A Haunted House in Sialkot

May 27, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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This story comes from my dad and he was around 18 at the time of this particular incident. It was summer time so he went visiting relatives in a city called Sialkot. His maternal family was based there, living in a few houses in a small cluster. A few of his cousins and one of his uncles, Uncle Arshad, who was also quite young (being around 25 at the time), also joined him there. During their stay they heard a few stories of a house their family owned.

It was located two houses down the street and was unoccupied house at the time. Its only utility was that the courtyard (which was open to the sky) was used as a gym of sorts by the local bodybuilders during daytime. One of the stories they were told was that of a local bodybuilder named Manna. Manna was alone lifting weights there one day, and one time after getting up to stretch after lifting something particularly heavy he was patted on the back and told ‘Well done’. Only, he knew there was no one else in the room. He had stopped being there alone after that.

My dad and his uncle were quite excited after hearing all that and being ‘Young and foolish’ they decided to spend a night there. They were warned against it, a few of the elders including their maternal grandfather calling them fools for meddling in ‘things you do not understand’ but their minds were set. In the end, they decided that they would enter the house after dark, a little before midnight, and sleep there leaving just after daybreak. Since the house was not in use they decided to sleep on the roof on charpai’s (which is a traditional woven bed in the Indian subcontinent). They also instructed their watchman to lock the main door after they had entered to ensure no one else could enter after them and to come open the door immediately after daybreak. Apparently the watchman laughed after hearing this and told them he would keep the key ready because they would be calling him long before that.

The next night before they were supposed to go to the house one of their elders told them to try something. He told them to set up a carom board in the courtyard and just leave it there, untouched, and check it sometime after. They set it up in the house as instructed, and carried their charpai’s to the roof after that. It was difficult doing all of it in the dark, since they house did not have an electric supply. Their only source of light was an oil lantern, and the light it cast was dim and yellow, but they were still happy for the lack of ghost sightings.

They spent the first hour playing cards and nothing seemed to happen. Much more relaxed about the house, they began to wonder what everyone was on about. And then, during one of the rounds, they heard the unmistakeable sound of the hand-pump in the courtyard being worked, and the sound of water flowing. They were four floors up, on the roof, but that sound still sent a shiver through them. They tried to ignore it the best they could, but the hand-pump continued pumping water on its own. Much quieter now, they tried to keep playing cards but around 1 am they just gave up and decided to sleep instead.

My dad slept on one of the charpai’s on the edge, and slept like a rock till he was woken up by someone shaking him. He got up to the frightened face of one of his cousins. He pointed to Uncle Arshad who had been sleeping in his boxers on the far edge. It was then that he noticed that he seemed to be writhing in pain, clutching his throat. They tried to shake him awake, but it took a whole minute filled with the fear of what was happening to wake him up. Uncle Arshad woke up breathing heavily and still clutching his throat. He looked at them and said, “We need to leave this place, now!”

“It is 3 am already” one of the other cousins said, “We only need to wait an hour or so more and then—“

“I want to leave this place NOW, and I will jump from the roof to do that if I have to!”

They were even more frightened after that. They decided to leave but remembered that the house entrance was still locked. So, they started shouting to get the watchman’s attention. Soon enough though, they got the attention of my dad’s grandfather instead who had been sleeping on the roof of his house anticipating something of the sort. After a few choice curses he sent for the watchman and told them that he would be waiting for them downstairs.

They still had to climb down the stairs though. Four flights of stairs, in pitch black darkness, with nothing but the dim light of the lantern to guide them. They climbed down slowly and with much arguing about who would climb down first, and who would be at the rear. They kept their eyes nearly shut and tried not to look around them, since they kept imagining things in the dark, looking back at them, or perhaps one of them being dragged off. And Uncle Arshad was still clutching his throat; the image of him writhing still fresh in all of their heads. When they finally got to the courtyard they went past the carom board, and all of them noticed that all the pieces were now in the pockets.

When they finally got to the door the watchman was waiting for them, with a large smile on his face. “So are all you young ones done here? Has your warm blood run cold yet?” he said, laughing at them.

After they were out of the house, they asked Uncle Arshad what had happened, but he refused to tell them anything till he was out of the darkness. So they took him to a street lamp and they sat under it till he calmed down and stopped shivering with fear. And then he told them his story:

“As I fell asleep I dreamt that I was in the house. I walked down to the courtyard and in my dream I started urinating there. Just then, an old man with a long beard and terrifying eyes came and grabbed me by the throat. He shouted ‘How dare you defile this sacred place?!’ and lifted my up in the air with one hand. I was helpless, kicking and gasping for air when all of you woke me”

After he told them the story he finally took his hands off his throat. Even in the lamplight they could clearly see the bloody blue mark of a hand right across his neck.

Writer’s note: This particular story comes from my father and has always been one that took my imagination to places I did not want to visit. I could have taken my father for his word but for the sake of keeping this account ‘factual’ I tried to confirm its details from two different people. During my attempt to validate it I found that not only is this incident and the haunting of the building in question real, but there are people living in that house today who deal with this sort of phenomenon on a regular basis.

(This is a part of a collection of real life horror stories and memoirs currently being collected and compiled by Salman Shahid Khan. For more, please visit and follow the writer’s blog at http://compulsivetypist.wordpress.com )

Salman Shahid Khan

Credit To – Salman Shahid Khan

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May 26, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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This is actually a true story, something that really happened to me and my friends when we were in high school. It was very traumatizing for the four of us, and we each are still affected in some way to this day.

To give some background information, our town is surrounded by old Civil War battlegrounds, and quite a few of the houses are from that time. Some of them were even old hospitals that were used for the soldiers. So clearly the town just naturally has a creepy feel to it and it was common to hear of weird things happening in people’s houses. Like this one guy I went to school with, when he and his family moved in they found an old doll that had been left there. They put it back in a closet but the next day it was sitting at the top of the stairs. This went on for a long time, no matter how they tried to get rid of the doll it would always wind up back up at the top of the stairs so they ended up just leaving it there. I could go on and on with all the stories but I was always indifferent towards them, nothing had ever happened at my house.

My best friends were sisters Amy and Denise and they had grown up in one of the houses that used to be a hospital. When they were kids their dad actually found some old hospital supplies in a basement alcove and made a good bit of money off them. There were times throughout the years that they would mention strange occurrences, but these girls were too logical and hardheaded to believe in anything paranormal. I can think of a few times when I slept over at their house that I would get a bit freaked out, especially in their upstairs bathroom. I would feel like I was being watched and there would be little noises, like someone was in there with me. I told myself every time it was mice.

I was incredibly surprised when Amy came to me during school one morning and said, “there’s something in my house.” She went on to tell me that the night before she heard knocking on her wall in the corner by the floor, and then it moved to another part of the wall. After a minute it moved again a few feet down the wall and the knocks continued to go around the room, sometimes moving up by the ceiling. She finally got the courage to get out of her room and wake up her parents. They went and sat in her room for a little while but the knocking didn’t come back. They told her it had to have been something outside or a mouse in the wall, not to worry, and they would call an exterminator.

Amy was absolutely not convinced it was the wind or rodents and I could see how terrified she was. This wasn’t like her; she’d lived in that house almost her whole life and this wasn’t the first time something weird had happened, but this was the first time she thought it could be a spirit. She never believed in that stuff, and neither did Denise but about a week later the same thing happened to her. Denise woke up to the same knocking, going all around her room. Again the parents were woken up, and again they gave the same explanation, but Denise accepted the explanation unlike Amy had.

The knocking kept happening over the next couple weeks though, and after an incident in the bathroom Denise became convinced there was something paranormal going on. She was in the shower when the curtain was suddenly jerked open, forcibly pulled all the way over to the side. There was no one in the bathroom when she looked out, and the door had been locked anyway. She came up with some excuse as to why it happened, pulled the curtain closed, and continued her shower. Then it happened again, and this time she completely freaked out and got out of there.

Their parents didn’t really take them seriously, even though they admitted to strange things happening in the house themselves. Amy and Denise became really curious about whether or not their house was haunted so one Friday night when their parents were gone to some event we had the not so brilliant idea to use a Ouija board. Denise’s boyfriend Sam got one from his neighbor and at about 10:00 pm we set up a table in Amy’s room and laid everything out.

The three of them weren’t really serious about it; they didn’t actually think it would work and considered it more as just something fun to do than to prove their house was haunted. I, on the other hand, felt really uneasy about it and believed Ouija boards were not something to play around with. But I was curious too and they kept insisting I join, assuring me that the board was just a harmless kid’s game.

We set the “Ouija board mood” as Denise put it and lit a candle and turned off the lights. We got around the table, put our hands on the planchette, and asked the first question.

“Are there any spirits here with us?”

We waited, completely silent, for about five minutes without any movement at all. Denise asked the question again, and there still was no movement. We kept waiting and I remember Sam making a joke, and we all were giggling when the candle went out.

It was unsettling to suddenly be in complete darkness, and because there was nothing that could have caused it to go out. Nothing we could think of anyway. It was sitting on Amy’s nightstand, nowhere near the closed window and there wasn’t any air coming out of the vent across the room. But candles go out and we just relit it.

Again we got settled at the table and put our hands in position. This time Amy asked the questions.

“If there is a spirit here let us know. Who has been knocking on our walls?”

This time the planchette almost immediately started moving. Of course we all questioned each other, but we all swore we weren’t moving a muscle. I know I definitely wasn’t, and I had no reason to believe the others were either, with how skeptical and serious they all were.

It moved first to the letter ‘H’ and then to the letter ‘I’, then stopped. Hi. It was a response that made sense but it didn’t necessarily mean anything and it could have been one of us that had moved it. Amy continued on.

“Um, hi to you too. Are you a spirit? Have you been knocking on our walls?”

After about thirty seconds it started slowly moving. Again we questioned each other, and again we swore we weren’t doing it. This time it spelled S-H-O-W-R-1-5.

We didn’t know what the heck that was supposed to mean. We discussed the possibilities but couldn’t come up with anything that made sense. Then we noticed Denise had gotten quiet and was just staring wide-eyed down at the board. She reminded us, in a frightened voice, about her experience in the shower and told us to look at her shirt. It was a fake jersey with the number 15 on it, which of course we had seen before but didn’t connect it with what was said on the board. And then the S-H-O-W-R, could that have meant shower? Had we actually contacted a spirit and it was telling us it was the one who opened the shower curtain on Denise?

Denise, the most skeptical of us all, didn’t say anything more and just sat very still with her hand on the planchette. I was getting pretty terrified too but I think we were all a bit mesmerized by what was happening. Amy again asked the questions.

“Were you in the bathroom with Denise, is that what you’re saying? Can you tell us who you are, give us a name?”

Again it moved slowly. S-C-A-R. This made us even more creeped out and we asked for a name again. M-I-C-E-L. We thought maybe it was supposed to be ‘Michael’.

“Is your name Michael?” Amy asked. “Ok Michael, why have you been scaring us? Why knock on the walls?”

This was when the first of two horrible things happened that night. The planchette started moving incredibly fast. Denise actually couldn’t even keep her hands on it and it was too fast to see all the letters being spelled out. Then the table started shaking violently. It was like it was being picked up and slammed back down repeatedly, and we had all been kneeling around it with our hands on the planchette so there was no way one of us could have been moving it. After we realized this we bolted to the door, ran down the stairs, and ended up on the front porch shaking and confused as to what just happened. We tried to make sense of it and tried to come up with something that would logically explain things but we couldn’t. We really made contact with a spirit, and it wasn’t a very nice one.

There was no way we were going back in the house. Sam waited with us on the porch until Amy and Denise’s parents called and told us they were on their way home, and then he left. When the parents got home and found us on the porch we told them everything
and we were so upset that they believed that we legitimately got terrified, but they tried to convince us that we had subconsciously moved the planchette and that it was most likely Sam who was shaking the table. They weren’t there and they didn’t experience it or they would have known that none of us was responsible for any of it.

We followed them inside, well aware that the Ouija board was still in Amy’s room. We made them turn all the lights on, and when we got to Amy’s room they had to go in first. The table was on its side, the board behind it, and the candle blown out. We didn’t remember any of it happening, but it was possible one of us had knocked the table over when we ran out. It didn’t make sense how the board got behind the table though. The parents just kind of laughed it off, and told us it was our own fault that we were so scared because we had the dumb idea to use a Ouija board. They were right, it was really dumb, but they just didn’t understand what actually happened.

There was no way we were keeping that thing in the house, and we took it outside and threw it away in the neighbor’s trash can. We didn’t care that it belonged to Sam’s neighbor; he could explain to them what happened. Denise got grounded for having a guy in the house while her parents weren’t home so she wasn’t going to see him for a while anyway.

We decided to pile up in Denise’s room for the night, and we had all calmed down a good bit. Maybe it was knowing that their parents were home, or that just maybe they were right and we had caused everything to happen ourselves. We were able to eventually fall asleep with the light on.

The second horrible thing to happen that night happened when I got up to pee. It had to have been really late, or really early depending on how you look at it. I laid there for the longest time trying to ignore it and go back to sleep because I didn’t want to go in the bathroom after all that happened. I considered waking up Amy or Denise but I knew I was being ridiculous, it would only take a minute. I got up, thankful that the light was on in the room and went out into the hallway. I turned the hall light on before making my way to the bathroom and when I got to it I reached my hand in first to turn that light on before going in. I was so freaked out that I kept the door halfway open.

The door must have closed while I was washing my hands because I didn’t hear it. I just knew that I hadn’t closed it. It was such a heavy door that it didn’t seem like it could have closed on its own, but I thought maybe the hinges were messed up or something. I would have told myself anything at that point to make myself feel better because when I saw that it was closed I was terrified and had to get out of there.

I turned the knob but it didn’t move. I tried to stay calm, telling myself it was an old door and they get stuck sometimes, but I kept turning and pushing and pulling and the knob wouldn’t even move, like it was locked. It couldn’t have been locked though, because I hadn’t even closed the door when I came in and I could see the lock on the knob and could tell it wasn’t locked. There was no lock on the other side either. It was like someone was holding the knob so I couldn’t turn it. I kept trying to open the door, getting more desperate and frantic with each passing second.

Then there was a knock behind me. It wasn’t loud but I definitely heard it and I began pushing at the door even harder, not caring if I broke the thing. Then there were more knocks, going all around the bathroom and the shower curtain started rattling and I knew there was someone in the bathroom with me. I could even feel that there was a presence and to this day I can remember exactly what it felt like, it was like the air had gotten really thick and darker.

I completely lost it. I threw my body against the door over and over, kicking it and beating on it with all my strength, while crying hysterically and screaming at the top of my lungs. It couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes but it felt like an eternity before I had woken up everyone in the house and they came to my rescue. The dad opened the door. He just turned the knob and pulled and it easily opened. I came sprawling out onto the floor and was too upset and weak to move. My knuckles were bloody and bruises were forming on my arms. Amy and Denise stood back in horror as their mom hugged me against her and rocked me back and forth, trying to calm me down.

When I got a bit calmer they took me downstairs and I told them what had happened. They had never had a problem with the door before. As sympathetic as they were I think they believed I had accidentally locked the door on myself and gave myself a panic attack since I had gotten so frightened earlier that night. If that was the case then why was the dad able to open the door so easily? And I distinctly remember leaving the door open and seeing that it wasn’t locked after it had closed. I heard all the knocks and I saw the shower curtain moving. Amy and Denise completely believed me and they insisted that their parents do something. They promised that they would look into getting the house blessed the next day and drove me home.

They did get the house blessed a few days later, or something similar to it. It was a while before I went back over to the house and it was only after they all assured me that nothing had happened since that night. I only spent the night one other time but that was mostly due to the fact that I grew apart from Amy and Denise as we got older, especially when I switched to another school. We were still friends but we had outgrown the sleepovers.

I still see them, and Sam, sometimes and we talk on Facebook frequently. We all have nightmares about that night sometimes and we are very anti-Ouija boards. Their parents still live in that house and Amy has told me that strange things still happen there, but her parents believe that if it’s a spirit it’s a benevolent one. After my experience I disagree, I don’t think it’s kind it is a kind spirit at all.

Credit To – hollylion

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Just Your Average Night

May 23, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Just Your Average Night
By Julie Oliver

“Ok, time for bed” … is what I said to the empty living-room. It was getting late, and the internet no longer amused me. I picked up my cell phone, rooted through the couch cushions until I located the remote, and turned off the television that had been nothing but background noise for the last few hours.

I made sure the front and back doors were securely locked, walked around the back of the couch, and turned off the only light. A tap on the screen of my phone created just enough light to keep from busting a toe on an errant table leg.

Because my cats have an evil tendency to lie in the middle of the hallway, I aimed the small amount of light from my phone directly in front of my tired and shuffling feet. I’d only covered a small distance before I knew, from many nights of this same regimen, that I was getting close to the bedroom door. At this point my arm started the slow upward arc that would eventually illuminate the now pitch-black opening to the comfort of my room.

The light emanating from my cell was quite dim, and this action had become quite rote, so my arc was about waist level before I noticed a slight variation of the familiar black of the open doorway. At that point, and in a disturbingly short amount of time, five things happened nearly simultaneously:

My arm, the arm carrying the phone, continued to rise in its predetermined arc, having been an object in motion which would stay in motion.

I released a small gasp and exclaimed to my husband that his sudden appearance in the dark had startled the breath from me.

I remembered that my husband was at work.

The light arc reached its apex on a face of protruding nail-like teeth. A face suspiciously bereft of eyes, with a gaping, oozing, bloody pit where a nose should have been.

The light went out.

Credit To – Julie Oliver – Grand Pubaa of Shaddow Domain

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May 22, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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It’s late July. I’m driving around on the back roads in the forests of rural Alabama. It’s early evening and the sun is just beginning to set. The hot, humid air of the day has cooled down, and crickets are starting to chirp. A few small bats fly overhead, snatching mosquitoes and moths out of the air. My windows are rolled down and I’m enjoying the fresh air as my truck meanders down the crumbling asphalt road. I like taking these drives; they relax me and I have time think. I take them often and know the woods well. I look up at the clear sky; there isn’t a cloud in sight. A few stars twinkle to the east.

As the evening shifts to night, I decide to head back home. The air is tense and even more humid than before, and it feels like storm is coming. The deep rumble of thunder from many miles away reaches my ears, and the chatter of the woods lessens. The storm is far off, and I feel no rush to get home. I still have time to enjoy nature. The stars are beautiful.

A massive splat hits my windshield, and then another, and then another. I’m startled by the noise, and soon I am engulfed by a downpour of rain. I can’t see five feet in front of me, so I pull off to the side of the road, roll up my windows, and wait for the storm to pass. These showers usually last fifteen minutes, anyways. I’ll be out of here soon. I swear I could see the stars clear as glass only a minute before. I don’t dwell on it, though. Summer weather in Alabama is unpredictable. Lightning splits the sky above as I wait.

I am still sitting in my truck after an hour of heavy rain, and the storm shows no sign of letting up. Lightning pierces the cloud cover again, illuminating my surroundings. I can see about twenty feet in front of me for less than a second, and I get a glimpse of a figure at the perimeter of my field of vision. Darkness. The steady beat of rain on my truck continues. Another flash, and with no figure in sight. I’m tired now and starting to see things. This storm can’t last too much longer, but the sky keeps emptying itself upon me.

Not fifteen minutes later, my truck shifts in the ground, which is now made of mud. I am awoken from the light nap I had been taking and look around. The rain presses on, and the darkness is dense. I prop my elbow on the car door and rest my head in my hand, planning to try to get some more sleep. The car was just settling into the newly softened ground. It is impossible to see the sky.

The bed of my truck dips and slams into the ground, and the cab jumps into the air. My head flies forward and meets the steering wheel. As I lift my head up, the cab falls back to the soft earth and my head again hits the steering wheel. I do not know how long I am unconscious, but I wake up with a splitting headache, and my whole face feels wet. At first, I think the rain has somehow entered my truck, but the dark liquid on my steering wheel seems to be blood. I can’t think straight and sit still for a while, and then I suddenly become aware of what has just happened to me. I shoot my hand to the light switch and put on my high beams. All I can see is rain in front of me, rain and blackness. I check my rear view mirror. Illuminated by the red glow of the truck’s taillight, a figure stands, unmoving. All I can make out are its eyes, which are pure white. There are no pupils and no irises, only white. A low humming fills my ears, invading my mind. My vision gets fuzzy, and I pass out. The sky glows with lightning.

I wake up in the early morning. The storm has ceased, though a light sprinkle continues to fall. The forest is filled with a dim light, but I see no animals, nor do I see the figure. I look down at the dashboard and my lap. I am caked in blood. Feeling my forehead tentatively, I find no cut or scratch. I am surprised, but my miraculous healing is not a problem and I do not question it. I reach for the ignition and twist the keys, but my truck doesn’t start. I’m not shocked, and it seems my only other option is to walk to the nearest gas station, which is nearly thirty miles away. I swing the door open and step out into the morning air, which is cool and fresh. I sense no danger and decide to inspect my truck before leaving it. My front tires are both flat and are nearly buried in the mud, while the back half of the vehicle is bent inwards. Whatever the figure is, it hits hard. Shaken by the memory, I start trudging down the road. My head still hurts, but I continue on in the rain. Grey clouds roll across the sky overhead.

It is lighter now, and the rain has turned into a mist. I have walked a mile or so from my car, and I am standing in front of a deer. It is lying on its side, and its organs are strewn across the road. The foul iron smell of blood hits my nostrils, and I start breathing through my mouth to avoid the stench. At first, it appears to be road kill, but I see no glass or scraps from a collision with a car, and no other part of the deer is damaged except for its torso, save for the eyes, which are pure white. I squat to get a better look at the deer. It seems to have been ripped open, and only from one side, from which all the organs were removed. Then I notice something and fall back onto the ground, splashing in the pool of blood around the animal. Its heart is beating. I can see the rhythmic jerking of the muscle. I do my best to stand up and step back, and dread fills me to the core as the deer’s mouth starts to twitch. I can see a dark figure out of the corner of my eye. A low humming begins to drown my thoughts again, and then, amid the fear and the hum, I hear a whisper. “Run.” It is impossible to tell the difference between the mist and the sky as I flee for my life.

I can barely hear the sound of a car engine through the beating of my heart and the droning of the hum. I hear someone shouting at me from behind, asking if I’m okay, asking if I need a ride. I turn around, still moving, to see who is yelling. A large truck with dark tinted windows is following close behind me. I cannot see the driver. I stop and run towards the vehicle, with a friendly voice asking me if everything is alright as I near the window. That is when the stench hits me. The smell of blood slams into me, causing me to stop in my tracks for a moment before continuing to the driver’s side door. When I come up to the window, I freeze, and I cannot find the strength to move. The cab of the truck is coated with blood, and I can see the driver’s lungs lying on the dashboard. I look to his face, which is smiling at me, as if I were the man’s close friend. His eyes are white. I am lost in his gaze. Despite the fear, I feel welcome and safe. I begin to walk around the car to get in the passenger seat when I see the figure standing on the other side of the truck. Its white eyes feel like they’re tearing me apart, but I manage to run. I run and I keep on running. I run till I finally see the gas station. I do not know how I manage to run so far so fast, but all I can think about is getting help from another human being. As I enter the gas station, thunder rumbles across the sky above me.

“Hello! Welcome to Gas Central! Beautiful weather out today! I hope you’re having a great day under this wonderful, clear sky! Let me know if you need anything!”

I look over to see a woman greeting me from behind a counter and rush over to tell her my story and to call the police. As I explain what has happened, her smile disappears and her eyes fog over till they are as white as bone. She steps back and stares at me, and gives a deep sigh. The foul smell of blood reaches me, and the humming starts immediately after. Suddenly I am covered in blood, but not my own. The woman’s insides cover the counter and floor, and her body stands before me, opened up. I can see her spine, as well as her beating heart. I see the black hand of the figure rest on my shoulder. I do not have time to run. Rain starts pouring from the sky outside.

“Hello! Welcome to Gas Central! Beautiful weather out today! I hope you’re having a great day under this wonderful, clear sky! Let me know if you need anything!”

The woman is smiling at me as my eyes begin to fog and the humming drowns out all my thoughts and emotions. My fear disappears as a sweet smell of iron floats through my nostrils and a growing pressure in my chest releases. I smile back. The air is warm and the blue sky shines bright outside.


Credit To – Chapman

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The Dream Weaver

May 20, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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As I entered the facility, I could all but bite down the aggravating anxiety that arose from my gut as I approached the main desk. The receptionist who resided behind it glanced up with a half-hearted smile.

“Hello,” I began rather foolishly, “I’m here for the dream weaver experiment; I saw in the paper yesterday that volunteers were requested?”

The short, stout woman nodded affirmatively, passed me a clipboard and pen and instructed me to fill out the provided questionnaire. As excitement overcame paranoia, I perched on a nearby chair and began to fill it out appropriately – it consisted of generalised medical questions and a sleep-related survey, asking me how long I generally slept, and at what time I would awake from my slumber. There were some random questions in there as well, and it all appeared somewhat insignificant in my eyes, however I assumed it was to trial a wide variety of people.

The only question I saw relevant to the experiment was the final question which asked how often do you dream?. As that reoccurring feeling of being outcast returned, I ticked the box labelled NEVER. I can not pinpoint a single memory in my evanescing childhood where I had a dream, and truth be told, that is the exact reason I took an immediate interest in the experiment when I saw it advertised – an experiment to study how the brain replicates what it sees into dreams. A new machine, namely dream weaver, was capable of recording and replaying dreams.

I handed the receptionist my form, and she took a small glance and the final inquiry about the frequency of my dreams. She must have been contented, to my surprise, because she indicated to the double doors at the right and informed me that “Dr. Mace will be waiting through there”. She handed back my form.

Beyond the doors was a white labyrinth of busy scientists and bizarre contraptions being tested. Towards the end of the current corridor was a large glass room, and inside a small, jolly man – Dr. Mace, I assumed – stood up upon noticing me. He shook my hand, took my questionnaire and instructed me to sit before addressing me.

“Welcome Mr-” He paused to read the name written on the form, “André. Thank you for your involvement in the dream weaver experimentation. Over the course of the following 5 days, your mind will be subjected to a video we have devised to test your sub-conscience memory. Your dreams will be monitored and your psychological processing will be recorded and replicated as an evidential video. Do you have any questions?”

I shook my head, thinking it wise not to interrogate Dr. Mace about how the machine could do such promises. I signed two further forms of consent before being lead to a small, dark room equipped with a chair, a large projector, and a pair of headphones. Once I was adjusted and left alone, the video began.

It began as a flurry of faces and speech fragments, compiled together in such a manner, it caused my head to throb. There was a consistent crackle, an old-style effect which ran over the constant flashes of images, videos, and conversational snippets, all of which demonstrating a distressing theme or topic that I found occasionally difficult to watch. I must have witnessed around 30 faces within a minutes time, and at some points I could have sworn that the face of Dr. Mace – and other seen scientists – cropped up. I thought nothing of it, as after all this was their video, and they were entitled to include themselves if so wanted. Unknown people continued to arise, however, by this point in the video, I had tuned out of the frenzy and instead focused my attention, indecisive whether deliberately or subconsciously, on the figure who unnervingly seemed now predominant in the background. Whilst I wasn’t sure when it appeared, it remained in the distance throughout. From the said distance, it was difficult to distinguish any set characteristics or features; all I could decipher at this point was it’s figure, fully black, tall and bulky with wide shoulders and elongated claws which stretched down to the floor. And whilst I could not see it’s eyes – or any of it’s face, for that matter – something about it’s gaze was unsettling, unnatural, as if somehow it was returning my stare. The scenes began to escalate in severity and yet I could not focus on them, I was drawn to this figure that emanated something dark and fearful that I simply couldn’t describe in words. The video came to an end, and only now the impact of the cacophonous screaming, moaning and shouting became apparent – my head pulsated, and my eardrums screamed for pity.

I was returned to my room, assured by Dr. Mace that “headaches were predicted side-effects” and that I “had nothing to be concerned about.” I was now to “get some rest”. Two other scientists – Dr. Wester and Dr. Cole – connected me to the dream weaver. I had presumed that the machine would alight, or make some sort of noise, but it remained dormant – perhaps as not to disturb my sleep.

Within what, to me, felt like a second, I was awoken by the radiant sunlight through the window. Groggily, I sat up, having no recognition (as usual) of even falling asleep. At first, I felt guilty that I had wasted their time and failed the dream experiment, but to my surprise, Dr. Mace came bursting in. “Come quick” he demanded, guiding me to the room with the projector. “It worked, it actually worked. Take a look.”

The projected started. Before my eyes appeared the room I had slept in, and I could see myself, sat in the middle of the room.

“This.. This is my dream?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s what we call a ‘third-person perspective’. Very common”

I continued to watch, waiting for something to happen, looking around the screen desperately. That’s when I saw it.

I didn’t know, again, the point at which it appeared – whether it had been there from the beginning, or whether it only just materialised – but I could see it clearly now, beyond the window in the dark depths of my subconscious reality. It was the figure from the video, and similarly, I couldn’t escape it’s glare; it’s sinister stare was captivating. “That,” I pointed slowly, “that’s from the video. What is it?”

Dr. Mace let out a brief chuckle, unexpectedly maniacal. “That is the Weaver,” he said blatantly, as if I should have known this fact, “he is nothing more than a feature of the video. That’s all.” There was nothing more on the topic. I was skeptical, yet I decided to go with what he said. The dream lasted a good hour, but nothing significant occurred, and I soon lost interest.

Over the next few days, their experiment continued. I would watch the video, sleep, and re-watch my dream in a continuous cycle. According to Dr. Mace, the video remained the same, however I believed differently. I can’t say whether what I thought was true, or whether it was just my imagination, but the Weaver seemed to get closer to the screen each night. By the fourth night, he was so close I could clearly determine his facial features, – dark, pitted eyes -so dark it was hard to decipher what was pupil and what wasn’t- his smile was broad, upturned, primitive and animalistic. And he continued to look at me: look back beyond the screen, unmoving, unblinking. My dreams became progressively distressing, too. The previous silence was now replaced with constant whispers (although what was said remained a mystery), chants, and shouts, along with a dull static sound. I would walk around the room, punch and kick the walls, rock back and forth, and demand that the torment should stop. The Weaver had most certainly advanced to the point where he loomed at the glass of the window, tapping loudly on the pane with its bony claws with a berserk smile plastered on its face.

When night 4’s video came to a chilling end, Dr. Mace nodded slowly at the other scientists behind him, and I was taken back to my room, much earlier than usual. However this time, procedure was somewhat different.

I heard the door lock behind me. “Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. André. The experiment is almost complete”. Dr. Mace murmured, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway, leaving me in the silence and solitude of my own company. Strange – I hadn’t been wired up to the dream weaver, and had not been shown the perculiar video that day – why? I moved toward the ghastly machine, pulling on the wires, attempting to remember where they were connected previously. It was this exact point that I noticed something was missing; the machine had no power cable, nor was there a socket for it to plug into. I’d neither noticed nor cared beforehand, but now I got a strange chill that ran down the entirety of my spine – a cold sensation of fear, dread and realisation.

The machine had no power. The machine wasn’t real.

Only now did I notice something peculiar in the room; yet another thing that I had failed to see. In the top right corner of the room, above the door, was a small security camera. I steadily approached, placing each footstep cautiously, until I stood directly beneath it. I could see my reflection staring back at me, and from this reflection I saw not only my own, terrified self, but the room around me at the same angle I has seen in the videos. Perfectly tucked out of direct sight, it gave a broad view of the room, from a ‘3rd-person perspective’, that I had slept in for the last four days; the window where that.. that thing had visited me nightly. The chilling sting of reality hit me hard:

The tapes I had watched were not my dreams; they were video footage.

The room become cold, dark, empty. My body was overwhelmed by a level of terror I deemed impossible; my breathing shallowed, my skin elapsed into a cold sweat and my mind burned in the flames of fear as I couldn’t help but notice that something mad and maniacal lurked in the shadowy corners of my peripheral vision. It had returned for me.

I turned my head, and as I did, the imminent silence was shattered. Whispering tore from nowhere and yet it was everywhere, each whisper overlapping another in repetition. “The Weaver has seen you”, “he’s coming for you”, and “Once he’s seen you, there is no escape” remained to be the most predominant of statements which swarmed the room. The static buzz returned too; a form of numbness in my head that made me twitch uncomfortably. The Weaver was standing beside the window, with an animalistic gargle emanating from his hideous throat. Saliva oozed from it’s interlocking fangs and dispersed as it snapped its neck a few times at freakishly aberrant angles before locking it’s perverse pits of eyes upon me. It took a looming step towards me – a steady outstretch of its bony, bulky limb- whilst keeping it’s devilish head fixed upon me. Each stride brought it a no less than a meter closer to my position against the wall, and each time the distance between us decreased, the severity of the situation intensified.

Whispers quickly escalated into deafening bellows; screams, shouts and moans. The buzzing had become a constant, loud whir that echoed off of the walls and clung to my ears tightly.

The Weaver took it’s long, continuous strands until it stood just inches from my face. It’s hot, clammy breath fell upon my skin as if continued to snap it’s neck and fingers, each time with a more sickening crack. I was drawn to it’s eyes; I couldn’t look away. As it opened its gaping jaws, revealing rows of needle-like canines, I began to feel a burning sensation that spread across my entire body in seconds. I can only describe if as being thrown in a live, raging fire… And yet I did not flinch – I couldn’t do anything except gaze acceptingly into the eyes of death. The noise around me had fell away to a small whisper in my ears: “the Weaver’s seen you now”.

It lifted its arm, and took my neck in the cold embrace of its claws. They felt like ice, and brought somewhat of a comfort to the magma under my skin. I had little idea of what was happening; I was lost in it’s eyes, transfixed in it’s ghastly gaze. It continued to breath heavily, taking long, raspy breaths as if it was struggling for air. Its claws – long blades of skin and bone – tightened, slicing into the soft, warm flesh of my neck. I felt no pain: only strange discomfort. I could feel the hot, sticky blood ooze down onto my chest… Ooze down onto its constricting digits. The area that was visible to me began to shrink, as if a final darkness grew from all corners of my sight.The whispering was silenced. Everything was silenced. The only thing that remained was the Weaver.

I began to wheeze; the struggle for breath escalated alarmingly, and yet I still felt too compelled by its empty pits of eyes not to escape its grasp. There was little point in retaliation – the Weaver had me now.

In the final ten seconds or so – it may have been shorter, as each second felt like an eternity – the pain kicked in. Suddenly, and overpoweringly, the agony which screamed where my flesh was torn and sliced was finally heard. I was unable to broadcast my pain; the only sound that escaped my throat was a pathetic, woeful rasp. The Weaver gave a small, satisfied smile at my pain, and cocked its dark head at a slight angle with a small snap. In its hoarse, grating voice, it slowly uttered the final words I would ever hear – the final words any of its unfortunate victims would hear: “You saw me. And I saw you. And now you are mine.”

The Weaver tightened his claws until he had a firm grip around the mutilated neck before turning his hand. There was a sickening crack, which brought a seemingly psychotic grin to the Weavers’ face as he watched the bloodied body slump to the ground. It turned towards the camera, readjusting its neck.

The experiment was now over. The Weaver had claimed another victim for his video; somebody else to control.
And now he requires somebody new. But that’s ok.
He’s seen you now.

The Dream Weaver

Credit To – Nightfall

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Angel Eyes

May 14, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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“Anna! Wake up! My angel is here!”

“What?” I eased one eye open until I was squinting at my brother. I would have opened them farther, except I couldn’t. He was shining a damn flashlight in my face.

I shooed my little brother away that night, barely even bothering to look. That was the biggest mistake I have ever made.

My mother had always been… “abusive”, for lack of a better word. She would yell at us, demean us, there was never a shortage of nasty words. As far as verbal abuse goes, Mom was dead on. Physically is where the line gets blurry. She hit us, for sure. But the times she did were few and far between, and honestly didn’t really hurt us. Mom’s abuse was mostly mental.

The worst was the time Brian let the puppy out. He had just gotten the dog for his 7th birthday, we hadn’t even had a chance to name it yet. He said he “thought it would be a good idea to let the puppy go exploring”. The puppy was hit by a car almost instantly. Mom dragged Brian out to the curb and screamed at him to look at the dog, then threw him to the ground and left him sitting there, crying. She stormed upstairs and disappeared into her bedroom. Later, she came down dressed in her work clothes, ordered me to keep an eye on my brother, and informed me that she’d be working a double shift and wouldn’t be home until the early morning hours. Then she drove off without saying another word to Brian.

I went out to him and asked him to come inside, offering him an ice cream from the freezer. He stared at the dead dog for another minute, gently crying and holding his scraped knee. Wordlessly, he came inside.

I couldn’t get him to talk to me at all that night. He sat on the couch, blankly staring at the cartoons I had put on, and I eventually got bored watching him. I went to my room and talked on the phone with my friend Lisa for a good hour. By the time I came out, Brian wasn’t on the couch anymore. After a minute of panicking and searching the downstairs rooms for him, I heard his voice.

Listening carefully, I realized it came from outside the house. He was sitting on the curb, next to the dog, looking up and to his right, as if he were speaking to someone slightly taller than him. Relieved, but still angry, I went out to him.

“Brian! What do you think you’re doing???”

“Sorry… I saw… There was a lady next to the dog. She said she was an angel. She said she was helping him.”

“You can’t see angels. They aren’t re-… They’re invisible. They watch over us, but they’re air colored.”

“No they’re not. They’re white.”

“Yeah, but they’re invis… Ugh. Whatever. Just get inside, it’s time for bed.”

I got him in his pajamas, not bothering to make him brush his teeth or shower. I was only 13, I wasn’t about to force him to do anything. Brian and I shared a room, which I hated. So I went to sleep in Mom’s room until she got home. She got back at around 3am, and kicked me out of her bed. Sleepily, I snuck down the hall to our room, when I heard Brian’s voice.

“Is it beautiful there?”

I stopped dead in my tracks, and listened. I thought maybe he was using the phone, which he wasn’t allowed to do so late at night. I also realized the light was on, it was shining out from under the door.

“It sounds really nice. But the puppy is dead. He’s hurt really bad. How can he be happy? Won’t he be sad forever?”

He paused.

“Oh. I get it. I guess. Can you tell me more stories about heaven, though?”

I listened for another 5 minutes, but he didn’t say anything else. Eventually, the light turned off. I snuck into the room, quietly, to see that Brian was either already asleep or pretending to be.

Ignoring him, I crawled into bed and went to sleep.

The next morning, Brian had all sorts of stories to tell. He just wouldn’t stop talking the entire time we were getting ready for school.

“And there are these really pretty, tall flowers that are even bigger than me, and animals ALL over the place, because all animals end up there, even my puppy. Oh!! And my puppy! He isn’t hurting at all anymore!!! You don’t hurt when you go there, nothing ever hurts again, and-”

He was interrupted by Mom, who was coming down the stairs. “Jesus Fucking Christ, will you shut the hell up, kid? I swear to God, if you say one more word about Heaven I’m going to send your dumbass up there”.

Mom made herself some coffee as Brian and I sat in silence. She poured it in a thermos and then pointed to the garage, gesturing for us to get in the car. We did.

As we drove to school, everyone was silent. Until Brian, very softly said “she says you’re not supposed to use God’s name like that”.

“What did you just say to me? God damn, kid.”

Brian exploded. “YOU CAN’T SAY GOD’S NAME LIKE THAT!!!”

Mom exploded right back, throwing the thermos over her shoulder at Brian. It smacked him right underneath the eye, and coffee poured out of it onto his shirt. It wasn’t hot enough to burn him, it was barely even lukewarm, but he screamed anyways.

“Shut the hell up!! You’re not fucking hurt!”

Brian pouted and quietly whimpered for the duration of the drive. We got to school, and he jumped out of the car.

“Wait,” Said Mom. She pulled his soccer jersey out of the trunk and handed it to him. As he changed out of his freshly-stained t-shirt, she said softly, “I’m sorry, Brian. But you shouldn’t talk to me like that.” He nodded at her, still teary-eyed, with a slight red mark on his cheek where the thermos had hit him. He ran off towards his class.

“Bye, Mom. Love you.” I said. She nodded back, a little teary eyed, herself.

I know Mom always felt bad when she exploded. She just got too angry sometimes. Still, if she could have just controlled her temper… Brian would still be here. But then again, if I had done a few things differently, Brian would be here, too.

When she picked us up after school that day, she was as nice as she could be. She bought Brian’s favorite chicken sandwich meal from the fast food place across town, and even went out of the way on the way home to get our favorite kind of cupcakes from this special bakery. Brian seemed happy enough, but he stayed silent as he ate, and as we all sat in the living room together watching his favorite movie, the one about the lost little clownfish.

Mom fell asleep on the couch, and Brian whispered for me to come to the room with him. I went, and we sat on my bed.

“Anna. My angel says she can make it so I never have to hurt again.”

“Brian, don’t start this again…”

“Please, Anna! Listen!” he begged. “I don’t want to be sad anymore. I don’t like when Mom gets mad. The angel says she can make it so Mom will never be mad again, and I’ll never get hurt again. And I want her to do it for you too. She says she can, she says you’re still innocent enough to go too.”

“And where are we going?”

His face lit up. “Someplace wonderful. And it’s not like we’ll never see Mom again. The angel promised.”

“It sounds like you’re talking about Heaven. We can’t just run away and go to Heaven, Brian. You have to die first.”

“Anna…” He said condescendingly. “Of COURSE we’re not gonna die. My angel said so.”

“Yeah? And how can you just trust everything she says?” I sarcastically started rattling off clichés. “You just know? You can feel it in your soul? You can see it in her eyes?”

“No”. He said matter-of-factly. “She doesn’t have eyes”.

I scoffed and rolled mine. “OK. That’s enough, Brian. Angels have eyes. Go to sleep.”

“Not these kinds of angels. Not the kinds in charge of showing us Heaven. They use their hearts to see, just like we’re supposed to.”

That rendered me speechless. He beamed at me, and said “I’m going tonight. I’ll wake you up when she gets here.”

He did wake me up that night, and I pushed him away, thinking he was just playing make-believe, and that he’d go to bed soon enough. But an hour later, I heard my mom scream, and the door slam.

I found Mom out by the curb, sobbing uncontrollably. There was a car up on the sidewalk, parked on top of our mailbox. And Brian was in the street, lying in the exact same spot his dog had been in.

I… I’m not going to describe it. I’m sure you’ve seen a squirrel in the street before, all stretched out and dirty, flattened in some spots and swollen in others, bleeding everywhere. Roadkill is bad enough to see. Well this… this was my brother.

A drunk driver had hit him. The driver was arrested, and my brother was buried, closed casket, two days later.

The preacher at his funeral talked about Heaven. He talked about how all little boys and girls go there. How they never suffer, they never hurt, they never feel pain. And he talked about how they are not truly dead, but they live on in our hearts, and have their new life in heaven.

I’m not sure what would have happened if I had gotten out of bed that night. I don’t know if I could have stopped him from going outside. I don’t know if I would have ended up splattered across that curb too. I just wish I could forget the whole thing. More than anything, I wish I could forget that blinding, white light that shone in my face when I peeked at Brian in the middle of the night. It had to have been a flashlight. It really couldn’t have been anything else. But whenever I look back at the memory, I can almost picture a pair of dark, red lips, a sliver of a nose… but no eyes.

I can’t remember any eyes.

Credit To – Rebecca Mendez (Bex)

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