts as a nurse, so this formidable task had been left to me. As I passed his room I heard a voice. A calm, competent, clear voice. I inched closer, obviously in some confusion. The voice was Corley’s. He was holding a conversation! Proper sentences, and leaving a pause for the imaginary other participant, much as if he were on the phone. As I approached I was able to make out his dialogue.

“I can’t,” he said.

A brief pause.

“I’m not going to.”

Another pause.

“No. No I won’t. I would never do that.”

Of course I was stunned as he’d never said more than “bababab” or “mama” or “num num num” to me. And now he was negating hypothetical future situations? How was it so?

He continued:

“No.”

And then, after a longer silence:

“Because he is my father.”

Aghast, I strode into the darkened room. The curtain was open as usual, the sodium streetlight casting a dreary orange stripe on the far wall. It was dark enough to sleep, but light enough to see Corley sitting upright facing the end of his bed. He turned to me as I entered, his little face blank and neutral.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked him. He stared up at me, his face unreadable and innocent as a toddler’s.

“Bababab,” he replied. I knelt down by him, and gestured to the end of his bed.

“Who were you talking to?” I repeated, in a more kindly and soft tone. He continued looking at me and whispered “babab” again and put his hand gently on my arm. I tried a few other more complex questions to prompt him into revealing his powers of conversation with me, but he just continued to stare calmly, occasionally whispering “babab”. I was tired, I was rattled, but what could I do? I couldn’t demand he converse with me. I bid him sleep now, and he immediately lay down, placed his head on his pillow, all the while watching me as I kissed his forehead and left. Watching me with that same serene, impenetrable expression.
I slept poorly. The image of him in confident discussion with the end of his bed haunted my slumber, and the nature of his subject echoed on the edges of my conciousness. I rose some hours later to use the lavatory and heard Corley’s voice again. It was hushed this time, scarcely above a whisper. I crept to his door and listened to the following:

“I just want to go to sleep now.”

Pause.

“Please go, I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

A longer pause, and then something of a weary sigh.

“Alright. I will if I can go to sleep right now.”

Pause.

“I’ve said I would.”

I’m sorry to say I burst in at speed. Corley was fast asleep, snoring soundly, tangled in his cosy nest of blankets and toys. I tried to rouse him a couple of times but he was deep in slumber. ‘Dead to the world’, as the phrase goes.

As it was almost dawn and his mother would be home soon, I decided to resist the urge to sit up with him and watch over him. In any case he was now so deep in his dreams I reckoned that nothing could wake him, and I trudged back to my own bed and slumped into unconsciousness.

I decided against burdening my dear wife with the story; her work as a psychiatric nurse is traumatic enough and throwing a bizarre story at her about her son’s nighttime conferences wasn’t what she needed. And what would I expect her to do about it, I imagined her saying. Shouldn’t I, as the father, the husband of the house, the protector – the ‘man’ – be able to resolve it?

The next few days, indeed months and years, are of scant interest to this story. Suffice to say there were no more midnight communications that I was aware of, and though he was slower than most, and his distracted recognition of this unseen ‘friend’ of his increased and deepened, Corley grew. His character as observed by others, was of a quiet and solitary boy. Polite and serious when spoken to, his expression unknowable, gentle and reticent. The boisterous exuberance of his infancy was all but gone. Occasionally he could be seen running and laughing as he played outside, often alone, so as a family we weren’t particularly concerned.

When he was nearly four, his brother Antonio was born. Having experienced a new baby once already, we were much less stressed and ‘on-edge’ than with Corley. Antonio learned and adapted to life quickly. He could speak before two, and shortly after he could read several words and toilet himself. His knowledge of the basics – colours, animals, numbers, people – was considerable. Every day he seemed to learn a new word or phrase and begin using it. He would relish the idea of learning concepts and ideas. Corley, at six years old, was his idol, his hero. At least at first.

But as you will predict, the happiness receded and a darker time stole ever closer to us.

Corley grew more distant as his brother grew more competent. He had almost stopped talking to anyone, and seemed to run on autopilot. He ate mechanically. He read, wrote, engaged with other children, spoke, played only when directed. He never offered comment or opinion unless demanded, and then it was only ever “good” or “nice”. When we embraced him before school or before bed, his arms would automatically return the hug then drop to his side, devoid of emotion or warmth. His eyes would meet mine, but his neutral expression was even more pronounced. Please forgive my absurd oxymoronic grammar, but I could only describe it as ‘extremely neutral’.

I have read enough about conditions and syndromes such as dyspraxia, autism, Aspergers and such, to know that the world is big enough to embrace every child, no matter their disposition. I know that children who are exposed to trauma or poison or drugs can develop conditions like this. In Syria there are children so affected by the horrors of conflict that there is doubt they will ever ‘come back’. In Congo there are child-soldiers who have been stripped of their personalities through drugs and exploitation. Haiti even has a legal status of ‘zombie’ for people who have disappeared and returned with their emotions and humanity drained. In areas of Eastern Europe are children who have been mentally erased through trafficking and prostitution. Every country hosts some of these tragic, blank beings. Though it was somewhat agonising for us, his parents and brother, and the underfunded and disinterested health-system being what it is, we never found out what it was that caused this ebb of passion, of vitality.

Months passed. Antonio grew disinterested in his brother, in favour of his other friends. He stopped acknowledging him altogether, and regarded him as something of a piece of furniture. He wasn’t cruel or disdainful, but I suppose since he never elicited any reaction from Corley any more, he just ceased his engagement with him.

It was another dark and heavy Autumn night, around the 25th or 26th of March (Northern Hemisphere readers please note, in New Zealand the Autumn seem to come quickly, as sunset clunks in early when Daylight Savings Time ends.) I was again heading to bed late when I heard a voice coming from my boys’ bedroom. Antonio’s voice. Again that one-sided conversation, as of Corley’s those years ago. Though my distress was obviously great, I again listened.

The conversation was much more animated than Corley’s had been. Antonio was discussing events from his day, subjects like his favourite toys, basic emotions – normal three-year-old stuff. And occasionally laughing, as if the ‘other’ party had made some amusing comment. Then I heard this:

“You’re my brother. I love you, Corley!” and a delighted laugh.

I rushed in. Antonio was sitting up in his bed, his attention directed to the foot of it, an empty space. Corley was asleep, silent and still in his own bed on the other side of the room. Antonio glanced toward me as I approached, then returned to his dialogue.

“Dad here,” he said to the empty space. “Come on, Corley. Come out.” He turned to me and smiled, saying: “Dad, Corley’s here!”, again directing his attention to the foot of the bed.
“Where you going, Corley?” he giggled. nad after a moment he simply said “goodnight” and clunked his head down onto his pillow.
“Goodnight Dad.”

Needless to say reader, he offered no explanation of his eerie actions. He just looked at me with a gleam of happiness in his eye until he fell asleep.

I never heard his nocturnal conversations again. And that is almost the end of my story, except for this final event. Some months later Antonio was sitting at the table finishing his dinner. Corley was there too, but it was almost as if he had regressed further. Antonio did not even register him any more. Even his mother and I had to remember to attempt to engage with him, as our busy working life and day-to-day business took up more of our time. I was trying to get Antonio to acknowlegde Corley, perhaps talk to him or share his thoughts with him.

Antonio frowned. “No,” he replied. I don’t like Corley. I replied with some platitude about that not being nice, he’s your brother, he loves you, and similar words.

“I don’t like Corley,” Antonio repeated more emphatically. “Corley screaming. Corley screaming all the time.” He must have seen my shocked expression as he shifted his gaze to over my shoulder, up to that space by the ceiling, still frowning. His tone became grumpy, as that of any annoyed three-year-old. He stared back down at his plate, his eyes briefly flicking up to that empty spot.

“He screaming all the time now.”

***

And that really is all there is to tell. But my plea is thus: all of you parents, and those that would become parents, and those that are thinking of becoming parents. Please hug your child every day and tell them that you love them. Take every opportunity to spoil them. For the time we can show them that love may be all too brief.

Credit To – Mastadon

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Mako524

August 30, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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I got a message in my inbox a few weeks ago. I run a paranormal side-blog on tumblr but it is a small one. I barely have a following. It is mostly just the friends I have who happen to care about that sort of stuff (it isn’t many).

When I got the message I actually asked if one of them had sent it. It felt like it was probably a prank. I don’t get many (read: any) submissions to my blog. I’m just too small time and I don’t advertise plus I just reblog other people like sixpenceee and fuckyeahnightmares instead of making any original posts. To tell the truth I’ve been contemplating closing it and only haven’t because its been a convenient archive for the creepy posts I like but know most of the people who follow my main blog don’t care about.

Anyway the message read:

“Do you know about that tumblr that posts an odd audio file once a week? It only does it after erasing the previous week’s file, so there is only ever one audio file on it at a time.

Someone posted the link to it on the paranormal forum I frequent and I bookmarked it, I’ve been listening to the new files every week. People on the forum said the language is usually Japanese but despite knowing the language the files don’t always make sense to me.Sometimes they do but more often they are very distorted and odd. I can’t put my finger on exactly why sometimes, other times it is very obvious.

The most recent file is both. The beginning seems to mean something along the lines of a prayer and then fades into babbling but the audio feels wrong somehow, then it gets progressively louder until it is deafening before easing back out into it’s odd quiet statement of nonsense.

I went to the forum to discuss this week’s file only to find the thread had been deleted. Only a few of us were left talking about it, most people had lost interest or left the forum so there just were not that many posters. I thought the thread was deleted for inactivity, but when I tried to start a new thread it was closed immediately.

I don’t know why. I want to think it is because maybe the mods just got fed up with us. No one had any conclusive theories after all and the thread was pretty dry by the point of it being closed so maybe they just anticipated it would be the same in a new thread. That is what the rational part of me is thinking. I did try to contact the mods but I haven’t gotten a response.

I tried to contact some of the other people I had been talking with but they didn’t respond to me either, and I’m starting to realize a lot of them, formerly very active contributors, haven’t been active for weeks now.

The less rational part of me is starting to feel kind of alone and nervous. I’m the only person still active on the forums who got into it this much, it seems like. I can’t talk to anyone about it at all in real life, no one would be interested. It feels like I’ve been left alone in a room with something volatile and curious with no one to tell me what to do with it. I don’t know if I can stop poking at it, and I don’t know what it might do. So I thought I’d tell more people because probably the sinister part of this is all in my mind, and someone else will figure it out, I mean if it is a code like we were theorizing and/or if its just some weird viral marketing thing or something?

its probably benign after all.”

It was submitted as a link which went to the tumblr it is talking about.

After my friends swore up an down they hadn’t submitted me anything I tried googling the post. I thought it was probably a sort of creepypasta spam. I guessed it had probably been sent to a lot of people including the bigger horror tumblrs but in the end I came up empty.

Googling parts of the message in quotations (“like this”) on google brought up nothing. Googling the url included brought up no one talking about it. Googling just the username portion of the tumblr url brought up a lot of results but it seems like the name is pretty common so that was just another dead end. I tried to look for the forum referenced in the message but without any real info on what it was I couldn’t find it.

I should probably mention I had visited the url the message linked to. When I first got the message even thinking it was a friend prank I was curious enough to check it out. I listened to it and closed it pretty annoyed that I’d had headphones on when the sound picked up. The message had warned me about that though so it was my own fault. On a whim I ended up going back and downloading the file to see if maybe the meta data said anything about the author (and maybe prove it was someone I know playing a long game) but there was nothing there. Someone had wiped it clean. Here is the file uploaded to vocaroo if you want to check: http://vocaroo.com/i/s1OrAEwC5nIf

My blog is tiny, even if I published it no one would see it so I didn’t really think of doing that. I left it or awhile and eventually forgot about it.

But then today a new audio post from the blog showed up on my dashboard.

I’m sure most people are familiar with how tumblr works. You don’t see someone’s post on your dash unless someone you follow reblogs it, you are following the poster or tumblr promotes it on your dash (in which case there will be an icon/words on the post saying it is promoted content). This was none of those things.

the post showed up on my dash /as if I was following that blog/. I did not hit follow that time I visited. I even checked the list of people I follow and that blog is not on it. But somehow a post from it ended up on my dash. I hit play.

This one was short. It consisted of one word. The sound quality was weird. It sounded like English but also could be a similar word in French. I had thought all the messages were suppose to be in Japanese and was somehow startled. I’m from Quebec and speak both English and French. Why would it suddenly be in a language I could understand?

I went to the blog and sure enough this was the only post just like the message said. I tried to shake it off but why was it on my dash? In a language I know?

I didn’t bother asking my friends about it. The person I had most suspected before is camping this week and has no internet access. Sure it could be a queued post but how the hell would it get onto my dash? And if it was a queue post why would the previous post have been deleted?

I also don’t know what to do with it. No one reads my blog. I feel like something is really going on here but I don’t think I can figure it out by myself. i tried emailing the person who sent me this message for the millionth time but have gotten no response. So I decided to share it here. I mean it is probably nothing though, I mean if it is a code like we were theorizing and/or if its just some weird viral marketing thing or something?

its probably benign after all.

mako524.tumblr.com

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