July 22, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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I’m driving maybe a bit too fast and smoking probably a few too many cigarettes.

I love this… this part of the tale. The story can go anywhere from here. You know nothing until I go on—whoever “I” may be to you. Sometimes I wish the story would go anywhere else but here—and that I could be anyone else but me.

But I’m not. I’m Dylan Adams, and I’m driving a big-ass Buick Century down interstate 89, away from my home in Concord, New Hampshire. I don’t know why I left or where I’m going.

But there’s a 9mm handgun in the seat beside me.

To answer the first and most obvious question: Yes, the gun is loaded. But to answer the second, less likely question: Yes, the gun is loaded with silver bullets. No, I’m not hunting vampires or werewolves. I may not be even hunting at all. Still, with what I do, you need to have something you believe to be unique—with the remote possibility of the metaphysical—to contend in this arena.

Keep in mind as you read this—stop every now and then, and remember that the story can still go anywhere from here. It’s important.

I try to keep my eyes lowered, focusing on each white line between lanes rushing at me and swooping under the hood of my car. I know that doesn’t sound necessarily safe; it’s actually not. However, in my case, it allows me to just focus on where I’m going rather than catching a glimpse of a pulverized car or truck, or of an eviscerated corpse splayed across the road.

No, the world hasn’t ended. The cars, the bodies; they’re not actually there… but they were. There’s something wrong with me, with my brain. There’s a lot wrong actually. ADD, schizophrenia, OCD, and at this point, definitely PTSD. And that’s only to name a few pieces of baggage. I couldn’t tell you how many doctors I’ve seen, how many different medications I’ve been on…

When I was a child, I was considered a rarity. They told me I had a photographic memory and an overactive imagination. That was putting it lightly. I would see things from memories, projected right in front of me as if I could touch them again. For example, I had this toy F-16 fighter jet. It was my favorite toy. Somehow, between moving from one home to another, it got lost. However, when I thought of it, remembered it, and wanted to play with it again; I would see it sitting wherever I looked next. The catch to that power was that the jet was never there. I would go to grab it, and my hand would pass through it like a hologram. Typically, once the illusion was revealed, it would disappear.

It wasn’t always fond memories that would re-emerge into my reality, but the deep dark fears that imprinted themselves into my subconscious. Things I saw on television, or instances from nightmares I had, would suddenly and without warning become very visible—very real—at the precise instant my brain pulled them into consciousness. The images, or projections, would appear before my mind had the time to realize they weren’t necessarily real.

Time passed, and my condition seemed to recede. The doctors told my mother this would happen. We were both so relieved. Finally, the night terrors and random panic attacks could finally end. But that’s not where my story went. No, whatever functional error in my brain was causing the eidetic projections to appear never went away; it only changed. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my memories I was conjuring. Eventually, it wasn’t memories at all.
For example, right now I’m passing mile marker twenty-eight, and as I glance up to look at the sign, I can see in my peripheral vision that someone is in the seat next to me. I know better than to look to see who—or what—is there. You see, as I have matured from a child into an adult, so has my condition matured from a brain dysfunction into something much more… complicated. Acknowledging the being next to me would trigger it to be something more than a projection, something tangible and lethal.

Without any reason I could offer you, I flip on my directional and begin to pull off Exit 12a leading into a town called George’s mills. From there, I take a left towards Sunapee. I then fish another cigarette out of my rapidly diminishing pack and slide it between my lips. Wherever I’m going, I’m almost there.

The road is mostly pitch black. Above me, dark clouds occlude any light the moon could offer, leaving me alone in a murk of shadows. Understand that for me, there’s no such thing as pitch black. Images of all kinds, beauties and horrors, come pouring out. Each new image overlaps the last one, and I have to shut my eyes and will them to be gone. It works less often all the time.

I pass by Otter Pond. Don’t ask me how I know where I am or what anything is called. While I go by, I look over and see a figure standing on the other side of the guard rail. As I approach, the headlights reveal it to be a woman in a nightgown, with long scraggly hair and blackened hands. Her eyes are gone, leaving large vacant sockets to stare back with. I don’t slow down, but accelerate instead. Just as I’m about to pass by her, I see her whirl in my direction. I hear her scream with rage. I pass by, and I don’t look back… but I know she’s running after me with everything she has. She won’t catch me. She’s probably already gone. If I remind myself that I’ve seen her before, that she’s just a projection of a memory, she’ll vanish into thin air.

If I were to doubt myself, however, and look in the rear-view mirror to check; she would be in the back seat behind me. She would be very real. She would probably kill me before I could grab the pistol in the seat next to me. That’s why I don’t keep any mirrors around. The projections tend to be stronger because of the innate anxiety people have towards reflections. When it comes to the game I play, my convictions have to be solid. I can’t doubt what I know is real or not, and I can’t let fear fuel that doubt.

That’s not always easy for me.

Now you might be starting to understand the silver bullets. If I believe in, or imagine, them working, then they will. Those conditions only work here and there, but I’ve been able to test that one so far.

The actual town of Sunapee is dimly lit against the night’s darkness. I drive through, surrounded by a small handful of houses and tiny businesses. As I drive through the town, I can see silhouettes in nearly every lit window, figures standing—watching me pass. Who knows which of them are actually there? I can’t guarantee that every one of them is just a projection.

You see, the most recent and dangerous side effect of my condition is that I can see… the impossible. My own mental projections are already maddening, however my damaged mind has given me the ability to see things that shouldn’t exist. There are monsters, true monsters, in this world; and they hide behind the lens of reality like invisible radio signals simply waiting for reception to make themselves known. Consider the opposite of color blindness; where instead of not being able to see existing shades of color, I can see shades of color that no one else has ever seen.

I can’t say if what I see is the supernatural or extra-dimensional or however one could explain them. All I know is that some of the things I see are more real than others. In fact, some of them are things I’ve never encountered or imagined in my life—they didn’t come from my head.
These are the enemy. They know that I see them, and they hunt me for it. Or maybe they need me to see them to become real in this world, and that’s why they seek me out. I can feel them coming. It feels something like the electricity in the air when a storm is approaching.
I know how crazy this all sounds, but if you keep reading, you might just understand.

Sunapee is disappearing behind me, and I find myself not in as much of a hurry as I was on the highway. I won’t speed anymore for the risk of being pulled over.

Another thing I’ve learned is that the enemy take advantage of positions of authority. A few months back, I had a flat tire, and a cop pulled up behind me. I figured it was to see if I needed help. Instead, he issued that I had a warrant for my arrest, and despite my protests, promptly detained me. I was in the backseat of his cruiser, hands bound with zip-cuffs, when a passing streetlight illuminated the inside of the car. The cop was staring at me… with completely blackened eyes in a head turned back 180 degrees. The look on his face was more analytical than anything leering. Still, I freaked, trying desperately to pull my hands free of the restraints. That’s when he swerved, there was a flash of headlights, and then I blacked out.

The car had rolled several times. The cop was killed in the initial head-on collision. I was alive, saved by the seatbelt the officer had insisted I wear—he even put it on for me. The doors to the cruiser had opened as it rolled, and they were pulled off like the wings of a fly. Luckily, I was able to make my escape.

That, so far, had been the closest they had come to killing me. But now, looking back: Why didn’t he just do it once my hands were bound? And why did he buckle me up if he was trying to kill me with a car crash?

After a few miles of darkness, I emerge into an armpit of a town called Newport. Here, it is hard to tell the difference between my personal living nightmares and the actual scenery of the town. Trash everywhere. One lawn has an old, stained toilet marking the end of its driveway. I had to laugh at the absurdity of it. No wonder this corner of hell has been calling me.

I drive through town along Sunapee Street, turning onto North Elm at a set of traffic lights. I look around when the light was red. On the corner, there is this clown. His jaw is hanging open, much wider than any man can possibly stretch. He doesn’t have fangs, but there is this long, black tongue protruding from the cavern of his mouth, twirling and lashing throughout the air. He’s holding balloons of all colors. My blue eyes meet his glowing red orbs, and he begins sprinting towards me. I close my eyes, and focus on the instance I had where I dreamt of the clown before. I open my eyes, and he’s gone. I take my corner slowly.

I go by a McDonald’s on my left. It’s on fire. People, families with children, are inside writhing and clawing at the windows, desperately trying to escape the flames that already have them enveloped. I turn on the radio to take my mind away from all that. Flipping through stations, I hear some country music—change it; talk radio—change it; then the next station is all static. I leave it, and let my thoughts be lost in the ungraspable white noise as I turn left onto Unity road.

There’s a vibration in my joints, and I feel like if I were to lightly clench my teeth together, they would hum with the sensation I am feeling now. I’m extremely close.

About a mile and a half down the long, empty road, I see a clearing to the left. Logging operation. There’s an entryway leading in, bordered with cement barriers. Between the barriers is a rope with a Do Not Enter sign strung on it. I pull my Buick in and let it hit the rope, which snaps effortlessly. I pull in and to the right, where I stop. I’m here.

I light a cigarette, grab my pistol, and step out of the car. The engine is still running, and the lights are still shining bright across the sandy clearing bordered by tall pines. I stand a few feet in front of the car, far enough so that my shadow doesn’t take up too much of the light shining in front of me. The pistol is in my hand. The safety is off, hammer pulled back. Whatever I had come to meet was almost here.
That’s right, whatever I was about to face has been coming my way just as much as I have been going to it, and probably from just as far away. That’s the gift to my sight. I know when they’re coming, and I can meet them far away from home.

In my head, I was expecting anything to materialize before my sight, because that’s how it works with them. They may be here, there; everywhere around us, but I finish the job of bringing them into existence with my tainted sight, and then I stamp them out with my fist and a loaded gun.

At this point, I urge you to pause. Remember me saying how the story can go anywhere from here? By now, I’ve limited the number of avenues it could take, but in this moment—as I am waiting for whatever dark horror will appear in front of me—anything could still happen. The same goes with what comes after it arrives. I have to be ready for anything.

“Hi, Dylan.” A voice chirped behind me.
I whirl around, stunned that someone had gotten the drop on me.
Behind me, like literally right behind me, is a small girl, probably eight years old. She is blonde, with a pink sweatshirt and tiny jeans on.
“What the fuck!?” I shouted. “I didn’t see… I didn’t make you!”
The girl giggled, an insidious little sound, and said, “Do you really think you’ve made any of us? What if we made you?” As she asks her question, she smiles to reveal a mouth full of jagged, metallic teeth. Her arms stretch out to her sides, and I hear her bones cracking.
I don’t think. Instead, I begin to raise the pistol to point towards her smiling, innocent little face. Then I blink, just once.
It takes an average of 300 milliseconds for a human eye to blink. My eyes were closed for that tiny, miniscule amount of time, and when they opened, I saw a monster—pale, hairless, and naked with reptilian eyes and sharp fangs—flying through the air towards me.

The pistol never lines up, and I don’t fire. The little she-beast hits me like a freight train and I fly backward through the air, landing hard on my back and shoulders. The gun falls out of my hand, landing somewhere nearby. The air is forced out of my chest, but I have no time to feel it. As fast as she had changed, she is on top of me, screeching like a pair of fighting wild cats. One clawed hand has me pinned down, the other she raises high above her head, lashing down in a wide swipe. My neck and face suddenly feel like they’re on fire. She raises her hand again, but this time I grab her wrist on its way down. Before she can move her other hand, I grab that wrist too. She lunges down with her face, screaming in what is now a deep roar. Vile spit flies off of her twisted teeth. She is leaning down to bite my throat like an animal.

I respond by surging my own head forward in a brutal headbutt. It works. The impact knocks her back, and I feel strength diminish in her thin, waxy arms for just an instant. I seize the opportunity to push forward, raising her back up straight. I then pull hard on her left arm. As she loses balance, I release her right wrist and proceed to deliver the hardest punches I could muster against her bald head. One, two, three… four brutal strikes and she’s off of me.

I know better than to try to find the gun yet. Instead, I take my turn to pounce on the creature. The second I’m on her, she begins to roar. When I say roar, I mean it was an ear-piercing, deafening howl, something impossible. I feel as though my head might explode at any second. The maddening scream coupled with the pain of headbutting her almost makes me black out, but I fight through it. One blow after another, I beat upon her face. Dark, putrid blood coats my hands as bone and sinew clash. Wet, meaty squishing noises begin to overcome the volume of her defensive howl. I raise my fist up high, and with everything I have, bring it straight down into her face. Her hands, which had been tearing my skin to shreds trying to fight me off, fall limp to her sides. I don’t let up. I take both of my thumbs and I press them into her black and amber eyes. They pop like grapes, and more dark blood rushes out as if her sockets were geysers. This time, her screaming is high pitched and full of pain, full of terror. The sound lionizes the fucked up gorilla that I am, and I find myself smiling despite my firmly clenched teeth.


I pull my hands back and jump off of her. The way she thrashes in her agony and newfound blindness is reminiscent of an insect’s death throws. The pistol takes me only seconds to find. I reach down and scoop it up. When I turn around, she’s airborne again. We collide, and I am slammed back onto the hood of my car. My head crashes so hard, it dents the steel hood and I nearly bite my tongue in half. Even blind, she takes a swipe at my chest, and this time it’s deep. I scream out in shock from the searing pain. Also, this time, she has me pinned down. Her skin begins to surge, and hundreds of thin black tendrils start to poke through the flesh of her face. Each one, like the clown’s black tongue, curls and stretches towards me.

However… this time, I didn’t drop the gun.

As she goes to lunge her claws into my throat, I fire. The hole that the silver bullet leaves is impossibly large for a 9mm. The edges of the wound are cauterized. She stumbles back, holding her stomach in a sweet disbelief. The next shot is aimed at her knee, and it blows her leg off. She falls, wailing. Still, she claws at the sand, trying desperately to reach me. I shoot her arm off at the shoulder. Now she rolls onto her back, weak but not defeated.

She tries to claw at my legs, but misses. I stand on her wrist.
“What are you?” I demand, practically choking the words out.
Between labored breaths, she says, “I-I—am unstoppable. I—will—kill… all of you.”
I say nothing more, and put the five remaining bullets through her head and torso.
I nearly fall over, stumbling back towards the car, where I lean upon the fender. I’m bleeding badly, but I won’t be able to go to a hospital anywhere near here.

Panting, I look up to find that I’m surrounded.

Freaks, monsters, zombies, burned corpses of children, the clown, savage wolves with glowing eyes—claws, tentacles, fangs, and blood; horrors of every kind all around me. They are silent and staring.

I’m done, I think to myself. But I won’t let them enjoy seeing my fear. Grimacing, I push myself back up until I’m standing tall. I reach into my pocket and pull out a loaded magazine. Looking at every terror around me, I load the gun and take a few defiant steps towards my kill. Their eyes never leave me, but they don’t approach. A silent moment passes. Then, simultaneously, the all back away slowly, receding back into the ebony abyss of the forest.

Were they all projections, or something more?

I’m alone again. I waste no time getting back into the car. I’m hurt badly, and I’ll have a ways to go before I can see a doctor. The cuts in my neck hurt, but they weren’t bleeding like my chest was. I needed stiches, and maybe a transfusion. Most importantly, I still need to keep my wits about me.

I’m driving maybe a bit too fast and smoking probably a few too many cigarettes.

I lead my big-ass Buick Century away from Newport, New Hampshire towards interstate 89. Aside from fighting to not lose consciousness, my brain is tangled on the fact that the monster had seen me before I saw it. That’s never happened before. Then I thought of what the monster had said. She said she would kill all of you.

I never disposed of any bodies of the creatures I’ve slain. I leave them where they are in hope that someone will find and report them, but if they do—nobody hears about it. The enemy doesn’t come from my imagination, but somewhere else. Somehow they become tangible through my vision. But now I wonder if it’s that exclusive. Could someone else have conjured that little girl?

I won’t pretend to understand any of this, or hope that you will. I need to find a hospital. Afterwards, a computer. I will post this blog everywhere, explode the internet with it if I have to. Someone out there will see it, not just the words and the story, but the monstrous truth behind it.

I am Dylan Adams, and I am not a witch-hunter, I am a soldier. The game is changing, they are changing, and I have to modify my tactics as well. This story isn’t over; it can still go anywhere from here.

I never asked for this sight—this curse of fucked up synapses— but I have it, and it’s a responsibility. If you have it too, then find me. Clear your mind, imagine me, and you’ll know where to go.

By Spencer Jackson

Credit To – Spencer Jackson (sjack072)

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Cold Shoulder

July 21, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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My grandmother has looked after me completely since I was about four; my mum couldn’t cope after my dad died and handed me over to her mother. I see my mum a couple of times a month, but she’s always distant and awkward, and not much fun to talk to. My gran’s house is huge, a mansion to me when I was younger: covered in mirrors, with many bedrooms to run in and out of, and a long, loping landing covered in light blue carpet that I spent many nights with friends rolling around and playing board games on. At the end of this landing, is the bathroom.

Tiled and decorated in the late 60s, it will never win any awards for interior design. Everything is a not-so-subtle shade of lime green, including the bath (which always makes a horrible gurgling sound when the plug is pulled) and the toilet. The only thing that looks out of place is a huge mirror on the wall, which stretches about 3 feet and is directly opposite the bath. I had never particularly enjoyed the bathroom-well no one really does- it serves a purpose and is used functionally-but if you stood at the dark wooden door and looked out along the landing, you could see all the doors to other rooms, and the rooms themselves if their door was ajar. In the dark, this was terrifying. It was like being stared at and surrounded by gaping black holes-and there was always a feeling that something was going to come out of them. The bathroom was like the vantage point, the place where you could see the entire top level of the house.

One evening I decided that my hair was greasy enough and my body dirty enough to need a scrub, so I ran the bath and studied my face in the mirror, throwing off my clothes onto the plastic laminate. I closed the door, shutting out the sounds of gran making dinner downstairs. Soon the water steamed and was deep enough to sit happily in, so I sat gingerly down and folded my legs. I’d forgotten how relaxing baths were, after having just showers for so long. If I bent my head slightly, I could see my body and the bottom half of my face in the metallic surface of the overflow plug, which was slightly above the water level. Thinking idly about the events of the day, I glanced at my chest in the plug, and rolled my eyes over to my shoulder. And stiffened.

Behind my shoulder, was another shoulder. My reflection was small and stained with water droplets but I could see it clearly-another shoulder behind mine. Another PERSON behind me. I was gripped with the worst fear I have ever experienced. How long had it been there. Who-what was it. Dear god, WHAT WAS IN THE BATH WITH ME. I sat hunched for what felt like an age, my eyes straining, frozen on the reflection of my shoulder, and the foreign one behind it. I don’t remember breathing, or how the water got so cold so quickly. Sweat dripped down my chin and fell into the water, breaking the suffocating vacuum that had appeared. How long would it sit unmoving? In my mind’s eye I saw this terrible creature, whatever it was, reaching out a hand-no, no; I was not going to let it-

Terror and a sick curiosity overcame sense; I twisted round in a panic and churned the water as I span; my back scraped against the lid of the bath as my neck snapped to see what had been sitting cross-legged behind me.

There was nothing there. Just small ripples bouncing against the end of the bath from where I’d rocketed sideways. Water had enveloped the floor when I’d turned, and was now dripping in a steady stream down the side of the bath. Silence. I shook my head and felt more than a little foolish, and sighed in relief and embarrassment. How could there possibly have been anyone there-there was no one in the whole house but me and gran, cooking dinner downstairs. I could hear the radio in the kitchen. Wait. I hadn’t been able to before-the bathroom door had been closed.

I leant over the side and gripped the bath with shrivelled fingers. If you stood at the dark wooden door and looked out along the landing, you could see all the doors to other rooms, and the rooms themselves if their door was ajar. They all were. The landing carpet, so baby blue and inviting, was now peppered with dark blue, and all the doors were open.

Credit To – Hol

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Noctem Aeternam

July 21, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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NOTE: This pasta was submitted in dual forms: text and audio. I’ve embedded the video below – if it’s not displaying for you, please click the link below the embed space to visit the video’s page on YouTube.

The full text of the story is posted below the embedded video, for those of you who prefer to read rather than listen.

Noctem Aeternam

In the small town of Oakridge, Oregon, there is usually very little going on. Being a small community, however, when something does happen everyone knows and is there to help. Recently it was evident that there was a break-in at one of the houses of one of the communities residents. As expected, everyone was there to help but were quickly sent home by a couple of investigators from another town. It wasn’t, however, a a traditional break-in. The door wasn’t open, it wasn’t taken off its hinges, or knocked in. There was a hole about four feet in diameter that looked as if it were scratched all the way through the door! “Wow,” one investigator says to the other, “Something took the time to claw through the whole door!” The other investigator silently examined the door.

It was this time that he had noticed the thick, dark red liquid puddling underneath the door and spread around the hole. The investigators quickly ruled out the fact that it was human blood, it was too thick and dark. Once in the house, the investigators saw no material damage; nothing seemed out of place or broken. There was also no sign of empty space in the house so they assumed there was no theft. The only other damage to the house was a hole, similar to the one on the front door, on the door leading to the basement. Following the trail of blood, the investigators walked to the basement door and descended the stairs. The scent of blood became extremely powerful as they stepped on the basement floor; they were met by an extremely grim sight. The body of the home owner lied on the floor, bloody and broken. His organs lie fanning out on the basement floor, his eyes taken out of the sockets, and his limbs were contorted in awkward angles showing that he was brutally beaten. Before they could say anything, they saw a piece of paper with writing scribbled on it lying on his chest. One investigator grabbed it and read aloud.

I… Am going to die. I need to get my story out, not for fame or publicity; but as a warning. I won’t waste any time so here is my story. The sounds of crickets chirping awoke me from my slumber. As I sat up I realized how badly my head hurt; I felt each individual heartbeat in my temples. Looking around all I saw was blackness. It smelled of damp moss, and, I swear, I heard breaking twigs behind me; making me think there was something.. or someone out here. I quickly jolted around seeing nothing but shadows of branches cast upon the ground like a theater, and the moonlight was the projector. Shrugging it off as nothing, I stood up, my arms and legs felt weak; they trembled uncontrollably. It felt cold so cold, in fact, that regardless of how much I moved I wouldn’t warm up. I quickly decided to establish a plan: to escape the woods. I decided to just select a direction and walk that way in a line, preventing myself from getting lost. After a while of walking, I realized that the smell of moss had faded but was replaced by a metallic smell, like copper or iron. I also noticed that the sounds of breaking twigs were for sure footsteps, and they were louder and more frequent, leading me to believe the source was speeding up. Again, I quickly turned around; despite being more cautious and observant, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I assumed it was just birds or some small animal.

I figured my mind was just racing, filling in the gaps with the worst possible thoughts and I just decided to calm down ; it was during this time that I realized that I wasn’t even sure why I was here or how I had gotten here! I was so tied up with everything around me that I hadn’t noticed the fact that I went to sleep in my bed, but woke up here. “Is this a dream?” I thought, “no, it’s far too real!” I slapped myself, pinched myself, blinked rapidly- but with no outcome. My heart sank at this realization. Another observation I noted was that dark spots in this forest weren’t just usual dark night shade, it was completely black. Deep black as if there was something completely absorbing all light around me; its hard to explain, this dark was far more dark than anything anyone has ever seen. Despite these new realizations, I carried on deeper into the forest. The forest consisted of some dead trees with grotesque branches, stretching out at me, and nothing. The only things visible were these malevolent trees. But this quickly changed as I continued walking; I saw a clearing in the trees, a slightly moonlit field: the size of a large vehicle. Assuming from in there I could get better bearings, I decided to cautiously enter the clearing. As I approached the center of the field, I saw a large, brown object; I wasn’t sure if it was alive or not until I noticed I could see its breath. The creature looked up at me, I froze, it was a bear! But before I could start backing away, it took off in the other direction. “Was it really that scared of me?” I thought to myself. I really did try to tell myself it fled from me, but I knew it ran from something else. I decided just to keep moving onward through the clearing.

It was about this time that I heard a familiar sound; it was running water! I followed this sound for just over a minute before I came across a small creek. I quickly noticed the metallic scent had gotten even stronger, overbearing even, but this soon faded again. I walked to the creek and took seat on a large rock right next to the water. Leaning forward, I cupped water into my hands and drank it. The refreshing, chilled water swam its way down my throat, refreshing me and giving me the boost I needed to continue this questionable journey. I didn’t regard it as anything then, but when I think about it now, it sends chills down my spine. I remember seeing what looked like an extremely pale humanoid, about six feet tall, hunched over, it appeared to be naked. It didn’t appear to have eyes, just black holes, this wasn’t just what a normal person would perceive as black, this is the deepest, darkest black; far beyond any black imaginable. The creature disappeared as soon as it appeared, but its appearance was stitched into my mind, explaining how I can recall what it looked like, despite its short visit. But I figured this was just my imagination going crazy.
When I was done with my short break, I decided to continue in the same direction; I hopped across the visible rocks in the creek and continued. Looking ahead, I saw that the forest appeared to cut off. Strangely, it looked like in a video game when the world hasn’t loaded and there is just an abrupt cutoff. I figured that was the darkness playing tricks on my eyes but as I got closer, I was convinced otherwise. Laying down next to the pit, I could lay my arm fully stretched out without feeling a bottom. So I grabbed a rock and tossed it in, I never did hear it hit the bottom. I quickly noticed that this pit was, in fact, as dark as the creature’s eyes! I couldn’t even see the white form of my arm as it entered the void. I was snapped out of my awe by the sound of footsteps again, I looked back to see a pale shape, running after me. It didn’t run like a person, it contorted awkwardly; swinging its limbs around violently as it stared at me. It didn’t just stare at my eyes, I felt it glare straight to my soul with its empty, black eyes as it created a terrifying screeching noise.

At this point, I ran. I had no destination but to get out. I just continued to run and run; hopping over downed trees, avoiding voids, just running. My lungs felt like they were on fire but I was quickly given hope as I saw a glimmer of light through the branches. It was a house! Not just any house but my neighbor’s! I ran passed it and into mine around the corner. My house looked over the dark forest. I slammed the door behind me as I entered and just ran straight to my bed; it took me a while, but I finally fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I awoke in my bed. Now, I am sure you are thinking: “It must have been a dream!” and I even tried to tell myself that but I knew deep down it wasn’t. I went back into those woods; during the day of course. It was just as I remembered it, except there were patches of grass darker than the rest. I quickly realized that these darker patches were where the voids had been the night before. The grass cut from a vibrant lime to a malevolent sage-green. I decided it would be best just to go home.

I have never been back in the forest. However, every night I get the feeling that I am being watched, I feel like the pale creature is looking at me but whenever I look outside, it is just the border of my backyard and trees, or so I thought. Last night I had the same feeling of being watched so, again, I looked outside, this time with a bone chilling realization; it had been there all along. I didn’t see the creature, but as I looked into the blackness of the forest, I could barely make out two patches in the shadow; much darker than the pitch black of night. I knew these were the creature’s eyes; I was sure of it. I froze, I couldn’t move a muscle in my body but suddenly I gagged. The metallic scent hit me like a ton of bricks. I quickly snapped out of my paralysis and closed my curtains, crawling into my bed, crying. I didn’t get any sleep that night, I talked to myself trying to keep myself company. I soon realized that I was going insane. I had been talking to myself- Even laughing with myself, thinking about those eyes, and the color, or rather, absence of color of them. The longer I thought about the creature, the more I noticed everything darkening. So I tried to keep my mind off of it. Smacking myself every time I thought of it, talking to myself even more, arguing with myself. I looked around at the boarded up windows, bolted doors, and my small rations of food. The silence was broken by sounds of scratching at my front door. I wasn’t leaving my house, not for anything. I quickly realized that the metallic scent was that of blood and it was getting stronger. I never could find the source and never was prone to having nosebleeds nor did I have them when these incidences occurred. The smell seemed to come from nowhere.

As I walked around my house, I noticed the further away from my front door I got, the fainter the smell became! Amazed by this, I tried to get as far away from the door as possible, not only to escape the scent but to put distance between me and the scratching sounds. So I moved into my basement, the scent was much less potent there and I could embrace in the lighter of the two darks; I was sure that the creatures eyes and the voids were not only absence of light but something more. I write this because I know it will be my last day; my food ran out three days ago and the scent of blood is burning my nose and for the last five minutes I have heard scratching at the basement door now, I will hide this letter in a box in my basement, as a warning to anyone in this area: do NOT go into the forest.

From this point, the small, ink letters cut off into large, hardly legible letters that appeared to be written using the dark blood substance. It was thick, nearly incomprehensible handwriting, as if a child just learning to write had written it using finger paint. “Turn around” The investigator read aloud. The two men slowly peered around from the body, only to be met by two black voids, staring at them from the darkest corner of the basement.

Credit To – creepyquantum

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The Voice

July 19, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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Close your eyes. Imagine a voice. Taking over, and it’s all you can hear. Screaming, loud, high pitched screaming fills your conscious. It won’t leave you alone. Ever. At night, at work, all the time. Can other people hear it? Or are you going crazy? You start to lose touch with reality. Nothing matters, except the voice. Because it never leaves you. And it will never leave you. Your life is this voice. Normal doesn’t exist anymore, and death- well- it starts to look better everyday.

This is what happened to Ray McNeil. He was normal forty-something banker, living the American Dream in the bayous of Louisiana. Boothville, to be exact. A small village in the southeastern corner of the Pelican state, population: 854.

Ray’s life was normal, boring even. He woke up every morning in his beige colored room, to the sound of his elderly neighbor’s rooster. He brewed coffee in his older-than-the-hills percolator, and put on his only suit, the one with the tan leather elbow patches. He drove his 2006 Buick LaCrosse, bought with last year’s Christmas bonus, to Regions Bank, where he worked as a teller. He stopped at the store everyday on his way home, to buy cream sodas for his two children, Mack and Ray Jr. Sandy McNeil had dinner on the table at 6:45 sharp, and Ray’s day would repeat when he woke up.

Then, the voice came. Slowly at first, but gradually, Ray describes being completely at the voices’ mercy. First, he lost his job at the bank. Focusing on the numbers in accounts suddenly seemed inconsequential compared to the screaming in his mind. Then, his personality changed. Ray and Sandy started fighting. But even the nagging voice of his wife couldn’t drown out the insistent noise. The couple separated in May of 2014, and a divorce followed. Sandy cited “irreconcilable differences”. The kids went with Sandy, leaving Ray in a house too big for one, lonely person.

When investigative reporter Jason Bates for the Baton Rouge Times sat down with him on February 17th, he did not see the man who once prided himself on the simplistic beauty of his life. Instead, a man, haggard and hunched answered the door when he knocked. The door bell, which formerly played a merry tune, hung broken on the doorframe. The siding was cracked and faded. A neglected garden lined the front walk. Dressed in blue striped pajamas, Ray McNeil looked twice his age, and as bad as the house. Maybe it was a product of the nights he had spent in jail a few weeks before, for disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace, or the alienation he had faced from his former friends and neighbors, but Ray looked tired. Tired with life.

He now spends his days at home, screaming along with the voice, drinking to drown out the sound. He hasn’t left his sanctuary in weeks, or showered, as far as Jason could tell. In fact, Ray only ventures outside on every third Friday, when he drives an hour and a half to the capital to see his teenage children. This is his life now. Eating Kraft Mac-and-Cheese in his bathrobe, on the days he’s actually lucid enough to eat. Watching old western reruns, on the days he can focus on reality. Ray McNeil is a victim. A victim of something deadly and destructive, and yet, not recognized by the public. We acknowledge Bigfoot, and Nessie is a common conversational topic, but we refuse to believe the facts in front of us.

This is Ray McNeil’s story, and it demands our ears.

An Interview With Ray McNeil, February 17th, 2015

Q: So, Ray, please describe what you have been hearing for the past year.
A: I hear screaming. A female’s voice, like nails on a chalk board. It’s soulless, a voice from hell… And it won’t leave me alone!

Q: We know that this Voice is the reason you are currently unemployed, and the cause of your divorce, but can you elaborate on the effects this thing has had on your life?
A: I lost my wife, my job, my kids. I have nothing. My friends have all abandoned me. The Voice is the only thing that has stayed. And look at me, who could blame them?

Q: Now this is something I’ve been wondering, and I’m sure our readers will be curious as well. How often do you hear this Voice? Is it all the time, or do you have periods of silence?
A: No. All the time. No sleep, I can’t have conversations, well, who would I have conversation with? That wasn’t a joke. I can’t eat, most of the time. All I do is listen. You don’t understand how AWFUL it is.

Q: As you can tell, I’m very interested in the specifics of the voice. So I was wondering if the Voice has ever delivered a coherent message? Do you hear words?
A: On occasion.
Jason: Like what?
Ray: It always says, “Let me out. Set me free!” I don’t know what it means, I would let it out of my mind if I could!

Q: Whoa, easy there, Mr. McNeil. Now, where do you think this Voice originated from? And, why you, Ray? Why has it targeted you?
A: It is my family’s curse. My ancestor, Silas McNeil, murdered his wife and children while they slept. I believe this is our penance. His spirit has been sent back t-t-to haunt us! My dad was crazy, killed himself when I was three. And now, it’s happening to me. I’m going crazy, and nothing, nothing can stop it. Aaah! STOP! JUST STOP IT, please.

Q: Mr. McNeil, Mr. McNeil, please. Just one more question. What message do you have for others out there, that are hearing the same thing, Ray? People in your shoes.

As far as we can tell, Ray never answered this question.

At this point, He became hysterical, clutching his head and screaming. He then proceeded to destroy the lapel mike clipped to his pajama top, and threw the glass of water he’d so kindly offered Jason against the wall. Suddenly, the battered state of the couch and coffee table were explained. The remaining mike that had been attached to the wall behind Ray recoded the struggle that ensued. Mr. McNeil, who had been rolling. around in the floor, banging his shins into the table legs, stood up, red-faced. He lifted the offending table, and by the sounds of it, threw it at the wall. Investigators later found a dent in the wall that supports this.

On this day, the Voice claimed another victim. Jason Bates, 26, lost his life to a demonic phenomena also responsible for Ray’s loss of sanity. Autopsy reports later confirmed that Jason Bates died of blunt force trauma to the skull, likely from the smashed lamp later found at the scene. Ray McNeil is in police custody, awaiting trial at this time. We will continue to post updates on this site as the trial progresses.

Tell us your thoughts in the comments section below. Do you think Ray should be granted his insanity plea? What do you think the Voice is? And, if you, too, are suffering from this same affliction, please, seek help. We will end this violence, and end the Voice.

Credit To – Ashley Burkholder, Ben Wetovick, and Kolton Morse

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Night-Time Curiosity

July 18, 2015 at 12:21 AM
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Groggily, I check the clock beside my bed and grimace. It’s 00:21 already, which means only a maximum of six and a half hours sleep for me now. Great. I close my eyes tight and urge my mind to shut off, but it is as reluctant as always. My consciousness remains occupied with disconcerting thoughts.

To try and subside my paranoid deliberations, I drag my funfair trophy towards me in a tight embrace. The now somewhat-scraggy bear, easily the size of an older child, had been won at the towns’ annual fair for me by my father eight years ago. It had taken a tedious amount of whining and crocodile tears on my behalf for him to keep trying. After a total investment of £12, the bear was mine, and I had kept it in my bed ever since.

In troublesome nights, when I found myself consumed in nightmarish fantasies, the bear always brought some kind of a comfort. It was always cold, which was somehow pleasing within the warmth of the duvet, and, despite the fact that its fur was now matted and unkempt, it was always cosy to cuddle with. Even when I wasn’t hugging it, the bear would ‘sleep’ under the duvet beside me, and during the night I’d be able to feel its coldness beside me. I never felt alone in the bed.

And now, in the early hours of the morning, I cling to it like a child. The familiarity of the odd, fairly unpleasant smell it has acquired over the years calms my frantic mind, and I feel myself slipping into sleep within minutes.

Half asleep, half aware, I feel a movement beside me, a gentle tug of the duvet. It is enough to widen my eyes and quicken my heartbeat. I find my vision locked on the wall opposite me. Suddenly, my heartbeat slows to a near stop as fear soars through every inch of my body. Two words can be read, albeit distorted and indistinct, but visible all the same.


Beneath the writing was a downwards-pointing arrow, which indicated to only one logical location. The sight of the grotesque scrawling sends a sharp shiver along the length of my spine as my brain feverishly searches for a rational explanation for what I am seeing.

For many nights now it had happened, this exact situation. I would awake in the vacant darkness, and the only thing I would be able to see was the message. It would never be there when the sun surfaced from the horizon, but I’m confident to say that, on all of the occasions, I was not asleep. It has happened frequently over the past few years; a strange feeling of movement from within the bed would pull me from sleep, and then I’d see it.

Each time, a theoretical battle between curiosity and irrationality would transpire in my subconscious, and irrationality remained champion. Until tonight. Tonight I feel more compelled than ever to just look… to just valiantly climb out from the bed, fill the room with light, and put my mind at ease. The knowledge that there is nothing under there would surely resolve my spurt of insomnia.

And yet I am still reluctant.

A typical childhood is spent fearing the endless forms of monster that could be lying under your bed, concealed in the gloom, embracing the obscurity of the shadows. Such a fear becomes embedded in the darkest regions of the mind, and even now, I daren’t put my legs over the edge of the bed in case something wraps its cold, slender fingers around them. The distance from the bed to the light-switch isn’t long, but in the dark it would be an eternity.

I’m going for it. Oh god, I’m out of the bed, and my legs are monster-hand free. I pause to admire my fearlessness, before taking small, quiet steps towards the wall. I take about four before another sound rivals the creak off the floor: the bed.

The bed creaks. A subtle sound, but audible enough to freeze me completely. The bedframe has long outlived its prime time, and so the bars underneath are weak. So weak that even the slightest movement can be heard.

It creaks again, louder this time, as if weight were shifting from one position to another. Suddenly there is a scratching sound: pointed nails against metal. Slow. Loud. Terrifying.

I find a sudden energy within me to move my feet once more, big strides this time. The scratching sound does not subside; it is now accompanied by raspy, deep breaths. Each inhale sounds like a struggle for air. The exhale is silent.

As I near the wall, the volume increases, and it seems to get closer. What appeared to have emanated from the bed now shadows me as I fumble in the eerie black for the light-switch. Come on, come on, I urge, adamant that I do not stand alone in this room. The uncomfortable feeling of being watched strikes me from all directions, and I cannot escape it. Something vindictive lurks, and it is waiting.

My fingers finally locate the switch, and I press it without delay, spinning as I do to face the now-lit room. Empty.

The wall is barren, the bed unharmed. The outline of the bear beneath the duvet is apparent, but of no concern. I sigh, with both relief and frustration at my own imagination. Now I can settle this stupid situation and finally get some rest. The clock reads 02:49.

I move towards the bed with courage, now protected by light, and drop down to my knees so that I can see underneath it. And there, at the far side of the floor, alone and partially concealed by the dark, is my bear.

What a comforting sight! I quickly drop onto my belly, and drag myself underneath to grab the bear. I get about halfway under when realisation hits me like a tonne of bricks. If my bear is underneath the bed, then what is in it?

At this point, the creaking restarts. I can feel the weight above me on the bed. The horrifying sound moves from the right side of the bed to the left. Silence then falls upon the room. I can barely breathe.

I see a shadow be cast beside me. Round, like a head. It’s looking at me.
Biting my lip, I turn my head so that I can see what I have been sharing my bed with every night. I see the monstrosity that I have wrapped my arms around so tightly for comfort in times of fear. And it grins a satisfied grin with its grisly teeth. Hanging from the edge of the bed, with pure black eyes that lock with mine, it whispers to me, in an icy, malicious voice, four simple words:

“You shouldn’t have looked.”

And with that, it slithers from the bed and onto the ground, onto its hairy stomach. It crawls to join me under the bed, and I feel its familiar coldness press against my body once more. It wraps its foul arms around my torso, presses its grisly lips against my ear, and sneers:

“Oh, how the tables have turned.”

And with that, I drift into eternal sleep.

Credit To – Nightfall

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Warning Sign

July 16, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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My wife and I were driving down a dark road, on our way to Colorado for our honeymoon. It had to be around midnight and I’d been driving for hours. My wife was fast asleep in the back seat and I had nobody to talk to, so I listened to the radio to keep me from dozing off. They were playing “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys, a song that I’ve loved since I were a young boy. I was singing along to the tune as quietly as I could, trying not to wake my wife. That’s when it suddenly got foggy out, the snow that we were warned about started falling and the radio turned to static. The fact that we were the only ones on the road was very unsettling. We hadn’t seen another car since we drove by that gas station almost two hours before. It was frightening to say the least.

I continued driving despite the fact that I could barely see. Static continued to restrain the radio from playing my favorite childhood song. I don’t know why, maybe it was the fact that it was really foggy out, but I felt that something bad was bound to happen. The radio was getting louder even though I had turned the thing off. I was hearing voices, they were coming from the radio. I thought that I was hearing things because I was dreadfully tired. It sounded like a woman, her voice echoed out of the radio.

“Evil lies ahead,” she said.

I was looking down at the radio, trying to get it to turn off. When I looked up at the road, a woman in a white gown walked right in front of my car. It was unexpected, I looked away for only a second. I stopped the car and pulled over to the side of the road. My wife had woken up at that point. “I hit someone,” I told her. I was in shock and kind of nervous to get out of the car and see. My wife and I both got out of the car and walked over to where I hit her. She wasn’t there. We looked around but there was no sign of anything. No blood, no body…just nothing. I know I wasn’t going crazy. I saw her and I felt as her body rolled over the top of my car. My wife assumed that I wasn’t getting enough sleep so she suggested that she finish the dive to Colorado. I agreed and we got back into the car and drove off.

Almost two hours later, I was listening to the radio, unable to sleep, as my wife was driving. The radio again, turned to static and the clear roads were suddenly foggy. I immediately felt that something was wrong and that something bad was about to happen. I couldn’t really see anything but the road due to the fog, but I noticed someone standing in the middle of the road.

“Stop!” I screamed. She stopped the car, the woman was just ten feet ahead of us. “It’s her,” I said. “It’s the woman I hit.”

“I don’t see anyone,” she said, glaring out at the road. Somehow she couldn’t see her but I did. The woman was in a white gown and she was probably in her forties. I wasn’t losing my mind like my wife thought I was. The woman spoke and what she said had me shivering in fear.

“Evil lies ahead.”

I looked at my wife, she was oblivious to what was going on. I didn’t understand why she wasn’t seeing or hearing what I was but I wish she had, now more than ever. I tried to convince her that something bad was about to happen. I tried to convince her that someone was trying to warn us, but it was too late. We saw the headlights coming at the very last second.

I woke up hours later in a dark room. The only source of light was coming from the small rectangular window that barely invited in the sunlight. It was clear that I was in a basement but the question was where. The first thing I noticed was that my wife wasn’t with me. I quickly jumped out of the bed, just to fall right to the floor. My right leg was…gone. It was cut off from the knee down. It was then that I noticed how in pain I was. I screamed for my wife, fearing that something bad had happened to her. I lay helplessly on the floor until I heard the basement door creak open, followed by footsteps. I pressed my back against the basement wall and I wait for what seemed like an eternity.

“Mr. Edmund, you really should be in bed,” a man said, helping me to the bed. He was wearing a lab coat so I assumed he was a doctor.

“Where is she?” I asked. “My wife.” He put his hand on my forehead, noticing how high my temperature was.

“You should calm down Mr. Edmund, you’re burning up.”

“I want to know where my wife is,” I said. “I’m not calming down until I found out.”

He took off his glasses and put them in his pocket. “She’s dead Mr. Edmund,” he said. “I’m sorry but her injuries were too severe.”

I didn’t want to believe it but I had no choice but to. I thought about her as a memory, that’s all she’ll ever be now. I thought about the beautiful wedding we just had, how beautiful and happy she looked. She was dead and I felt like the four years that we had known each other was all for nothing. “Where is she?” I asked, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“She’s at the morgue, about thirty minutes from here.”

“I wanna see her,” I said.

“Mr. Edmund, you’re not in the shape to go anywhere,” he said. “Now eat up, I’m sure you’re hungry.” He put a plate on the nightstand.

“I wanna see her!” I yelled before he walked away.

He stopped and turned around. “You really shouldn’t yell, Mr. Edmund, he said. “You just might wake the dead.” He laughed before walking up the stairs. I got out of bed and hopped my way up the stairs just to find out that the door was locked. The guy was clearly hiding something and I had to find out if it had anything to do with my wife.

Hours later, as the day shifted into night, I was in bed, thinking about my wife when I heard the door creak open. I heard no footsteps this time. I got out of bed and crawled my way to the stairs. I looked up and I saw the door open but nobody was there. I hopped up the stairs and I walked through the door. I was in the living room and it was strangely decorated with old furniture. It seemed as if I went back in time to the 60’s. Something strange was going on and I had no idea what it was. It got even more confusing when I noticed the picture that sat on the table stand. It was a family photo of the man with a young boy and a woman who I assumed was his wife. It was the woman that I’d seen on the road. I don’t know how it was possible but it was her.

I had a feeling that my wife was somewhere in the house so I walked around to see if I could find her. I walked into the kitchen and I noticed a trail of blood coming from the refrigerator. I walked slowly to the door and I opened it. What I saw was just despicable and it painted a picture in my mind that I would have to live with for the rest of my life. There were limbs inside, cold bloody limbs. I would never have known that they were the severed limbs of my wife if it weren’t for the ring that I proposed to her with. I thought about the food I’d eaten earlier and I instantly vomited. I knew there was something about that guy, something seemed off. I heard the floor creak behind me and I turned around to see that phyco fuck behind me, swinging a baseball bat that I couldn’t dodge in time.

I woke up hours later back in the basement. The pain I felt in my leg was unbearable. I couldn’t move because my arms were strapped to the bed and even if I could move, I’d fall flat to the floor. My left leg was gone. He cut off my other leg and he was slowly killing me. My mouth was covered with duct tape so I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” He was standing at my side, eating a piece of meat that I would assume was my leg. “You wanna know something?” He asked me. “You taste good.” I was just imaging my hands wrapped around his neck and slowly killing him. “Haven’t you ever wondered what you’d taste like? Well I guess you probably already know.”

He ripped the tape off my mouth, I didn’t even notice how painful it was. “I’ll fucking kill you” was the first thing I said. I wasn’t sure how I’d do it without any legs and being strapped to a bed but murdering him in the most vicious way was all that I could think about.

“I’ve eaten many people in my life, Mr. Edmund, but I would say you take the cake.”

“You’re sick and you belong in hell.”

“I’m already in hell Mr. Edmund,” he said with a creepy smile. “I killed myself back in 1964, right after I ate my wife and son.” I didn’t believe him of course, I figured it was part of his sick mind.

“Why don’t you just kill me? Get it over with.”

“Well Mr. Edmund, I learned that human flesh tastes a lot better fresh. So I’m gonna keep you alive for a while.” He stood from his chair. “Get some sleep Mr. Edmund, I think you’ll taste a lot better when you do.” He walked up the stairs and closed the door.

I was prepared to die, I’m honestly still surprised that I’m not now. There was a sudden knock at the door hours later and I yelled as loud as I could, hoping they could hear me. A group of men then came running down the stairs and they helped me out of the bed and out of that house. I was lucky that they spotted my car on the side of the road and followed the tracks that led them to the house. It was a miracle.

I was surprised to find out that the house was actually abandoned and that nobody had lived there since a doctor by the name of James Conway had brutally murdered and eaten his wife and child before taking his own life. The severed pieces of my wife were found in the old refrigerator and they weren’t the only ones found. There were many people who were reported missing in the area but were never found over the last 50 years. Nobody believes me when I told them that it was James Conway who killed my wife and ate my legs. I guess they believed that a copycat killer was on the loose. There were more victims after me and I’m sure there will be many more in the future. I’ll warn you though, you’re not safe in the northern parts of Colorado. If you see any warning signs, a woman in a white gown telling you that something evil lies ahead, drive the opposite direction and never look back.

Credit To – Jake Engel

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