Journal Found within the Woods

September 20, 2012 at 4:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 4.3/10 (98 votes cast)

Extracted from the personal notebook of Detective Charles E. Willows, 1891-1940

Of what has become of Frank Elwood or where he has vanished to; none can rightfully say. When the townsfolk of Portland were questioned extensively by authorities; only a handful of the more rustic country folk could say they had spied him traveling the old dirt roads to Hopps Hill in the eve of Good Friday. Their initial investigating to the shunned old hill hidden by thick forest growth was only met with the morbid discovery of small pools of blood; foul odour in green, brown, black, yellow, and purple spatters of tar like liquid, with trace scraps of clothing found among those monolith slabs of dark antiquity. Further investigation of nearby locals provided the discovery of a medium sized pad-locked cylinder jammed against a rock in Dragon’s River before it meets with Salamander Bog; to which it must have ventured down from the hill whence the river’s mouth flows. Upon prying it open with a spade, they found the most material ‘evidence’ to the fate of the young New Englander.

Among its chief bulk of contents were a charred hand woven skin-bound book whose characters had been damaged by age but clearly those of the Irish language; a pair of spy glasses, the leather bound portfolio of notes and report’s badge branding the name Robert B. Loch who disappeared in 1891, and the commonplace journal of Frank Elwood. Yet the most curious find came when all of these contents had been removed, for in the bottom of that cylinder lay a strange jack-shaped black stone the size of a large rat; in which strange characters were carved and dyed a luminous red by some unknown means. It was agreed upon by the investigators to send it to the famed Massachusetts University of the occult in that witch haunted old city where men of science and scholars alike could study it; had not a young officer of Welsh blood seen the stone, which had stirred him to anarchist action in deposing it into the bottomless depths of Back Cove. Upon being detained and questioned thoroughly for the reason for his insane action of disposing of crucial evidence; the young officer could only vow on his own soul that he had forever rid the world of a horror that would be set loose had it remained in the realms of mankind.

One must bear in mind that all recorded in Frank Elwood’s commonplace journal may be an imaginative spectacular hoax. For he may have known of the local hidden legends of the old grotesque and unorthodox Coven of the Black Goat; despite his claims in the journal as only knowing of trickled whispers of the supposed witch cults survival while in Vermont the year prior. Nor was he ever truly mentally sound after his experience in the witch-house near his university when he was still a student; as the dwellings speculation of having unnatural beings had been confirmed. His disappearance may merely be the catalyst boon for the tourism and industrial growth of Maine’s forgotten countryside.

There are still those who believe the journal should be taken at its face value and even though highly irrational; take Elwood’s account as truth. Correlating the found evidence with all the journal has to offer allowed for such a solid grounding of beliefs. It may have been by such gossip among the early investigators of Elwood’s disappearance that the young officer moved to his radical extremes upon seeing the stone. Then, what is the true fate of Frank Elwood? The facts and the fantastic become blurred the longer Elwood remains lost.

It is between the schools of reality and fiction one must discern in pondering. The tangible evidence has been made clear and with a calculating mind may the mystery be merely an answer. To which, the journal can be brought into question. Now, studying the journals contents closely, listlessly, and at our leisure; the macabre chain of events can be surmised by their chief actor.

Young Elwood had come to Maine in the late autumn of 1931, taking a cozy dwelling of a small Georgina cottage off Baxter Woods. With a gentle smile did he greet the majority of townspeople he saw while passing from train to motor car; waving ever so often. His coming was made wide-spread by the local papers; for he was to be chief land surveyor for Bangor’s pulp and paper branch in the town. Some of the faces of the people seemed to quiver in an odd way when his eyes glanced at them; as if trying to convey some horror through expression. It was behind his own dark emerald irises that he had concealed the truth of why had had come to the town.

Merely was the proposal of the job his excuse to come to the region from his settlement in Vermont. His despair had reached the deserted countryside where he had lived in the spring month of April; when he had gotten the letter from his one-time Landlord Dombrowski. Dombrowski was a man who spared no detail and it was here that Elwood learned of the horrific discovery of the human and inhuman bones discovered in the demolished witch-house he had stayed just years ago; sending him into utter dread. The waxing and waning months of summer did little to clear it from his mind; as the domed hills that pictured his landscapes of the region only filled him with loathing half-real fears when he had tried to grasp truth from the native Pennacook Indian tales. Frantic desperation to leave the state had found him the opportunity in Maine and with Dombrowski’s relative whom owned a cottage there; he had found his escape. Of why he did not flee the regions of New England in itself; he attests in writing that its aesthetic natural beauty and not its morbid legends is the only reason he can ever truly consider it his home.

This relative, one Felix Dombrowski, had given him the cottage for a cheap rent; as he admitted it lack most proper furnishing and there was an odd pungent odour about the room which he could not explain. As Elwood navigated the room; he found the odors source to be on the large Oriental rug that lay on the floor. Removing the rug, under it was nothing more the utter putrid green slim-like water that had sprung from a hole in a floorboard. Burning the rug and plastered the floor with Felix’s help; the room soon lost its odour as Elwood had bought a few chairs and other sundry objects to fill the blank canvas the room had been; acquiring his books and bookshelf sent to him from his parent’s home in Road Island.

Once truly settled in his now livable domain by November’s end; Elwood began his work in surveying the land around the town. As chief and most skilled land surveyor; his business was done alone with no assistance as his employers figured it the cheapest way for the remote woods of the Province to be surveyed. It was in the winter months that he had become accustomed to the diverse townsfolk; for there were many of difference ethnicity and creed than he. There was the self-styled ‘True Americans’ whom were merely English descendants that had roots there since the 17th century; the superstitious yet self-denying of such superstitions French-Americans that reminded him of the people of Salem, the hardy Germans, the lively Italians, and the wholesome Irish to which his ancestry placed him among. It had been, too, during this month that he first gazed upon the standing stones that sat lurched atop Hopps Hill in Presumpscot Woods.

Elwood had only glanced about the stones by chance when he was spying the town’s lush pines and barren scattered maples; as he was viewing the from the town’s opposite hill Truffle Mound in the center of Baxter Woods. They had absorbed his interest to the upmost; as he had known of standing stones throughout New England but had never heard of any accounts of them this far north. As his gazing instruments spied the regions around the summit; his eyes were caught by the black torn away spire that protruded into the sky from the base of the hill. It was a church that had been abandoned yet why had it not been razed to the ground by the locals? He would have to seek Felix out for information when he returned to the cottage the following week; as he was out visiting friends in New Hampshire.

He kept studying the spire when he went surveying; noticing that shadowy crows seemed to shun its edifice whenever they were flying by and the land around it seemed desolate even for winter. Tuesday brought Felix’s return to the domicile in which Elwood showed him through his instruments the deserted church. Yes, he had known of the building before but could not provide any tales or urban gossip spoken of it; as it lay off in the old French quarters where they kept to themselves. He warned Elwood that such area was hard to navigate as the roads intertwined, streets disappeared into forest, the French-Americans rarely left their houses or talked to strangers, and the whole air around it gave one the feeling of grim warning on the unseen monoliths hidden by the dense forest growth and the gothic deserted church. Despite his efforts to discourage Elwood, Felix’s warning seemed to spark a burning flame of adventure in his young soul. That Friday, the week before Christmas, he set on his quest for the church and whatever mysteries its age old walls kept hidden from the superstitious self-denying folk that settled around it.

The trip was a cold and lonesome one; for the northern winds blew harshly against Elwood as he made his way through the town. Looking around him as he journeyed onward past the humble small shops and antique houses; he saw a few Italians hailing their patron saints and chanting in their native tongue as he passed by. They were not alone in their chanting and prayers, as it seemed even the Irish and Germans were doing likewise; giving him an odd feeling about the entire town. Were they merely canting for celebration and respect or was it all some attempt to ward off a lurking evil that lay in wait; hidden among the forest? He crossed himself as his customs had taught him, taking from under his vestments the golden cross he had since boyhood; kissing it as he hurried his pace.

It was not long before he reached the French quarters that the brooding feeling of forbidden things became a phantasmagoria of the otherworldly. From end to end of the forgotten courtyards were the litter remains of collapsing roofs from the decaying houses in disrepair they called homes; fences snapped at ends and the rotting wood amalgamating into sickening discoloration. The houses seemed huddled together, casting their shadows down on Elwood; as if trying to communicate the dark history their paintless walls had seen centuries before. Where the house did not loom were the natural spires of pines encroaching the area; this pattern he could one day foresee devouring this forgotten section and sending its hidden mysterious past into oblivion; if industrial progress did not do so at a later date. Interweaving through the various roads that were gnarled with vegetation and loose bricks; he could scarcely hear low moaning of words barely recognizable; despite his study of languages the world over, both in and out of his college days. Always was the black spire of the deserted church in sight but even with his best efforts; Elwood became lost among the nightmare landscape that he could not traverse.

He had deemed his quest a daydreaming fancy; the church he sought a stupendous dream world no human feet should ever tread. His resolve was that of failure; had not the faint glimmer on the neighboring street caught the corner of his eye. It was the badge of a hardy blue coat, thick bearded German patrolman he had seen often in the town square. Making his presence clear to the officer, Elwood was met with the officer’s surprise that someone was actually out in the harsh weather besides himself; more so for this region of the town known for such lonesomeness. When question about the deserted church, he made a curious sign with his right hand, speaking very coarsely that the French had made damnable warnings to everyone against it; that some unspeakable thing had once dwelled in its shadowed depths and left its hideous mark. Even recalling how in his boyhood lay the whispered weird stories; made all too real by his father’s account , being a patrolman like himself in those olden days.

There had once been a strange sect there in the town’s youth—a lawless sect that had called monstrous shadows from the forest’s blackest depths of night; where those monoliths stood primal. It had taken strong and courageous priests to banish such things back into the gulfs of forest from whence they came; though there were those who said an ordinary cross could ward them off. If Father Brown were still alive; there would be many the tales he could tell. Now, it was best left for nature to obliterate. Those who owned it had vanished while the rest fled like vermin after the threating talk of 1887; when people began to take notice when children and younger kin disappeared now and then throughout the town. The forest would topple and send it away soon enough; best to leave it untouched least those unknown things from the shadows be called forth once more.

After bidding him farewell; Elwood saw the cobble road that led him to his destination he sought long before but now shrived at its sight. The large black iron gates rounded the building were parts terminated into the forest. From the oddly unbroken decorative windows; it spoke to his remembrance of arcultetcutral history the Gothic Revival period that proceeded the stately Upjohn period. Of true ancientness the church had, he was certain. His slender frame being able to fit through the bars; he slid through the gate as he left the French square behind him.

He stalked the path slowly taking in the oddities he saw as he passed them. The snow on the ground did not seem to be placed as naturally as it should be; for the layers looked thinned as he could see what appeared to be charred ground under it. The trees around the church were barren as they should be but their branches looked off at angles; very loose and bent. The area itself reminded him of a true view of a blasted heath; liken to those painted in the imaginings of Poe and Shakespeare. When he approached the door, it did little to change this unease; for even it looked less worn than an unused door ought to be. Mustering what courage he could his resolve let him thought the door and headlong into the forgotten ruins.

Closing the door silently behind him the endless clouds of dust fluttered about the room; irritating him enough to utter a faint cough. Scatted half-destroyed pews; torn curtains and their broken rods, peeling plaster walls, and fallen candle holders littered the dusty and molded over carpeted covered floors as he inspected the area. The faint light that seeped in from the stained glass windows was blacked over by dirt and soot gave saints highly open to criticism; by mere expressions alone. There was something vaguely perplexing in the postures their hands made; one window alone being nothing more than a single tall man wrapped in cloth who stood among a fire with a strange object prostate in his right hand. Shuttering visibly at all he had so far seen; Elwood’s eyes were drawn to the cobwebbed pulpit whose cross drew his attention.

Upon closer investigation, the cross was that of Celtic nature; known by his religious studies to be an incorporation of the sun cross of Pagan times with that familiar cross of Christianity. Behind it lay the small bookshelf with crumbling volumes and few legible titles he could scarcely make out. As he was only a novice of the occult, none of the titles gave him a true shock of horror; though he was sure to the more discerned mind than he that they were of some antiquarian importance. Two of the titles that he recorded in the journal for latter study were Chronike von Nath by Rudolf Yergler and Dhol Chants. He would have to send a letter if he wanted to know more to either the more avid English professor in folklore or the wise aged chief librarian of his old college’s Orne Library, known for its special collection; books his ill-fated university student neighbor Gilman was fond of reading.

There were few places left to explore after the main room; as the Gothic columns merely provided for large spacing of area on the ground floor to which most rooms lay in abysmal damage. Left to his probing voyage would be the cellar whose entrance was guarded by a vaulted door or the room just under the church’s spire. Trying the vaulted door as it was closest to him; he found it impassable and tightly secure. Even so, a foul odour crept from its hinges; making him all the more reluctant of wanting it open at all. Grasping sturdily on the rafters of the onyx stairs; he ascended to the unknown heights of the upper room.
The room was half what he expected it to be; for parts of the withering spire sank into the floor. Disappointment came from the lack of chimes he had known churches like this to have; the room devoted to vastly different purposes with its high flat table were pens and paper lay scrawled in abandonment. Illumination was scarcely light by the small broken window near the table so that he drew from his coat pocket a small electric lantern to improve the visibility. It was then that the faint red glimmer of the large black jack-like stone caught Elwood’s attention.

In his mind there was no doubt, as he viewed it, that it wasn’t a relic of some kind; though if it be some bas relief of a Pagan symbol or merely some eidolon image of an unorthodox god used in esoteric worship, he could not say. He believed the thing to be half completed as its lower half; despite its smooth flat quality underneath, gave one the feeling that there was more to it. Picking the stone up had revealed it was being used as a paper-weight for a few worn pieces of parchment; only adding to this eccentricity by being in a strange self-styled cryptic text. As it would provide musing for a later time; Elwood bore off these papers by folding them into his vest pocket before his attention was drawn back to the stone.
Absorbing his interest more than he had realized; Elwood could scarcely try to divert his eyes from it. A phantasmal glow seemed be radiating from the stone; conjugating surreal imagining in his mind. Vague, threating menaces stood robed around hell spawned fires as rites were hollowed against those cyclopean blocks. Signs were made, words were spoken but not of the know languages and symbolisms he had known. These figures differed in their sizes and shapes under those robes; for only few were liken to his size while others only gave the smallest outline of being human. Yet it was not this rite that his mind conjured up that made Elwood feel a clinging apprehension about the church but the feeling of a presence watching him from above in the dim spire’s shadow.

Bearing his eyes away from the stone; a distance shining in the opposite side of the room next to the stairs caught his glance. Motioning towards it after he had placed the black stone in the elm wooden box from whence it must have been stored; he wiped away the surface of dust with his glove only to choke back a scream he felt rising in his throat, for he was doubly afraid by the first visible horror he had seen since entering the church. For what his glove had so easily wiped dust from was a severed human hand that had turned to rotting bones in its entombment here for untold years; as their lay scatted bits of a gentlemen’s tweed sleeve and sliver buttons from whence the hand had been cut off. The second shock of fright had come from what had been clutched in that hand to the last; for beneath its grizzled remain was the slight charred volume bound in snakeskin, whose shuttering title lay in the dark lavender of devilish abomination the world over. For even Elwood knew it with his lack of occult knowledge as he shuttered its title in the native Irish his mother had taught him; An Rí I Buí, roughly translated to English, The King in Yellow.

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 4.3/10 (98 votes cast)

Dear David

September 3, 2012 at 8:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.8/10 (156 votes cast)

So my grand father recently died, not unexpectedly might I add, at 81 he had a good run. Anyway my mum and I had to go to his house and grab anything we wanted to keep before the cleaning crew came in to clear it out. During the process of searching through his bedroom I came across his box of military stuff, most of which belonged to his father, my great grand father, who had died in the second world war.

I had fond memories of this box, my granddad would tell me stories about the photos and letters inside, how much was truth I can’t say because he wasn’t in the war, nevertheless it keep me entertained as a young kid. As I begin to look through the box the memories came flooding back, every letter and trinket reminding me of his story, until I came to one letter. Post marked Oct 1944, it appeared to be another letter from my Great grand father to a man named David who I believe my have been his brother, but unlike the other letters describing the war and conditions, this was different. As I read it I realised my granddad had never shown me this letter, I’m still unsure what to make of it. The letter is as follows:

Dear David,

It’s been almost 3 weeks since my two friends Howard and Johnson went missing, and I can’t keep this to myself any longer. Someone needs to know the details in case something happens to me.

Normally I would just blame the krauts, as they are the cause of most of my missing soldiers, however this is different…

It started around a month ago, when my men started reporting finding these black leather bound diaries while out on patrol. Of course as we are occupying a town it’s not uncommon finding things like these around, however these diaries were odd. The diaries contained names of my soldiers scrawled on the inside cover, no other writing just the name, and then after a certain date the pages seemed to have been ripped out. Putting it down to the enemy playing mind games I ignored the reports, thinking that maybe they were just writing common names in them to unnerve us. I remember hearing from HQ they had used mind games before, like hiding soldiers helmets and pieces of glass to reflect light in windows and woods to look like snipers.

However, what set these diaries apart was that over the next few days, they started to appear around the city, now I know my lookouts are tired and sometimes half-drunk, but surely even they would notice someone getting that close! The other thing is… no matter how many of these things we collected, burnt, destroyed, they would appear back the next morning.

I don’t know who put them there or with what intention, but there they were and they were having an effect on some of my troops. Many, including my friend Captain Howard, who after finding a diary with his name in it had claimed to hear whispers when no one was around. Howard was also plagued with dreams, where he was lost in a wasteland and a voice on his radio would recite the time and date of his death, over and over, until he would wake in a cold sweat. He never told me the date or time, but on the 22nd of August he went on routine patrol and never returned.

His good friend Captain Johnson who he had known since childhood was naturally distraught. The loss of his friend hit him hard, I had to abandon the search after 5 days and he became very angry. At this point he must have felt the only thing to do was continue the search himself, as he was seen leaving the city the same day with a rifle and standard issue kit.

Three days later around dusk, a lookout spotted a figure walking out of the thick fog that had come down during the day, he had returned, but something was different. His eyes were vacant, he had pale skin, he had none of the kit he left with, apart from the ripped and blood stained fatigues. Who’s blood remained a mystery as he had no visible injuries and wouldn’t speak, he just followed me, like a small child. He refused food and water, I say refused… it was as if it was foreign to him, like he’d forgotten what to do with it. Over the next 24 hours he did strange things, he broke every mirror in medical area he was kept in and drew all the curtains, preferring to sit in the dark, I insisted 2 men watch over him.

A couple of days later, I awoke to one of my men banging on my door around 5am, “Sir, there’s been an incident” he said. I arrived the medical area around 5.15am, a crowd had gathered around the house that was our make shift medical area, all staring at the blood still dipping from blown out main window, I walked inside through the recently broken door. Inside it looked as though someone redecorated using machine guns and body parts, there had been a fight, bullet casings littered the floor, as did the remains of my men. He was nowhere to be found, had he escaped the fight? Was he taken away? All I know for sure is, the day after he disappeared, so did the dairies and the fog…

Then one morning after no patrol finding a diary for just over two weeks, I was presented with one found on patrol that morning. I could tell from the patrol man’s expression before I even opening it and there it was, smeared in black ink on the inside cover… I quickly flicked to the back, the last page was Oct 15th… today is Oct 14th.


Credit To: LiamD

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.8/10 (156 votes cast)

Don’t Sleep Facing the Mirror

August 31, 2012 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.6/10 (348 votes cast)

I had just come home from a tiring day. I had to stay in school until eight because I had failed a Math test and had to go for extra lessons. I was so freaking tired. Mom and Dad were overseas for a little vacation for a few days so I was all alone at home.

I was brushing my teeth while looking at myself in the mirror. It was a beautiful circular mirror with intricate designs on the glass. Mom bought it for a hundred bucks at an auction. It had been in our house for a few years. I remembered how as a little kid Mom would tell me an old Chinese superstition. “You must never sleep facing a mirror,” she warned me, “or your soul will go into the mirror and live in it.” A part of me dismissed her words as a chunk of nonsense, but another part of me believed her and hence there were no mirrors in my bedroom.

I proceeded to bend down and rinse my mouth.

What I saw when I looked up again had me shell shocked for the rest of my life.

My face in the mirror wasn’t my face in the mirror. It was the face of a girl with BIG, really, really BIG, white eyes and long black hair. And her lips were redder than the reddest of lips. Blood was dripping down her chin and onto her white dress. Her white eyes had that gloomy look about them. It was almost as if she looked really sad. I wanted to reach out to touch her, to tell her everything was okay. That nothing was going to go wrong. I felt like I was partially hypnotized.

Theklights in the bathroom went off. That snapped me out of my little trance. I jumped, taken aback.

Suddenly, the girl in the mirror said in a high-pitched, girly, sinister voice, “I need to esssssssssscape… Out of thissssssss mirror… Help meeeeee…”

I tried to move a step back but to no avail. I tried to move the rest of my body but couldn’t. I made an attempt to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth. I could only watch the girl/half-snake move three inches closer towards me in the mirror. At any moment now, she would probably get out of the mirror like how the long-haired girl from that horror movie got out of the television and kill me.

No. No. That was not going to happen. Mentally teetering on the verge of panic, I struggled even ha2der than before. I tried to turn around and run. Still, nothing happened. The girl continued to inch closer towards me in the mirror. Shit. Any moment now…

But she didn’t.

“Sssssleeeeeeeeeep fasssssssing thissssssss mirror toniiiiiiiight. And yooooooou will not ssssssssuffer.”

And she vanished.

In her place was me. Me, sweating like I had just run a forty-kilometer marathon, with eyes wide like saucers, but still me.

I tried to move my arms and it worked! It worked! I could move my legs, my head, my knees, my whole entire fucking body! I had never been so relieved. But that relief was soon replaced by what the girl, or snake, or whatever, had told me just now.

No. I wasn’t going to sleep facing the mirror tonight. No way. I would rather go to school naked than sleep facing a mirror. I would rather eat shit than sleep facing a fucking mirror. All of that, the girl, the mirror, whatever, was probably a nightmare I had. I looked into the mirror again. Seeing my own reflection, I was fully convinced that it was all nothing and rinsed my mouth, changed into my PJs and went to bed.

That was probably the best decision I had ever made in my whole entire fucking life.

I woke up the next day to find out I wasn’t on my bed. It didn’t take me long to find out that I was in a hospital. Bandages were all over my body. Some were even covering the bottom half of my face. Suddenly, the memory of the terrifying nightmare I had during the previous night came flooding back into my head. And I began to wonder what happened after that. Why did I even end up in the hospital?

I tried to call out for a nurse but all that came out of my mouth was a noise which sounded like a chicken was being strangled. A nurse appeared beside me. “Oh, you’ve woken up!” she said in a cheery voice. “I’m sorry but part of your house was burned down last night. The firemen rescued you just in time. Your mom and dad have booked flight tickets back here. You could’ve died back there, you know?

“The police thought that everything else in that part of your house was gone in the fire, but they were wrong. They managed to find a circular mirror which wasn’t even burnt in your bathroom. Just about everything else in that part of your house was either badly burnt or gone.”

My eyes widened.

The nurse chuckled. “I know, right? I guess the mirror is a magical one. Ha ha! Anyway, your mom and dad decided they didn’t want it anymore because it seemed like the mirror had been giving them bad luck ever since they bought it. According to what I had heard yesterday, they wanted to get rid of it but were really busy so they kept forgetting about it until the fire happened. When they found out that the mirror was the only thing in that part of your house that wasn’t either badly burnt or reduced to ashes, they were so shocked that they decided to sell it to a friend who was interested in mirrors.” She shrugged. “You okay?”

I nodded.

“Good. I’m going to attend to the other patients. If you need anything, call me, okay?” she smiled and walked away.

So, there you go – a Creepypasta with a nice ending.

Just don’t ever go to sleep facing a mirror or else.

Credit To: iloveitpink

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.6/10 (348 votes cast)


August 27, 2012 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 5.3/10 (226 votes cast)

Don’t is a contraction we hear all too much. As a child, it was all I heard. “Don’t play with this” “Don’t touch that” “Don’t go here” etc. It was my father’s favorite word. As I grew older, I stopped taking it seriously. I realized if I did what my father told me not to, everything would turn out better than expected, by both him and I. Yet he continued to say it, I suppose by force of habit.

At the age of 18 years old he gave me a necklace. He said that it belonged to my late mother, and at both of their requests I was not to have it until I was 18. It was simple enough, a gold heart locket with a rose engraved on the front. He warned me never to take off, or rather “Don’t take it off” was what he said. I never expected I would take it off, because it was so beautiful and reminded me of my mother. I wore it everywhere, even to bed and in the shower. As you would expect, one day it disappeared.

Devastation filled my heart, followed by confusion. How could it have been lost? I went to bed wearing it last night, and this morning it’s vanished. I did not tell my father, as I knew it would crush him. This was the biggest mistake I have ever made.

Needless to say I could not sleep that night. The atmosphere of the room felt cold and unwelcoming. The other problem, was that my ears started ringing. Not the type you experience after a loud concert, or after your ears pop however. It sounded like a high pitched moaning. I put in ear plugs, and it stopped. Finally I fell asleep, but it was not peaceful. I consistently woke in a sweat during the night, at least 5 times. There were no dreams I could remember to help me figure out why. When I finally decided to stop trying for sleep, I went for a walk. The moment I stepped outside I felt worse. Yes it was dark out because it was 2 in the morning. But I have never seen such a pitch black sky in my life. The moon and stars did not exist. I brought a lighter with me, so I could have a cigarette and try to calm down. The lighter would not catch. I supposed it was out, so I ran back and got matches. Once outside, I tried them. They did not work either. After this, I noticed not just the sky was pitch black. Everything was. I could not see a thing; it was as if I was standing inside of a 4 walled room that was painted black. That is the last thing I remember.

I awoke in my bed at 8 o’ clock, as I had class at 10AM. I was too tired to notice my father was standing over my bed. He screamed, and this is when I noticed him. This scream sounded as if a banshee was being burned with acid. It was the ringing I had heard earlier. This went on for about ten minutes, as I stayed there paralyzed. This was not due to fear. He cocked his head to the side and smiled. Then he started melting, like a candle that has been lit. While melting, he said, “I told you. I told you don’t take it off. Now, you’ll die like your mother.”

With that, the melting thing I called my father walked to my side of the bed. I saw the black again. The blackest of blacks was all I could see, along with my candle of a father. He, or rather it, said “Look what you’ve done. You took the light from his world. Just like your mother. I lived inside of him, I was his evil. I cursed everyone he ever loved. And that lock protected them, until they doubted him enough to take it off. Except you. I took it off you myself because I was strong enough. I took him over, and he is no more. You are mine.”

Headline: Home Tribune News
Father and Daughter Found Dead
-Tim and Shelly Norbin were found dead in their home Tuesday night, at 12:00 AM. In place of ears they had gaping holes filled with blood and brain matter. There is no current cause of death. Even suicide cannot be considered as their bodies were deflated. It was as if someone has sucked the life out of them. George Pasi found the bodies and stated, “They were such good people, and dearest friends of mine. I plan to continue Tim’s legacy, as I consider myself almost exactly like him, although maybe I have a darker sense of humor”

Credit To: Razi

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 5.3/10 (226 votes cast)

Hammer and Nails

August 21, 2012 at 12:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.4/10 (209 votes cast)

You are standing at the top of the ancient wooden staircase, looking down at the darkness beneath. Shelf after shelf of dusty supplies and stacks of books line the basement walls. You remember your mother’s words, “Could you please go get me a hammer and some nails?”

This is nothing but a storage room, nothing to be afraid of, but it’s so dark! You hesitantly take a step downwards, down the creepy old staircase, and the stair creaks loud enough to wake the dead. You continue down the stairs to the basement. One filthy window guards the wall past the staircase, and it attempts to illuminate the room, but the darkness in this basement is so thick, light can’t seem to permeate. You search for a switch, and you eventually find a string connected to the ceiling light so you pull it and…nothing happens, and the room remains obscured by artificial night.

You walk around in darkness for a few minutes and eventually, when your eyes have adjusted, you find an antique dollhouse resting on a table. You open it, and you see that it is frighteningly realistic: there is flowered wallpaper on the walls in the master bedroom, an opening refrigerator in the kitchen containing miniature food, and tiny cloth blankets on all the beds. There are even porcelain dolls with realistic faces. You soon realize that the dolls are you and your mother, and that the dollhouse is an exact replica of your house. You see a tiny, hairy spider scuttling along the edges of the house, and you squish it with your hand, but then, there are more spiders. You grab a can of bug poison from a shelf nearby and spray until all the spiders wither and die.

Suddenly, the dolls fall over and their porcelain faces crack. And suddenly, the air in the basement becomes much thicker, and you can’t breathe. You run back to the top of the stairs, gasping for breath, but the door has mysteriously locked. You bang on the door as hard as you can, repeatedly, but it is no use. You wipe the sweat off your face, which happened to be mixed with blood. You feel yourself becoming tired, and then numb. Finally, a shock runs through your body and you succumb to paralysis, falling down the stairs like a limp rag doll.

You slowly open your eyes to find the lights on. You blink a few times, and yes, the lights are still on, shining brightly and intensely. You move your aching limbs and try to stand. It takes effort, but you manage. You stare at the table which once supported the dollhouse; the dollhouse has vanished. Huh? But even more intriguing is the long wooden box propped up against the wall to the far left. You tentatively walk closer, shivering with each cold breath you take, and you realize what the box is: a coffin. A large wooden coffin, engraved in gold letters, your mother’s last name. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you move your fingers to the coffin, pushing the lid slightly to find the coffin empty. Suddenly, you hear a female voice behind you: “It’s ok, I found the hammer and nails.”

You turn around to see your mother, with pale white skin and blue lips, but that’s not what you notice first. A series of cracks run through her face, with blood dripping from the crack lines. Her grey eyes flash for a split second, and she opens the coffin and pushes you inside it, shutting the door behind her. You are trapped.

The last thing you hear is the sound of a hammer, pounding the nails into your coffin.

Credit To: Shaianne

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.4/10 (209 votes cast)

My Account

August 19, 2012 at 12:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.0/10 (402 votes cast)

It was a tattered notebook. I’m not sure why I even picked it up. It sat there forlornly on the dock, seeming to stare at me as I stepped off the ferry. It had been a bright red at one point, but water and general exposure had made the coloring dull. I picked it up gingerly, with half a mind to throw it away. I’ve never been able to let litter sit on the ground, whether it was mine or not. But as I walked toward a trash can, I realized something was off. While the cover of the notebook was wet, the pages inside did not seem to be.

I flipped it open. Pages full of scribbles met my gaze. At first the handwriting was steady and strong, but as it went on the stroke became more erratic until finally it culminated in what looked like a written scream. Two words, “Stop me”.

I turned towards the trash can again, unnerved. Whoever had used this book last might come looking for it and given the apperance of those last two words I did not want to meet them. I paused though. Stop me? What if this was some poor soul who was going to commit suicide? Or some other horrible crime? What if all I had to do was skim this notebook to save them?

Raindrops began to patter on my head. I looked up at the sullen gray sky and sighed. I had been thinking about heading south to Boston for an evening on the town. My little “town” if you could call a couple hundred people that, in Essex County north of Boston didn’t offer much of a night life. But a night on the town would have to wait. I had a notebook to read.

Twenty minutes later found me in the small house I rented, curled up on the couch with a mug of tea and a blanket. I flipped open the notebook and began reading:

“The music is what bothers me most,” it began. “There is this strange ethereal music in the air. Only, ethereal isn’t quite right because it is so very very real, almost solid. But no one else hears it. It surrounds me, and it sounds like the strident call of trumpet, but it’s not a trumpet making the call, it’s a string instrument, but sounding more strident than string has a right to, but then again there is the pounding boom of the drum. And they aren’t seperate sounds as in an orchestra, it’s all one at once. I just, I can’t–”

There were several slash marks, as if the writer had grown frustrated. As I turned the page I paused. Just for a moment, I thought I had heard something. Some music of some kind. I put the book down and walked into the kitchen to check my radio. It was off. Shaking my head I looked outside. The sky had gone from gray to black. Rain went from a patter to a pour as I looked out, clanging on the window and the roof above me. I was glad I had decided to stay in now, I wouldn’t want to be driving out in this weather.

Settling back down on the sofa I began reading again. “It’s not important. The music is just a symptom. You must know this!!! The music is only the beginning.” I shifted on the couch and sighed. I was beginning to doubt that I really needed to be reading this. But, I had come this far, and I had nothing better to do.

“You must also beware yellow. It is not safe after this. I stopped her and I thought it was over. But it has only gotten worse. And now I know, now I understand.” Here there was a doodle in the margin, a large circle with what looked like wiggly lines coming out of it. Tentacles maybe? There was an arrow pointing to it, with the caption “He Calls” underneath it. As I stared at it, again, just on the edge of hearing, a strange music fell on my ear. It reminded me of a trumpet call, but done with a violin…

I sat straight up and looked around. My tiny living room, with only the TV and DVR box besides my couch and easy chair was empty and still. I looked back down at the notebook doubtfully. I was letting this thing get to me. I should just stop reading it.

I made a move to put it down, but instead I found myself turning the page again. The writing was frantic now and I knew I was nearing the end of the account. “I can’t stop now. I want to but I can’t. Just like her. The river at midnight on 09-20-20**” I raised my eyebrows at that. That was tonight. “He calls and he calls and I cannot stop.” There were a couple blank pages and then that written scream. “Stop me.”

As I took a breath, the doorbell rang. I jumped from the seat, dropping the notebook and landing on my bottom. I blinked, coming back to reality as the doorbell rang again, this time longer and, somehow, louder. Standing up, I made my way over to the door. I opened it a crack and looked outside. A man underneath a large black umbrella stared unblinkingly at me as water cascaded off his umbrella from all sides. “Hello,” he said, and, while is voice was friendly, it put me on guard. “Are you Mr. Howard Phillips?”

“Yes,” I said, holding the door fast. “Who are you?” I’m afraid I wasn’t very polite.

This didn’t bother umbrella man very much though. “I’m Professor Wilmarth of Miskatonic University.”

“Miskawhat now?” I said.

He put up a hand. “That’s not important right now. I believe you found something of mine on the dock? A weathered red notebook? The man who works there saw you pick it up and gave me directions to your house.”

I relaxed a little. That would be August. He wasn’t quite a friend, but he was more than an aquaintance. “Oh, that. Yes, I found it.” I paused and looked at him doubtfully. “You wrote that stuff in there?”

“Oh no,” he said. “A… well not friend, but someone I was trying to help wrote that. I was hoping to use it to find him. Not that it had helped me before…”

“It’s just all complaining about music, and the color yellow, and something about a river,” I said. “I don’t see how it could help you.”

“You read it?” he asked. His eyes became pentrating. I had thought the question would be accusatory but there was an edge of wonder to it instead.

“Yes, I have basic reading skills,” I said, tersely. “Look, I’ll go get the notebook so you can be on your way, okay?”

“What did it say about the river?” he asked, as I began to turn away. “It’s very important.”

I sighed and turned back. “Something about wanting to stop something tonight but not being able too.”

“I see.” The Professor looked down for a moment. When he looked back up, his eyes met mine and I couldn’t look away. “I’m afraid the man I was helping, Richard Derleth, was somewhat suicidal. I know what river he’s talking about, and I think he means to kill himself there tonight.”

I drew in a breath. That had been my initial thought after I first found the book. “Well, let’s call the police,” I said, turning.

“There’s no time!” he said, grabbing my arm. “Please, will you come with me to stop him?”

I looked back at him, surrounded by water, and for some reason it scared me. I threw off his arm and backed up. But just as the feeling came it passed. I straightend. If there really was a man out there trying to drown himself I couldn’t just let it happen without notice. Especially after reading his plea for help. I ran back in the house and grabbed the notebook, just in case it held anymore clues. “Let’s go.” I said, pulling the door shut behind me.

The rain worsened as the Professor drove down backroads that I hadn’t even known existed. In places they were little more than dirt tracks, or rather mud tracks now, and I was sure he was going to get his car stuck or spin us out. There was a look of peculiar determination on his face. I understood he wanted to save this fellow, but somehow, he seemed more worried than he should be. Not that a human life is nothing to sneeze at, but the way he looked, you would’ve have thought we were out to avert a war.

He jammed on the brakes and I hurtled forward into the dash, even with the seatbelt on.

“For God’s sake, man, you’re going to get us killed instead of Richard!” I said, pushing back off the dash.

The Professor said nothing but pointed straight forward. There, illuminated in the headlights, was a shivering wet man. His hair was plastered to the sides of his head. He did not turn as we got out of the car and slammed the doors. The rain beat down on me as I began to walk forward.

As I walked, I noticed everything seemed to have a sea green tint to it. I narrowed my eyes and looked up. No, I wasn’t mistaken. Even the clouds themselves looked green. Didn’t that mean tornadoes or something? I looked over to the Professor. He stopped abruptly and I did so as well.

“Richard!” he called. The man did not turn, did not even look back. “Richard Derleth, we are here to stop you.”

Richard began to shake, and I thought he was crying. And then a small high pitched squeal pierced the air and it grew and grew. And I realized he wasn’t crying, he was laughing.

“You’re too late,” he said, his voice starting on a low growl and ending on a high pitched squeek. “I am his. And he will be free this night!”

“What now?” I said, but before I could voice anymore then basic confusion the green tint darkened around him and then suddenly expanded towards us. Professor Wilmarth put up his hands and gave a cry of alarm. The color passed through me without incident but it seemed to slam into the Professor and fling him back.
“Holy–!” I said, running back to the Professor.

He was getting up off the ground and pulling something out of his pocket. As I knelt down next to him he pressed something into my hand. I looked down. It was a gun. “Stop him,” he said, urgently. “Stop him now before the connection is complete. But it must be done from within the circle. You can enter, I cannot.”

I dropped the gun as I stood up. “You’re crazy I said, backing away from him, back into the area of green. “This is crazy. I don’t even know where we are, or what the hell river that is,” I said, turning back around. And then I stopped. The river was gone. Before me stood an endless ocean under a sky of strange stars, with patterns and constellations I had never seen before. Richard Derleth was raising his arms to the skies and chanting softly to himself, with each round becoming louder and more powerful than the last. I didn’t understand the words, they tumbled from his mouth fast and fluidly, almost like water.

And then my eyes turned to the ocean, the impossible ocean itself, and I saw in the center a stirring. Ripples. And the ripples were huge. Whatever was coming up was larger than my mind could comprehend. Not even a whale could account for the ripples I saw forming and gliding, not even a pod of whales. And they were coming faster. The words were drawing it up, drawing something. Something… I didn’t know, not really know, but somewhere deep and dark in my mind, somehow, it knew whatever was making those ripples I could not let it break the surface. If it did, it would not matter what I did next or what anyone did next.

I stepped back, almost in a daze and leaning down picked up the gun. Moving now, almost in a dream, I ran forward. It was close, so close I could feel it. And the music, like a drum beat in my mind, but the clarion call of the trumpet, and the screech of a violin all melding, all one, and louder and louder as it came closer and closer. I raised the gun. “The stars are not right,” I said without knowing why. “Sleep still in R’yleh.” I pulled the trigger and the bang of the gun cut through the chants. Richard Derleth tumbled end over end on the sandy beach until he came to rest in the water. Slowly, ever so slowly he sank beneath the water and disappeared.

Shaking, I sat down, the music still throbbing in my ears. I put my head in my hands, letting the gun fall to the ground. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. Professor Wilmarth stood over me, looking relieved and sad. “You did it,” he said, simply.

Taking a breath I looked up. The ocean was gone. Only the river was there now. I still didn’t know what river it was, but it was comforting none the less. I stood up and looked left and right. There was no sign of Richard Derleth’s body. “Where’d he go?” I asked, moving forward. “Did he fall in the river?” I turned back to the professor.

He shook his head somberly. “No,” he said. “We will not be finding Richard Derleth’s body.”

I felt the need to sit down again but refused to give into it. “If only the damn music would stop,” I muttered, clawing the side of my head. “It only gets worse…” I paused, mind flying back to the notebook. Panic filled me and clawed in my chest, making my breath come out in short gasps. “Oh, God, what’s happening, what’s happening–Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!” I clapped a hand over my mouth.

The Professor put a hand on my arm. “You see, the reason you could stop him is because you could hear it too, the Call.” He held up the notebook. “This,” he said flipping the pages, “is not in English. I could not read it. No one can, except those who have been marked.”

I was backing away from him slowly now, shaking from head to toe. “It’s not true,” I said, my voice trembling as much as the rest of me.

“Look closely,” the Professor said, still holding it out. “You still retain enough of yourself to see as a man, instead of what Calls to you.”

Staring at the book I could see, for a moment, the words seemed to waver and blur, becoming elongated and impossible to read, and looking like someone had taken a salt shaker to sprinkle apostrophes on it. And then they snapped back into place. I sank to my knees. “What happens now?”

“The same thing that happened to Richard, I am afraid,” the Professor said sadly, picking up his gun. “You have a few months of encroaching madness before you until finally,” and he waved his hand at the river. “Oh, and you really should beware yellow after this. It is not safe.”

“How can you be so calm?” I said trying to be angry and failing. I could only feel fear.

“Because, dear sir, I have seen it happen before and will see it happen again.” He picked up his umbrella and dusted it off. “I am almost curious about what would happen if I didn’t stop it. Perhaps we would go back to the time when this place was called Arkham.” He smiled to himself. “In ways it was easier then to find help. ” He shook his head. “More likely it’d just be the end of humanity though.”

I huddled on the ground. “Shoot me,” I said, as the music crowded in around me. I could feel it, embracing me, enticing me to follow it.

“Can’t,” he said. “You are protected now. You will not be able to kill yourself and only another marked can kill you.”

I stood up and walked unsteadily to him. “Give me the gun,” I said. He aquiesced easily enough. I turned it towards me and held it against my temple. “Come on, come on,” I muttered as the metal shook against my head. After a few moments I gave up and gave the gun back to the Professor. I hung my head. “What must I do?” I asked softly.

“The same thing Richard did,” the Professor said, holding up the notebook. “Only you might want to cast the net a little wider than Richard did. We almost didn’t make it.”

And so, that’s it I guess. Writing it down was easy once I got started. Hacking these sites was not. I picked some likely ones, that seemed to have people with the right mind set, people who had been touched. Did you think it was a mistake you were reading this? That you could read it? I am sorry, truly I am. But He Calls and I cannot stop. Please, by all that is holy, please, stop me.

Credit To: Star Kindler

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.0/10 (402 votes cast)