You don’t know it, but someone has been removed from your life. They haven’t died, they haven’t moved, they have simply ceased to be from present future and history. However you still know they were there, you faintly recall broken memories of someone else there, someone who should have been there but you think you’re crazy. You go to do something, but you can’t remember what …

It was them, they wanted to talk to you.

During a wedding reception of a young couple the guests decided on a drunken game of hide and seek. It was decided that the groom was “it” and he eventually found everyone but his new bride. Eventually the man became furious and decided it wasn’t funny anymore and left her there. As weeks went by he accepted that she’d had second thoughts and went on with her life so he did the same. A few years later a cleaning lady dusted off an old trunk in the attic of the building where the reception had taken place, out of curiosity she opened it. Inside the trunk was the rotted body of the missing bride who’d apparently became locked in the trunk she’d hid in. Whether she’d suffocated or starved was unknown, but her face was frozen in a scream.

It was past ten in the evening. I thought I was the only passenger on the bus, but I heard children’s voices from behind. The children were apparently talking about a ghost story.

Child A: “…. and if you turn around, the ghost will snatch you away and carry you to the afterworld!”

I recognized the voice. I often saw these children on the same bus after work. They went to a cram school.

Child B: “Then that’s easy. All you have to do is make sure you don’t turn around.”

Child A: “Yes, but I heard you can’t help but turn around. The ghost would try all sorts of tricks on you to get you turn around.”

It was nearly the bus stop where these two usually got off, but it looked like they didn’t notice it. I thought I should warn them because I didn’t want them to go home late. So I turned around and said, “you are getting off here aren’t you?”

Child A: “See, I told you so.”

Source: Saya In Underworld

There is an old hotel that has been around for hundreds of years. If you stay in Room 6, you will find yourself in an unknown place, where exactly at 12:16 AM the power will go out and you’ll be thrust into utter darkness. If you choose to stay awake, nothing will happen beyond that. But if you so much as close your eyes and fall asleep, you will find yourself in an unimaginable pit of despair, where creatures of fathomless shapes and sizes roam. You will be trapped here for hours, until the sun comes up. It is rumored that this room is a gate into hell, and that demons use the condensed evil of the room to escape into our reality through our minds. Those who have stayed in there rarely speak of it, for even recalling the night will put them in an uncontrollable frenzy.

Every family in every town in every country on every continent has one. It’s a cabinet, not particularly odd, not out of place. The paint was peeling a bit on the corners and the knob was a bit loose. The inside smelled like dust and the paint wasn’t the same as the kitchen walls.

You hid in there once during a game of hide ‘n’ seek.

No one told you it doesn’t open back into your reality. Don’t worry, you can’t tell the difference.

But everyone misses you.

You were out of town for the weekend. When you came back to your apartment, your mailbox was stuffed full. At least 30 letters. Letters with no return address, several of them felt soggy and heavy, as though they were recently wet, or perhaps contained a liquid. All of the letters have your name and address written on them, and many of them had your name scratched all over them in red in. They don’t smell nice, they smell like rotting meat and old garbage and you’re reluctant to take them back to your room, but curiosity gets the better of you. You manage to cart them all back to your room, you dump them in your kitchenette sink because you don’t want them smelling up the rest of the apartment.

You grab one that doesn’t seem damp and isn’t covered with writing, and open it up. There’s pictures inside. Pictures of people you don’t know, with their eyes torn out, teeth missing, unhinged jaws hanging open, throats ripped out. You’re horrified and yet you can’t help but wonder what’s in the rest of the letters. You open more, and more to discover increasingly gruesome photos of dead people. Piles of bodies with limps missing, splayed open corpses on operating tables with their vital organs removed, hanged bodies that have been gutted and bled dry. Some of the soggy letters had blood and other fluids in them.

The more letters you open, the more you notice that not all of the people are strangers. Some of them were people you see at work, others people you went to high school with. By the time you get to the last few letters, the pictures are of the mutilated bodies of your close friends and family members.

Eventually you reach the last letter. You don’t want to know what’s in it, but it’s not like you have a choice now. You peel the letter open, and it’s a picture of yourself. Not dead, eyes intact, no limbs missing. It’s a picture of you entering your apartment building earlier that day, shortly before you collected your disgusting letters.

As you hear a door elsewhere in your apartment open, you black out.

If you ever find Dargaia’s nectar, you’ll probably be one of the ones who have been looking for it all their lives, and thus won’t need any instructions on what to do with it.

Just the same, it’s pretty simple, at least to start with. Make sure your affairs are in order (incase you have a bad reaction), and then? Bottoms up.

The coming months are the least pleasant part. You’ll find yourself unable to keep food down long before you’re far enough along to stop needing it. Same with sleep. The color of your blood will be off, and your veins will consequently stand out more. Expect a few ingrown body parts; little things, just fingers and ears and teeth, usually pressing up against the skin. Make sure you’re caught up on your booster shots because you’re never going in for a checkup again. Or wearing anything more revealing than a trenchcoat in public, most likely.

Eventually, a little cut on your belly will start ‘unhealing’, becoming a puss-filled wound in a few days. Over the coming week, three things will emerge from this.
The first object resembles a greasy black beechnut with maybe a tooth or two growing from it. When you’re dead someone will eventually find it and use it to make a new batch of Dargaia’s nectar. Hide it well, make things fun for future generations.

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My grandfather served in the European Theater of Operations during WWII, an experience he rarely talks much about. I’ve only managed to coax one story out of him.

He and a low-ranking officer (granddad was an enlisted man) were travelling by jeep somewhere in Belgium with a cache of much-needed ammunition. Taking a wrong turn on an unpaved road they first became lost, then began to run low on fuel. They sought to ask some locals for help, as the Belgians were highly sympathetic to the Allied effort.

They spied a small hamlet, made up of fewer than a dozen thatched huts, and began walking towards it. They were met halfway by a group of three men dressed mostly in animal skins, all of whom spoke angrily in a language neither of them understood (not French, not German, and certainly not English).

Negotiations proved futile, and one of the three drew a small rusty knife. The Lieutenant drew his .45 sidearm in return and killed the man when he rushed at them as if to attack. This act scared the other two off.

Eventually they repaired the jeep themselves and found their way back to base by the next day. A report was filed, but not much made of it. The following winter the Lieutenant was killed in an artillery barrage, making my grandfather the only known living witness to the event.

Now what’s interesting is what reminded him of the story: we were watching a documentary on the development of language, this one specifically about the Saxon tongue, which thousands of years ago developed into languages like German and English. Granddad remarked how much it sounded like the words he’d heard that day.

A few years ago I suddenly remembered about a village I once visited. It was a friendly little village I discovered by chance while travelling alone. I stayed there overnight and received a most heart-warming welcome. For some reason I don’t know, I felt an urge to go there again.

I have good memory and was pretty confident that I remembered the way to get there. Once near the village I spotted a familiar sign post from my car; which, if my memory was right, should have read “___km to __(the village’s name).” But strangely enough all there was on the sign were the words “The Big-Head O”. I had a bad feeling when I saw it but I still decided to drive on.

When I arrived at the village I found it deserted and the buildings were covered in weeds. I was deeply puzzled and was about to get off the car when I saw, about 20 metres ahead of me, something that looked like a human with a very large head looming out of the bushes.

What? What is this? While I was trying to process what was going on I saw other similar creatures coming out all around me; moreover, they started to come after me moving in a grotesque manner, with their hands lying still against their legs and their large heads swinging side to side…

I was glad I hadn’t left the car.

I let the car run backwards at lightning speed and joined the main road. Afterwards I checked my map but the location of the village I visited a few years ago and the place I went on that day were unmistakeably one and the same. However I don’t think I will dare to go there ever again.

Source: Saya In Underworld

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

The next day, you will have become One of Them. Once per day, as long as there is even a sliver of sunlight, you may point at someone and speak the word “One.” That night, he will face the same trial that you faced. If you see that person the next day, you will know that he, too, has become One of Them. If not, then do not be alarmed if you do not feel hungry the rest of the day.

There are exactly 17 people on this earth fated to kill you. If you somehow manage to avoid these 17 people during your lifetime, you are taken to a place of monumental beauty where you are stripped of all clothing and branded on the space just above your navel with a name. When you are sent back to earth, it’s your mission to kill the person branded on you.

(The database issues and the hosting switch seem to be taken care of concerning this website; and the forums are even back up!)

In Portland, Oregon in 1981, an unheard-of new arcade game appeared in several suburbs, something of a rarity at the time. This game was called “Polybius”. The game proved to be incredibly popular, to the point of addiction, and queues formed around the machines, quickly followed by clusters of visits from men in black. Rather than the usual marketing data collected by company visitors to arcade machines, they collected some unknown data, allegedly testing responses to the psychoactive machines. The players themselves suffered from a series of unpleasant side-effects — amnesia, insomnia, nightmares, night terrors, and suicide appearing as having been caused by the game in various versions of the legend. Some players stopped playing video games, while it is reported that one became an anti-gaming activist.

The images we see in the mirror are the pure incarnates of evil. They are only allowed to exist in the area reflected in the glass. To them, life is like a never-ending hell, rotting away in the same room day after day. The only refuse from this purgatory is death, and the only way for them to die, sad to say, is if YOU die. Fortunately, they are bound by a code. You are their master, and they must mirror your every movement and expression. To do otherwise would break an unbreakable law, unraveling the space-time continuum. However, there is a loophole, and it can only be triggered by you, the master. To force them into error is to free them from their contract; after you let them out of your view, you’re on your own. Know this: when you watch them, they’re watching you back. They’re watching.

And they’re thinking.

At the bottom of a 50-meter high glacier, exactly two kilometers from Antarctica, lies the frozen remains of a long-forgotten civilization. The exact location of the glacier is unknown, only that it is two kilometers from the shore of Antarctica. Upon finding said glacier, one is to approach it on the snowbank and touch the side of the ice with the palm of their hand. The important thing here is to touch it with your bare skin. If you hold your hand on the ice for 5 minutes then speak the words, “I see and believe.” you will seemingly disappear from existence, your whole life erased from memory and transcripts. What happens next, you are in a rather swanky 80s cocktail bar, but there are a few stipulations: You must live the next 50 years in this bar; you are granted 5 free drinks from the bartender, no more. If you attempt to break the quota of drinks, you are immediately executed on the spot by the rather brawny bouncers. If you manage to wait the whole 50 years, you will reappear in your original life, and granted one single wish, which you must take immediately on your return. Needless to say, very few have actually waited the 50 years.

An unpopular young med. student had been particularly annoying one day and some of her classmates decided to play a trick on her. They snuck into her room after she’d gone to bed and placed an amputated arm into bed with her. The next morning they anxiously awaited her reaction but got none. Eventually they went up to check on her and found her sitting on the bed, moaning and gurgling as she gnawed on the arm.