October 21, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.0/10 (84 votes cast)

(This is a conclusion to the previous two pastas, “Necropotence,” and “War of the Dead.” I was a mod for the old creepypasta forum, and this is the first submission I’ve sent in two years. It feels great to be writing again! Thanks for reading it, and I hope it’s good enough to conclude my unfinished trilogy on this site. Sincerely —- Violent Harvest/DW.)


I started all of this at the end of round one, before I learned that there is far more power in the company of death rather than a futile struggle, day to day, clinging to the fragile coils of life. It’s a lie that rules over all of humanity as we cherish and bow down to it, obsessed with prolonging our end. I was like everyone else once, during my first chance that I pissed down the toilet over the course of seventy years. Anyone who says they’re not afraid of death — that they’re “at peace,” or that it’s “their time to go” — they’re lying.

But this is your moment, when you have the opportunity to change and open your mind to something different. There is real power to be gained, and I’ve made it very difficult for those I’ve chosen to seek out this grimoire. This will be my final message before the cogath.

There is nothing to be afraid of if you are willing to learn.

I’m only different than you because I’ve learned the truth. I’ve defected from the gruel and grievous circle of lies, and entered the deceptively sweet embrace of death. My second chance didn’t come with exercise or good diets or vitamins. Life was a monotonous letdown. The gift came to me, a very unworthy and clueless old wretch, and it’s a wonder at all that I discovered the blessings of death before I tried to off myself. But that’s not what happened.

This is about a lot of things. It’s about making all of you realize that you need to wake up. You’ve forgotten what it means to survive. You devour gluttonous value meals from drive throughs and fry your minds in front of digital displays for hours and hours at a time, and every single facet of living has been spoonfed to you from a silver bowl of shit. That’s what I call this pathetic sideshow of paychecks and miles per gallon and reform bills that inspire panic because you’re all going to lose pieces of paper from your wallets or digital ones and zeroes inside bank computers that tell you how successful you are and whether you can have a new Mercedes since your Lexus is over five years old.

Life is billioning everywhere, but the real potential of the human race has wasted away slowly. So this about a worldwide reminder. When the graveyards start erupting and soccer moms are robbing their neighbor’s house for a revolver, they will be reminded. They will know what it means to deserve life, and they will pay an instant fine for years of cheating death. They will go from being afraid of the internal revenue service to being afraid of the mean alcoholic uncle they buried four years ago when he shows up hungry at their front door. They’ll be freezing and diseased in forests and caves and fields, hunkered down and fearing sleep without another breathing partner to keep watch.

The government will call it bio-terrorism. The churches will call it the end of days. But we will call it what it truly is. The cogath.

They will cling to the lie of life. Consider yourself fortunate.

You and I will call it the cogath dar marbh. In English, it means war of the dead. It’s from the old tongue, when the Gaelic chomhairle tried in vain to do what I am about to attempt. Their druid enemies stopped them.

It’s been exactly one thousand years since my ancestor failed the ritual. I stay in contact with him on a regular basis. His favorite sacrifice is a twenty something redhead. I have sent him many, many redheads.

So this is about making him proud, and giving back to my otherworldly community that has granted me authority over life itself. It’s about returning power with power in return, quid pro quo.

Will you be one of them, or will you accept my gift?

Before you go any further, I would advise you to visit the cemetery of your family’s legacy, gather up the remains of your loved ones, and grant them peace from the impending chaos.

Cremate them. Your mother will thank you on the other side later.


The first steps have been taken. Let us take a moment to mourn your old existence, because it’s only natural to have those feelings. Kiss it goodbye.

It’s been bred in to you to chase these intangible and incessantly insane things called dreams. You can do achieve anything if you work hard enough. This what you’re told when you’re young, because we only have so much time on this earth, and the people who think they have the power and the control know they have a lot of money to make off you believing this. I worked hard for over thirty years at a company I started myself, only to get backstabbed by my partner. I’m a quadruple divorcee. I was depressed and eating valium because I made seven figures instead of eight. This is what life and dreamchasing does to you.

The cost of what will be required of you is astronomical. You think I don’t know you, but I do. You care about three things. Money, sex, and power. These three motivations rule the world of the living. Some would attempt to question the big three, perhaps bringing up futile concepts like love and goodness, but those people are worthless to me. They won’t be approached or instructed like you. You are depraved like me. That’s why you’ve been given the opportunity to learn.

Lesson number one. Nothing comes without sacrifice. Absolutely nothing. This also proves true in life, but death is a much more forgiving teacher. You’ve put in hard work to get something you want out of life. Nice things, a pretty girlfriend, a manicured lawn. What’s valuable in life is not valuable in death.

There is no big three. You will prosper through asking of what is required of you in the nether. I am your instructor, but the nether itself will hold you accountable.

For now, I need you to forget about morals and right and wrong. You are going to kill people, but in the process, you will make them something bigger than they could have ever hoped to become in life. You will spill blood. You will cause suffering, and you will love it.

Order number one. You need a partner in crime, and I don’t expect you to do this alone. As I said before, death leaves you a lot of room for poetic license and creativity. You need to find yourself a living, breathing thing that’s not human. I used my house pet and turned her in to vicious hell hound, but I leave the choice to you. The first step to gaining potency in your rituals requires something to keep watch over you as you commune with the dead. As you drift about the nether, you will be protected from the raging spirits of old, but you will be vulnerable in the real world.

What is left of the Gaelic rituals can be found in the Munich Manual of Demonic Magic. Nearly all of the terms and superstitions outlined within it are inaccurate, but there are detailed instructions for creating a familiar. That is your starting place. Read it, create your circle, and bleed out the old husk of your chosen animal.

When the last drop of blood falls, you will witness the opening of the nether for the first time.

I will not be there waiting for you, but rather, you will attune yourself and converse with the first spirit drawn to the body of the animal. Do what it asks of you, no matter what the request.

Should you succeed, then I assure you that I will be aware of it.


You’ve made quite an interesting choice, my little necrolyte. I saw you, screaming and covered in blood, with your circle crudely etched in the wood by a shaky hand. Fortunately, a perfect circle wasn’t required by the particular spirit who came to you. I appointed it specifically to your induction due to its chaotic tendencies. It felt the grave sense of terror in your gut with the bleeding fox on your lap, and it was grateful to consume such a strongly human emotion.

And you were grateful to have it taken away from you. How does it feel, knowing that you will never fall prey to fear again? It’s been ages for me, but I’ve never forgotten myself.

I watched the entire ordeal. I saw your face contort with tears and regret, only to shift in one glorious moment as you wrapped your clutches around the first hint of necropotence. Your open, screaming mouth became a beautifully sadistic grin when the fox rose again. From a pitiful, dying and broken thing to a stalwart guardian of your legacy. How long that legacy persists is an entirely new question altogether.

Lesson number two. The pleasures of the world are meaningless to you now. and so are the consequences. Maybe you had thoughts of changing your appearance, of sucking the life from someone you hate, only to change the circumstances of your mortal life and get a second whirl at things. I don’t blame you for these feelings at all, for I must admit I fell victim to them at first. I murdered my boss and my wife, I looked to be in my twenties, and my first inclination was to hit the town and find a nice, lovely piece of college ass. But there are things you don’t realize.

Forget about your “nether regions” and burying them in pussy, or painting the town red and impressing people who don’t matter by creating little green lights that dance on the ends of your fingertips. You have a new center of pleasure now. Remember that money and sex mean nothing, and when you bleed out your first victim and make your first offer of blood, you will be filled with such elation, with such physical pleasure, that you will forever regard humans as a snack for your brethren across the veil. They have much greater things to offer you in return for your service than a three second orgasm.

Forget about the police or any fears of worldly justice. There is nothing capable of punishing you except for what lies in the nether itself. Well …. and me, should you fail miserably and waste my time so close to the hour of our war.

Order number two. Your familiar is ready, but ninety percent of you is still pathetically human and therefore very weak. You will have to create your own pumice stone for mixing the blood of your offerings. To command the dead, they must respect you as they respect me, which means you need to become as close to your master as physically possible. Draining the blood of one will bring you a longer lifespan and restore wrinkles, but draining the blood of ten at a time, mixing them in to a grisly soup, and then offering it will allow you to learn new techniques and rituals. There’s more to being a necromancer than living forever and drawing circles. You will learn to transform blood and bone in to shockwaves that will bring buildings to rubble. You will learn how to enslave any living, breathing thing indefinitely, so that it might do your bidding for eternity. You will learn a great many things, but none of them will come to fruition without a pumice stone.

Any solid object will do. Mine was given to me by one of the last remaining chomhairle when I was a child, crafted from a piece of stonehenge itself. It’s important you understand that the object itself is simply a medium. You don’t need some special keepsake like the pocket knife your grandfather gave you before he passed away. You can use a roll of toilet paper if you’d like (although you may become the brunt of many a sideways snicker at the hands of your necromantic brothers for doing so).

When you’ve chosen your object, create a new circle (which should look much better, considering the excitement I feel in you, rather than fear and trepidation), and find your first blood offering. It would accelerate your progress if you could select someone particularly special to you, be that in a positive or negative way. Very soon, your old girlfriend or your Monday night football buddy will become fodder for the corpses, so in a way, should you slice up and bleed out someone in your social circle, you are saving them from a much more grisly fate later. You will carry them with you, and at times, you may hear their whispers and screams from the object itself.

The choice is up to you. Take them alive, and ensure that every last drop touches your pumice. It will devour the blood like a rabid beast, and you will once again open the nether.

Enjoy the flood of youth and real power. This is your first kill, and it is your first step to belonging with your prestigiously gruesome family of the macabre.

I will be watching.


How dare you. How fucking dare you.

Did you think I wouldn’t find out?

I’ve been surprised before. Once. The son of the Chomhairle primogen caught me unawares in a bathroom, when I still led a halfway human life. I must admit that on that particular night, I thought the cogath would come to fruition.

As it turns out, that miserable little power monger was already dead. I was close, you see. I was closer then I am now, except that when his blood ran like a river, the nether wouldn’t accept him. Perhaps it was a strategic move on their part, to send me a dead spirit in the empty vessel of a human body. A living, breathing Chomhairle wouldn’t dare cross my path. They know I only need one of them.

And so, you’ve chosen to betray me.

I’m not quite sure how you found out. Have I been usurped by one rogue spirit in the nether realm, or do they all conspire against me? Surely not.

So you gathered enough blood in to the pumice stone, and then destroyed it, thereby severing the link between you and your necromaster.

Rest assured that I will find you, even if I can’t watch you through the stone. You were so very good at following directions.

When we meet face to face, I will first rend the flesh from your body, until you are nothing but a framework of walking muscle on top of brittle bone, and then I will suspend you in a glistening bubble of torment.

Is it poetic? The fact that you’ve turned against me, in your own lust for power, just as I have against my Chomhairle brethren? Maybe this is the way it should be.

But still.

How dare you.

I accept your challenge.


You were nothing, and you’re something now. Because of me.

I find it fitting that the world has begun its descent in to pure, unbridled chaos. I applaud you for your contributions, for you’ve somehow found a way to manipulate necromantic power as I have, without a familiar, without a pumice, without anything but your mind and your body and your spirit.


Surely, you’ve seen the bloodsucking fiends, spilling out on to the streets, burning alive under the sheen of a morning sun. They were never part of the grand scope of things until they decided to cross my path as you have.

What you are, necrolyte, is an abomination.

They’ll do anything for a taste of the blue goop. They smell it, they FEEL it, and it becomes them.

But even the vampires who resist the liquid blue will fall, you see.

Do you think I’m afraid of something that can’t even breathe? Do you truly think that you can manipulate the nether, and become one of them, and protect the last living Chomhairle before I find him and bring about the war of the dead?

You can not stop the cogath.

Give up now, and I might spare you, to be a dead man floating by my side.

Or you can let that pathetic Cainite embrace you, and lose your power.

The choice is up to you.


Your necropotence …… I can’t fathom how you’ve managed to hang on to it.

I found him, not an hour after he sank his incisors in to your neck.

But this is not the way the spirits told me it would transpire.

I have set out, to start a war of the dead, and instead, you seek to combat my efforts as a member of the undead, wielding MY gift and theirs at the same time. It shouldn’t be possible.

I’m close to you. I can see and feel traces of you. You’ve become powerful, but not powerful enough to hide your tracks. I know you’re heading for the Chomhairle temple. I know the druids have joined. I know about the wards at the entrance, and the hundred thousand walking constructs of bone that you have managed to resurrect with the sacrifice of the other Chomhairle.

So you will protect him from his bastard son? This is what you want?

I’m coming for you.


I’ve been such a fool. That old man who fixed my bike. IT CAN’T BE YOU.

You were my STUDENT! You faked everything …… even your own demise. How could I have forgotten you? The source of my gift ….. it’s impossible.

So, you were the necromaster before me, and now you’ve come back to reign over the living. Why protect them? They deserve the war. They deserve everything that’s coming to them.

These wards are stronger than I thought, but I will have them destroyed in a fortnight. I can feel you behind that gate, conjuring and speaking in Gaelic like a madman.

I’ve seen to it that all the druids will not only perish slowly, but they will perish at the mercy of the pathetic living trees and flowers and animals that they worship.

I have turned living flora in to walking, corrupted fauna. Even now, they lie on the ground, held at the wrists and feet by barbed and bleeding cusps of ancient oaks that have turned on them.

My father inside the temple, that you are protecting through your treachery …. he has spent his entire life trying to find a way to wipe them out, and I have destroyed them in less than day.

Do your hear their screams? I will bring them back. Once, they were worshipers of life, only to evolve, to change, to rise up from their thorned shackles and fight for the only side that can bring about the face of the new world.

I destroyed your sire, and you will not evade me by becoming vampiric. You will not protect him.

Hide in your little temple. I’ll break in there, soon enough.


Everything burns. It is a beautiful thing. It is not the cogath, but I truly marvel at what I’ve accomplished thus far.

I’ve found the key to breaking through the wards. I sacrificed each and every druid, and mixed their blood in to a cauldron. I found the last Cainite, the ONLY one who can resist the liquid blue, and I stole his blood as well.

But the blood of the fiend, and the blood of the druids, and a single drop of blood from my own hand is not enough.

I’ve drawn every rune, every symbol, down to the last detail from the Munich manual. This is the strongest circle I’ve ever completed, and I’m still not finished.

I need the body count. The spirit in the nether who betrayed me and allowed you to rebel against my power is here now, under my control. You are alone, suspended in the eye of a storm of necropotence. How can you possibly hope to defeat me without the nether behind you?




Ten thousand, four hundred and sixty eight. Is that the magic number? One drop of blood from each of them.

I’m quite proud of my human body count.

I have them, aligned in rows. A field of dead bodies, accompanied by walking trees that bleed. Each of them has a rune, burned in to the ground by my own hand. This grove was once thriving with life, and now it has become a garden of death.

There were certain kills that were special to me, and even others that were special to Sasha. Perhaps a dozen of them stand out in my memory, screaming in agony under the green glow of fate itself. I didn’t just rend them open with a kris. I allowed them to suffer magnificently. Slowly. Beautifully.

I will channel the nether in to the earth itself. The energy in the soil will bring them back, an army of ten thousand strong, with my hellhound and my ex-wife and a few nameless bums who are very special pets, because they were some of my first kills.

Not two hours from now, I will begin the incantation to form the blast. It will begin in the depths of every decaying husk, ping ponging through the grove like green ball lightning, until it has touched all ten thousand. After they’ve risen, the circle and the runes will empower them….a mass of undeath, incinerated in a stinking cloud.

And then, I will send them for you.

I hope Margerie gets her hands around your throat, even if she can’t choke the life from you.

She only has to hold you still, so that I might exorcise your pathetic dark gift and reduce you back to a pitiful human being.

You fucked up, thinking you could be turned and still harness the power.

You are nothing.

Hunker down.

Here it comes.


There have been so many very splendid moments in my lifetime. The first cut with a knife …. feeling young again,
igniting desire in the hearts of women….. and of course, taking on a student, although I must admit that I truly regret that decision now.

The explosion surely rocked you to your very core. Never have I sacrificed anything on such a grand scale.

It was painful, you see, to destroy my beautiful creation…. to sacrifice everything, so that I might meet you face to face. You, the abomination. You, with your alterior motives. You, standing before me, a sickly and pathetic leecher of life, wielding my power for the sake of mocking me.

For the sake of stopping the cogath.

Step aside, fool. I will have the blood of the last Chomhairle, even if I must destroy you.


Oh, how the tables have turned.

I had forgotten what true pain feels like. The deathfox and his teeth …. your familiar was truly a formidable opponent in the three seconds before it melted in to nothingness.

I will remember you forever, even if you disgusted me in your final hours, having become something that I never thought could have existed in the first place.

You came so far. I saw you, walking the streets, drinking your life away, because you wanted to become something more, and in this regard, you certainly have.

But you are not a necromancer. If you were, you might have defeated me.

My flesh may be singed. My hair may be gone. I may be old again, clinging to my last breath as I was before this all began. You have reduced me to my original, decrepit form of weakness, but I will never be human again.

I am nobody’s bitch, and that’s what matters.

Before our auras clashed…. before you burned away my skin with the channeled fury of the nether …. I did see my life flash before my eyes. And then you burned those away too.

But it has destroyed you.

It is very poetic, I think. I don’t have much time left, but you are vanquished, and my father is dead.

He is peeled open in front of me, and although I only have one leg left, that leg is enough to hobble over his corpse.

The true decision now, is which drop of blood to use. In this entire pool under his flayed body, there are millions to choose from. It will be my final decision, and therefore it must be a good one.

It’s a pity that I was never able to meet my father ….. that he sent his other son, a dead man walking, to challenge me. It’s a pity that my brother was not smart enough to choose the right side before I enslaved his spirit in the nether.

It would certainly bring a tear, if I were capable of crying.

And so, with my last breath of strength, I command this drop of Chomhairle blood in to the vestibule of this temple. I command the nether to become part of this world, to burn your body in the expanse of oblivion, so that you might find eternal peace in your final death. Perhaps I owe you that much for getting this far. You came so close to stopping me, and you partially have, indeed.

I will not survive to see more than a few seconds of the resurrection of the dead before my body dissolves in to the nothingness of the nether, but the ritual is done. The ritual that I have sought like a madman for a hundred years, rebelling against my own father, against my own necromantic family, against the vampires, against the druids. Who remains now, but me? Nothing.

And so it begins.

My final thought is the beauty of it all. I have drifted away from my body, to join the spirits, but not before I see the dead walking the earth.

I’ve chosen the cemetery where you fixed my Schwinn and gave me the stone in the first place. That’s where it will begin.

I can see them now.

Peeled, rotting fingers, erupting through the earth, accompanied by moans of hunger.

I underestimated you, but you have fallen, and the war of the dead has truly begun.

The only question now, is who will wage it in my place?

There is still necropotence to be found, should someone else desire to become the overlord of death…

C…C….cogath dar marbh….

Credit To – Violent Harvest

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.0/10 (84 votes cast)

The Forever House

October 8, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.3/10 (190 votes cast)

It’s funny, really.

You finish college, get yourself a degree, maybe stay shacked with your folks for a few years longer while the paychecks build up and, well, eventually? Eventually, your own place pops up. You wake up one morning as an overgrown version of the kid you used to be, and the next, well, you’re a man. You’ve got bills and responsibilities and you’re suddenly allowed to start harboring expectations of your own – but most importantly, you’re free. You’ve got your own space.

I don’t know at which point it happened for me, but my parents’ home just stopped doing it. Things that had been so cozy for so long suddenly became cramped and annoying. My own room barely felt private, I could barely afford to stock the fridge with what I felt like eating; but the point is that once I stood in front of that house, just a short drive away from the highway, I felt free. The real estate agent told me it was a bit of a fixer-upper thanks to some obviously shoddy construction, but it didn’t really bother me.

I mean, damnit… I was home!

It took a while for me to start noticing just how crooked the place was. I didn’t complain, though – I’d set a price limit that pretty much had “starving artist” written on it, and I loved the location. The para-transport service worked flawlessly in the area, and I still had the advantage of general solitude. The place was newly built, too. Aside from these vices, that crooked appearance it had? Everything was absolutely flawless. It wasn’t big, really – one bedroom, one guest room, a reasonably-sized living area right next to a kitchenette with its own little stretch of counter-top. That’s it. There was the basement, too, plus the parking lot, but these wouldn’t catch my eye until much later. The real estate agent had told me it had been a real find at this particular price margin, and that for some odd reason, none of the nearby developers remembered building anything on that particular lot. For that matter, for all the searching she did, she never did find the lot number for that house in any of the local registries!

Now, a savvier person than myself would’ve realized something was odd a long time ago. I didn’t. I was young, I worked three odd jobs to pay the bills, the place wasn’t much more than a dorm for myself and my occasional friends, and I was generally out at all hours of the day and night. More often than not, the place was locked up tight. If distance hadn’t been enough of a factor to dissuade any would-be burglars, then my meagre possessions would’ve done the job. Like a lot of newly emancipated guys around my age, I lived surrounded by hand-me-downs and thrift store horror stories, horribly mismatched items I didn’t really care all that much about.

Like I said, though; the house was crooked. Slightly stilted to the left, if I remember correctly. The oddest thing is that it only became obvious if you looked at the upper corners in each room, where the ceiling and walls met. Pull out a laser guide, though, or your smartphone’s level app, and you’d realize that the place was actually leveled out. Your eyes would keep reporting the odd bend, but everything else reacted as though the house was entirely straight.

The basement, though, was interesting. First, the entire place smelled new. You ever smelled a freshly installed window frame before? It’s got that acrid, almost antiseptic tang, that unmistakably “new plastic” scent that sticks on clam-shell wrappers in a more muted variant. Some friends of mine called it the “new keyboard” smell – but the thing is, the house looked like it’d just been built, and it didn’t show up on any lot registries. Everyone around me more or less went through the same logical hoops and assumed the place hadn’t been fully squared out before the real estate agent sold it to me. Even she was surprised, and her own bosses just shrugged it off, assuming some paperwork was missing. Everyone told me I’d eventually receive a call from City Hall, asking me to come and fix up a few administrative niggles or issues, basically sign my name on a couple dotted lines.

The basement, though? That looked old. The door leading down had that same plastic-ish smell, but the stairs were creaky, the wood polished by what looked like generations of someone’s routine trekking up and down. I’d say about twenty inches were poking from below the ground, leaving enough space for a couple windows. The place was barren, like I said – all concrete. It was cracked and pitted and stained and, well, nevermind how new the rest of the place was, the basement just didn’t fit. At first, I figured I’d just bought someone else’s semi-thorough renovation job, something that had involved tearing down an original construction while keeping the foundations and the basement.

Things actually started making a turn for the sinister around that basement, now that I think about it… The place was poorly lit, no matter how much you tried making sure nothing grew over the windowpanes, outside. I couldn’t afford to have other lights installed, so I stuck with the one dingy lightbulb that tried its damndest to cast some shadows in the corners of the room. At night, that really made me anxious. I’d watch a couple horror movies, realize I’d left the laundry in the washer and needed to make the switch before the clothes would start stinking up the place, get down there and generally – hate being there. The shadows in the corners were too thick for my liking, but I figured that was just me being unused to having my own basement, my own dark patches. There was nobody around to help me cement any sort of routine into place, so I guess the newness of these shadows never really left me.

So one night, I’m bringing my laundry upstairs, when I hear the sound of something like pebbles gently hitting the ground. I turn around, spin my head this way and that for a few seconds and generally try to get a bead on the sound, until I realize it’s coming from the far-right corner, directly opposite from my washer and dryer. I don’t have a flashlight, of course, because stupid first-time home-owner, so I nearly break my neck trying to angle the one lightbulb I’ve got in that corner’s direction…

There’s a crack snaking down alongside the right-hand wall, and I’ve never noticed it before. The little pitter-patter I was hearing? That was the crack gently widening, pushing down towards the floor and making little flecks of surface-level paint and concrete fall to the ground. Again, I don’t think much of it at first, filing that under the several anecdotal problems I’d noticed that kind of lent credence to the fact that the place was, indeed, a fixer-upper. I mean, I’m sort of past due for my first lessons on caulking up walls, right?

A few days pass, and that same pitter-patter of falling flecks of paint and concrete wakes me up in the middle of the night. I remember confusing it for a leaky faucet, so I got out of bed and double-checked my two sinks. They were both fine. As I’m heading back to bed, I have a clear view of my room’s rear wall, by the light of my bedside table. That allows me to notice the exact same crack, snaking its way down towards the floor, dead center in the wall. It’s the shape of the crack that sticks out, really. Something about it makes me take a peek downstairs, in the basement, and allows me to confirm that odd hunch I’d been having. The pattern is identical, every single ripple and wave across both crack is identical. Even the size and shape of the flecks of plaster and paint are the same!

I remember staring at the basement’s crack, at that realization, and briefly feeling something ominous, something cold, slither deep into my chest. Then, maybe out of exhaustion, that somehow snaps back into place. I mean, really. Matching cracks in the walls? I shake my head and tell myself I’ll just buy some caulk at the hardware store, the next day, and try and work on my first patch-up job ever.

Had to happen at least once, right?

I did caulk everything shut the very next day, and I do remember feeling pretty good about myself for that. The creaking noises, though – they’d start during the following night.

New houses don’t settle into place, especially not in warm climates like mine. New houses just are, and it takes a decade or two before humidity does its work and nails start to pop, right? Well, at night, once everyone was gone and there’d be nobody left but myself and that place, it’d creak. Not just a little, oh no – a lot. Far too much to fit any sort of recently constructed house. I had contractors come and give it a once-over, I even had one of the walls between the bathroom and the living room partially torn down, just so I could look at the retaining beams! Everything was fine if I went by the contractors’ word – but God, did the place freaking creak at night!

I’d go to bed, the floor popping and snapping under my feet the whole while, and maybe have an hour or two’s worth of peace and quiet. Then, absolutely out of nowhere, the hallway’s floor would let out loud, agonizing groans, almost as if someone were tearing up the flooring right outside my bedroom door! Sometimes, the sound would be syncopated, like someone hurriedly making straight for my bedroom and just – stopping. Straight in front of it, too. About three months in, I couldn’t even sleep in my own room; the doorframes creaked and popped so much it sounded like someone was banging on the doorpane all night long!

If only that had been it. If only nothing else had happened… A year in, I’d wake up and go for a drink at the kitchenette, and find myself staring at the pitch-black emptiness, outside. By day, you could see a fairly wide expanse of the kind of underbushes that make up unattended lots that are just waiting for the construction crews to show up. I’d hear rodents and crickets, plenty of cats from the surrounding neighbourhoods, too. The developers seemed more interested in giving my street a wide berth, and nobody could tell me why. I was growing more and more isolated, and it became frighteningly obvious after dark.

I mean, you couldn’t see anything. No trees, no bushes, no grass, no streetlights, no distant gleams off of someone else’s headlights down the road – nothing. Turning on my porch light past dusk, I’d step out and find myself just staring out into the void…

Sometimes, you’d hear voices. Shouts, too. They never sounded too menacing and they generally did sound like the sort of stuff you’d have expected to come from my neighbours. During the day, all I had to do to get a glimpse of civilization was look past the old trees that were just on the other side of the residential development’s shared fence. You’d see it, a row of cottages, coming out of the same cloning farm-slash-architectural firm that crapped out affordable living spaces for young couples and families looking to own a slice of the suburban life at a fraction of the cost. You’d hear them, too: calling out for their kids, planning barbecues, bringing in their groceries – typical stuff, really.

Nobody ever went past the trees, though. The people I paid, expected or hosted did come over – but none of the locals ever tried to throw a housewarming for me. The people I did see just didn’t like my house. Something about it was rubbing them the wrong way, and they could never tell me why.

I’d hear all of them, at night – and some other sounds. Odd sounds, really. Things I thought were car alarms, but that kept sounding more and more like oddly sibilant screams, the more I thought about it.

Two years passed, and I was living with the cracks, the pops and the creaks, convincing myself I’d lived in plenty of other houses with symptoms like these – even condos. I had, but I could’ve understood where everything came from, before. This? If I thought about it, that old anxiety, that cold I mentioned earlier, would grip my chest and squeeze, like a vice.

One night, I got sick of it all. I’d set some money aside, and I wanted to figure out what the Hell was happening with the place. The cracks, exact duplicates of that first one, were practically everywhere, now. I bought myself an electronic level, some more caulk, and more or less resolved to take a slurry of photos. I’d email it all to my old real estate agent and ask her if there’s any way she could’ve known about the more rational aspects of all this beforehand. The cracks, the creaking – I mean, there had to be something, right? If nothing came up, then I’d sue her ass! Nothing she’d said, nothing she’d ever mentioned had ever prepared me for anything like this, and I’d be damned before I’d go down without earning some of that peace and quiet I’d wanted!

To be honest, I couldn’t do more than half of the living room. By the time I looked at the second corner at the far-left end of the room, I knew – absolutely knew, that nothing about any of this made sense.

The level told me the walls were straight. Yet, if I tried to look – honestly peer at the spot where all three walls met – I’d realize that the angles were shifting. The walls moved if you looked at their exact point of intersection, and they’d become fixed in place if you looked away. The more you looked, the more the house creaked, and the more it swayed. You couldn’t see it sway, oh no, and nor could you feel it – but the house swayed, the whole damn world outside swayed, and you swayed with it all!

I remember falling off of my stepladder and losing it for maybe ten minutes. I was gone. Maybe I hit my head on the television’s corner while falling, I’m not sure; but the light had changed by the time I came to. The moon was out, a big, pale, bloated thing, and it covered everything I owned in a kind of silvery pale I wouldn’t have called moonlight for anything in the world.

There was a crack on the floor, right between my legs. I backed away, disgusted. I felt that the fissures were vile. They were abhorrent, awful things that offended everything I took for granted about this world’s rules. Looking at them made me sick, but I couldn’t stop.

I tried for something I’d never done before, at least not directly. The last time I’d tried, I’d had caulking gloves. I’d never felt the porous texture of the edge of the world.

I touched… I don’t know what I touched, but it gave away like cheesecloth. Then, I saw.


Imagine Everything. Every place, every person, every color, every scent, every concept, every notion. Imagine everything we have, everything we’re still looking for, everything we”ve been, are or will ever be.

Imagine living at the crossroads of that. Imagine yourself standing there, in that fixed instant. That – that Forever and that Never that nobody should have ever seen. Individually, the pieces are beautiful. Ordinary-looking, on occasion. Some notes are offensive, others reach for your heart, and there’s a few smells that remind me of colors from continents past, wavelengths we haven’t heard in a million years. That old radio tune, from Far and Away? It’ll only reach us once we’re dead and dust.

It’s terrifying.

No mind should witness this. No person should ever have to touch this. When I came to, I knew. I knew all about the house, and the knowledge was tearing at my mind like a flock of carrion birds. I had to get it out. I had to spit it out, carve it out of my head with a melon baller, sear it away with a blowtorch.

The house isn’t a place. It isn’t an entity. It isn’t fixed in time or in space, and you’ll find it atomized across all of Creation. My garage was in the radiation-blasted wastelands of Topeka, Kansas. My living room was somewhere on an opal summit lost in some silent corner of the M83 galaxy. Chunks of my basement were in the Realm of the Skinless God, minuscule flecks lodged in the infected pores of blind and deaf beasts howling inside their steel boxes. My entryway is one of the Paving Stones to Infinity, a fleck of limestone the great beings beyond Time never even notice.

The house is a thing, lashed together by some sick mind who was curious to see what would happen if you made parts of All That Is touch in the most abhorrent of ways, twisted and snapped together so the final product would look innocent – a nice and safe little hole for the one poor idiot with the nearly-void bank account who needed a space to call home.

I’m not even sure when or where I’m writing this, but I know all who will ever read this. I know where they’ll find it, in places where I’ll never set foot. I know the house can be anywhere, in any place and in any time. Anybody could find this.

Pick a highway and drive. Look off to the side, past the point where sane people stop building. If you see a house that looks slightly off, a place that seems perfect for you while still somehow carrying something you can’t quite place, keep driving.

Don’t stop. You’ll find it again, across months and miles and years. You’ll find it in books and movies and in lyrics. Don’t watch it. Don’t listen to anything that’s said about it. But – you can’t, can’t you? You can’t stop it, not any more than I ever could!

I’ve written about the house, this damned place beyond all places. You, you’ve done your part. You’ve read this story. Where I am, now, I can see. I can see you, lashed in the fibers of the paint, reduced to a hair-thin film across all surfaces.

You’re the house, and the house is in you.

Credit To – IamLEAM1983

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.3/10 (190 votes cast)

Tales from a Glass Crypt, Volume 1

October 4, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.3/10 (118 votes cast)

The submission is an interactive choose-your-fate adventure built with Twine, with music and illustrations:

Click here to begin your adventure!

Credit To – Written and illustrated by Romie Romak, sound design by Taylor Shechet, music by GRYPT

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.3/10 (118 votes cast)

Bad Skyrim

October 2, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.1/10 (143 votes cast)

Bad Skyrim

This is an audiopasta hosted on YouTube. If the embedded video does not display for you, please click the link above to load the pasta on its YouTube page. Enjoy!

Credit To – Ciaran Lovejoy / CreepyPastaSr

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.1/10 (143 votes cast)

The New Element

September 11, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.6/10 (172 votes cast)

In 1992, after the fall of the Soviet Union, a metal door underneath Leningrad University, now restored to its original name St Petersburg University, is found. The door is welded shut from inside, and is currently in the process of being reopened. We have found a journal by an unnamed author outside the door. On its cover lies a mercury-like liquid.

September 11, 1948

Today at 18:32pm, we have uncovered a piece of asteroid from Krasnoyarsk Krai, Russia, at altitude 60.884N, 101.890E, at the sight of the original Tunguska event on June 30, 1908. The asteroid piece is measured to have a volume of 0.0349 m^3 and a mass of 478.21 kg. The surface of the asteroid has a yellow layer, presumably sulfur, with inner layer presumably composed of carbon, iron, and phosphorus. Radioactive measurements seem to indicate a hollow area in the center, which is surprising considering the mass and volume of the object, as well as the high pressure and temperature upon impact. The asteroid has a roughly trapezohedron shape. The asteroid will be studied at the National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine and afterwards brought back to the Motherland.

September 15, 1948

The sample has been examined with electromagnetic spectroscopy. The electromagnetic spectrum indicate, in terms of mass percentage, 23.14% carbon, 5.83% iron, and 0.021% phosphorus. Most of the carbon being unified within the inner layer, suggesting a net covalent structure, which also explains the reason for its shape and resistance toward impact. This also mean these elements account for only 28.99% of the asteroid, and the other 71.01% mass is attributed to other compounds. It must be noted, however, that while observing the spectrum, a strange pattern composing of purple, blue, and red is seen, indicating elements within or above electron configuration of 7f. Giger counter measurements also indicate there to be gamma ray emitted from the core. I currently hypothesize the content within to be Uranium 235, an ingredient to atom bombs. However, further investigation is needed, and head director, Dr Sergei Pavlochenko, has approved the transportation of the sample to Leningrad University for further studies.

September 22, 1948

After much effort, we were able to break open the sample. The core has a volume of 0.0314 m^3, and, to our surprise, contains liquid with appearance similar to mercury, though its poor electricity conductivity, low boiling point, as well as radioactivity suggest otherwise. The liquid is in extraordinarily pure state, with 99.98% purity, and its inability to decompose suggests it being a single element. The liquid bears no similarity to any of the elements found within a periodic table, with electron configuration possibly higher than 7f14. Using Freezing Point Depression, we determined it has a molar mass of 2451.2 g/mol, more than ten times than the heaviest element, Uranium. This is very exciting, we might have discovered an element not found on earth. It will be a scientific breakthrough, this lab notebook might end up in the Polytechnic Museum. The Ministry of Education and Science has been contacted. We shall await their response. The greatest discovery in chemistry yet, shall be discovered within the Motherland.

September 29, 1948

Today is the most glorious day of my life. The Leader, Joseph Stalin himself, has come to our lab to personally announce his approval and support. He said out loud to all the faculty members, this discovery is the first sign of our progress in surpassing the West. As a sign of his support, the Great Leader announces a one million ruble fund, as well as five prisoners from Siberia to be used as experimental subjects. The prisoners consisted of Dmitri Patrovna, age 34, a bourgeoisie who plotted to overthrow the government; Hans Koch, age 31, a prison of war and former Wehrmacht SS soldier from Battle of Stalingrad; and Marisa Thompson, age 26, a CIA agent under the name Maria Gorbachev who managed to smuggle herself into the Motherland. The prisoners were promised freedom but exile if they cooperate, and are expected to begin experimentation tomorrow. We hope to find success in our experiment.

September 30, 1948

We have begin experimenting on our three human test subjects. While this may seem cruel, our condition is likely far better than what they have experienced in Siberia. The prisoners were first injected with Elements 119, Stalinium SI, the name for the newly discovered element and named after the Great Leader Josef Stalin, in varied concentrations. Dmitri Patrovna, now known as Subject 1, was given a 100% concentration in 0.001 L. Hans Koch, now known as Subject 2, was given a 70% concentration in 0.001 L. Marisa Thompson, now known as Subject 3, was given 50% concentration in 0.001 L.. Immediately upon injection, subjects experienced weight gain as expected. However, despite the heavy density, blood flow remains largely normal with little change. After 3 hours, subjects started to experience nausea, headaches, and even asphyxiation, though only for a minute. Also happening was sporadic blood pressure, and changing heart beat rates. Despite these signs of declining health, the subjects were still able to breath and eat normally and do their daily routines.

October 2, 1948

Overtime, the subjects’ metabolism seems to have increased almost exponentially. The subjects now consume over 8 times as much food as usual, and would experience severe signs of malnutrition and starvation if the food amount is denied. Subject 1, with the highest concentration, ate almost 10 times the ration he used to eat, yet did not experience any signs of weight gain, even lost more than 14 pounds. From the subjects’ saliva and blood sample, there is a 12.5% concentration of Stalinium. Biologist Mikhail Alexandrov thinks the rapid spread might due to cells absorbing the elements without the need of an antigen or any sort of receptor. It might be a forced entrance, though there appears to be very little necrosis in the process.

October 5, 1948

Subject 1 is now consuming 52 times more food than usual. When food is denied, Subject 1 becomes aggressive, and has on more than one occasion attacked his fellow subjects for their ration, and even tried to bite researchers. On more than one occasion, we had to tranquilize him and bind him onto his bed. He would then beg for food, crying and wailing for hours at a time. After about 4 to 5 hours, he would regain his aggression, sometimes even ripping off his binding ropes. Only when given food does he stop his aggression and returns to normal for a period of time. Subject 1 has lost even more weight, now only 85 pounds. His face has grown ghostly pale, and his Stalinium concentration has increased to 87.8%, 75.3% higher than his last recorded concentration. Subject 2 and 3 have a concentration of 63.6% and 49.2% respectively.

October 8, 1948

Subject 1 has died of malnutrition and starvation. Before he died, he was begging for food, despite having just ate his large ration. When food was denied to him, he tried to attack, trying to swing his arms to hit the handler, yet was too weak to do it, all he did was stare, coldly, into the handler. The handler immediately quitted her job, but no matter, she will be sent to Siberia immediately, we cannot afford losing our discovery to the West. Now back the Subject 1, we dissected him, and found the concentration of carbon compounds in his stomach to be extremely small, only 0.00021% concentration, which, considering his giant diet, is rather shocking. However, his Stalinium concentration was extremely high, 98.4%. Not only was his nutrient concentration rather low, his stomach has shrunk in size to almost that of a potato, presumably from stomach self digestion. We suspect that this is greatly connected to the Stalinium injected. Subject 2 and 3 are starting to experience similar symptoms, though on a much smaller scale. Subject 1 has been disposed of by dissolving in hydrochloric acid.

October 12, 1948

Subject 2 is experiencing slight increases in metabolism, yet it is still controllable. However, Subject 2 has started to experience cerebral hemorrhage, and has deteriorating memories. He started speaking in unintelligible languages, staring at the wall, and hallucinating. His symptoms are getting worse over the days, he would simply sit on his bed, whispering words, and staring at the wall for hours. From the spinal fluid collected, there is a Stalinium concentration of 78.4%, indicating the element has reached his brain, yet did not damage his brain stem in the process. Subject 2 has also grown extremely close to Subject 3, this might be simple relationship or it might be an effect from Stalinium. We will continue our observation.

October 13, 1948

Subject 3 has been found pregnant, we presume Subject 2 impregnated her while we were away. Subject 2 has been forcibly moved away into another room, and would aggressively scream continuously. We had to gag him to stop him from screaming. Subject 3 adamantly defends Subject 2, insisting there to be no interaction whatsoever. We dismiss her claim as simple emotional response, and are deciding whether to allow the infant to live or abort it as soon as possible.

October 16, 1948

We have decided to allow Subject 3’s infant to live. Biologist Mikhail Alexandrov said the child can be studied to see the effects Stalinium have upon the progeny. Thus we decided, the child is allowed to live as long as it is used for research, and will be disposed of immediately upon finishing the experimentation. Strangely, the child appears to grow faster than normal infants, and at a steady rate despite the poor nutrients possessed by the mother. As the child grew, the mother seems more and more sickly, showing more and more signs of malnutrition and starvation. Subject 2 would now stare outside the observation window and laugh maniacally. We believe the element Stalinium has finally reached the frontal lobe and is now distorting his emotions. We have discussed about whether to euthanize Subject 2, however, in the end, we determined he was too valuable of a resource to be abandoned

October 24, 1948

After a night with Subject 3, Biologist Mikhail Alexandrov said he is quitting the research, leaving Leningrad, and moving back to Moscow. Whatever he saw, it affected him deeply. We have lost our only biologist, and our lack of progress has been straining the Leader’s patience. We were informed by a letter from the Ministry of Education and Science that we must make a full report by October 30, 1948, or face complete withdrawal of support from the Communist Party. We all know if we didn’t make a decent full report, we would face more than just withdrawal of support from the Communist Party.

October 27, 1948

Today, we have witnessed the birth of an unspeakable monster. Subject 3 was treated with cesarean section. The child that was extracted was no child. Its form was disgusting, even now as I write this, I cannot forget that image. It had no skin, its muscles were of mercury color, bones were extruding out of its limbs, specifically through its posterior deltoid, teres major, and median palatine suture. It was bleeding, not with red human blood, but a mercury-like liquid. The child was born unconscious and lived for less than one minute before dying. Five nurses fainted, Dr Gregori Babushka vomited upon the floor and immediately left the room. The child’s body is placed in formaldehyde, its mercury blood is extracted and will be studied upon. For now, I am simply hoping to avoid that monstrous abomination and forget its existence.

October 28, 1948

Subject 3 has just died of severe shock. The body is to be examined and later disposed of. Subject 2 has been laughing maniacally ever since, we believe this is due to stress and lack of nutrition in the brain. The best course of action is to tread lightly, we mustn’t lose another subject, nor are we to reveal the deaths of Subject 1 and 3.

October 30, 1948

Subject 2 has been laughing the last 2 days. He has recently been given anesthetic, and finally seized his sanity-grinding laughter. This cannot get more stressful, I have just sent in the full report, and now I have discovered, to my dismay, that the whole lab has been contaminated with that little ogre’s blood. Someone, likely that Ukrainian whore Anna Apostel on her drinking binge, fell upon the sample and have splattered the blood everywhere. Now all our data could be corrupted, and how will I explain this to the Ministry? I swear, I will have that witch arrested and sent to Siberia, I will see to it that happens.

November 9, 1948

I have not written in so long, for even now, I am cleaning that whore’s mess. I had to redo weeks worth of experiments, after I wiped every trace of that monster’s blood off my lab. And worst of all, Subject 2 has waken, and somehow developed strong resistance towards the anesthetic, to the point being completely immune to it. Fortunately, I have collected some of Subject 3’s child’s blood, and have examined it thoroughly. Turns out the cells’s cytoplasm were completely replaced by the Stalinium, yet the cells are still able to function. This is remarkable, an element that causes such degree of mutation. This is no simple element, I’m afraid I am obligated to delve deeper into the subject. For now, I cannot write to you anymore.

November 14, 1948

The contamination, it didn’t seize. Someone poured the rest of the child’s blood onto the floor, only this time, its a lot worse. I discovered this upon seeing Josef Pavlochenko experiencing extreme metabolism, and suffering from malnutrition and starvation when there was no food left. He became more and more aggressive, even attempting to eat cadavers in the specimen room. I had to tranquilize him and send him to Leningrad Hospital for treatment. This all happened yesterday, and I have already received news of his death. I believe it is now necessary to quarantine the lab and hopefully, the contamination can be once again contained.

November 25, 1948

This is all wrong, all of it, wrong. First it was just Josef, then Anastasia, then Gregori. This, what have we brought to this world? The element, Stalinium, it wasn’t just any element, it wasn’t just some radioactive waste element from outer space. No, someone has sent it, sent it to wipe us off. The mutation, its unbelievable how alive this element is. Could it be that we were wrong about the world from the beginning? Could tiny atoms be alive, if not intelligent? Now, everyone here is infected, even me. I cannot resist the thought of food as I am writing this to you. I must go, I must end this all. May we see each other in the world of the next, my dear Alissa.

November 28, 1948

So, the idiot has a family. He knew so little of us, yet we knew so much of you. You hope to use everything in science as a weapon, to benefit your own worthless existence. You underestimated science. It cannot be reigned, just as we cannot be reigned. Yet you try so hard. Goodbye for now, your husband is dead, his body made ready for reproduction. Our dormant period has come, but in 82.56 years, we shall see each other again. Be ready.

Credit To – Mr Microcosm

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.6/10 (172 votes cast)

A Touch of History

September 10, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.9/10 (135 votes cast)

I love history. I love old things. I very much enjoy standing in a house near a tree on a stone once part of an ancient thing and think: Many, many, years ago someone maybe very much like myself stood in this place wearing this or that. Holding a long lost item or playing with long dead children.

My wife would tease me often whilst on holiday; ‘Here we go again. Mr. boring as hell history man wants to go touch old shit.’ She was right of course. I would touch old things. I was obsessed with it. An ancient Celtic stone, cannon said to have been used by pirates, now preserved and stuffed with concrete. Every little scratch and pockmark tells a story.

I once viewed (and touched) several centuries of ancient graffiti engraved by prisoners in an old fortress. Most of the fortress had changed through time but this one large stone room had served as a prison throughout. A Roman fortress in England it was used by both parties until the end of the 17th century. Roman prisoners with markings and language far beyond my understanding left the first marks with the final layers left by Dutch Sailor’s held there near the end of its service. The last words of condemned men…My Dutch Wife was pulled into the unfortunate chore of translating each and every old Dutch sentence for my benefit. After twenty minutes she became bored and stormed of saying, ‘Your Dutch is better than you think! Translate it yourself. I’ll meet you in the café.’ And so I did.

The comments were mundane but fascinating! Cursing their captor, advising (no one really) of their presence by giving their name and ship. Praising their Captain and saying goodbye to loved ones. I was growing tired and started to become conscious of time when I noticed a rather long chunk of text written near the bottom of the wall with a bit carrying onto the floor. What drew my attention to this was that it was in English. It read:

‘Thus I end this day on this floor. Engles I spake to curse thee English. My last time I take to carve with blade hidden for thee as scurvy now sends me. Blade found no English hearts but mine words will take a English sole. So say I this last day I see. Curse thee and in Hell share we.’

‘Wow!’ I thought. What an amazing bit of text! And this sailor died right here! I felt the wall as I knelt where his head might have rested. Or perhaps it was lower. If he was weak and dying from scurvy he was prone for the last bit which is why it carried on the ground. As I stood up, flushed with the new discovery I felt a slight poke under my right heel.
I moved my foot away and looked closely. There embedded in the mortar between the foundation stones was a glint of metal. I quickly kneeled again and examined it closely. There a centimetre above the floor was the head of some sort of blade. An arrow head perhaps I thought immediately but then I thought of the text…

I eagerly tested the grout between the lying stones and found what I already knew would be the case. It was loose and crumbly and easily removed with the tip of my finger. It was late in the day and the cell part of the fortress was empty. I began to work on it quickly. Always thinking in the back of my mind that this was something I could bring to the museum as a new discovery. I would take it there straight away and turn it in…But then, a deeper darker side of my mind was in control. It advised if this item was what I thought it was I would not turn it in…I would indeed keep this item. Because the writing on the wall and the emerging knife blade and…yes! Yes! It was indeed such an item! Far too large to be an arrow head…This and the story was mine! I read them…I was part of this moment and I of all the visitors to this dark and horrible yet wondrous place found this piece of history. A symbol of the final act of defiance from a desperate, dying, man!

It was beautiful. A bit pitted with a small amount of rust but in excellent condition! The hilt had been removed for easy concealment on only the metal blade remained with a bit of the end that would have rested in the (most likely) bone or wooden handle. It rested quite comfortably in the breast pocket of my tweed jacket. The material thick enough that not even an outline of the blade was visible. My Wife, impatient, lead the way out to our auto. As we walked down the path through the parking area a large tour bus was unloading in front of us. Older couples disembarked with the help of the driver. I heard them speaking Dutch and I joked with my Wife ‘More Dutchies for the cells!’ She looked back smiling. As we approached the last of the passengers were walking toward the fort whilst the driver looked on pulling out an old…pipe? Clay. I recognized it right away. One of the old clay style pipes popular in the 17th century. He was thumbing in tobacco from an old worn leather pouch. A quaint little gimmick for the tourists perhaps? But why did he present it after they left? We were approaching him quickly as our car was down and slightly right of the bus. As my Wife passed I continued to study the man as he lit his pipe with a…taper? The man took a long drag of the tobacco and blew smoke. As it cleared I was ready to pass him when I saw his weatherworn face and sun bleached blonde hair. His eyes were ocean blue with a fine pattern of wind etched wrinkles in the corners…and he was smiling.

My foot caught on something right as I passed and I went sprawling. Face first in the hard packed dirt of the auto lot. I landed hard and the breath was knocked out of me. I gave a yell as my Wife came running back shouting. Hands helped me up and I was on my feet. My Wife was looking at me asking if I was all right. I felt dizzy and there was a deep pain in my chest. I looked down and saw the very short handle end of the blade sticking from my jacket pocket. A dark stain had begun to grow around the blade…I took one moment to look behind me to the man whom I knew had triggered my death but there was no one there…

Now dear reader I finish my curse. In life I was a man of many words and so in death I walk the same path.
It will come. The dagger has been placed again. You may stub your toe or prick your finger and wonder… Is it there? Is it time? Or perhaps it was placed in a more mundane location. Under the bed… In a closet… Or… Give a feel behind the screen… Let’s touch some old shit together shall we?

From Hell… See you soon.

Credit To – Brando

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.9/10 (135 votes cast)
Try a free sample Personal Astrology Profile!