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The Suicide King

Modern playing cards are filled with layers of meaning and symbology that can be traced back centuries. The four kings, for example, are based off of real rulers: the king of diamonds represents the wealthy Julius Caesar, the king of clubs is the brutal Alexander the Great, Spades represents the strong but kind David of Israel and Hearts represents the… emotionally disturbed, shall we say, Charles VII of France. It is this king that we will be dealing with today. It should also be noted that Charles was the only one of the four who was actually there to see the day that his face was printed on a playing card, which may rationalize why he acted apart from the others.

Charles’ visage was put on the king of hearts at the very beginning of his rule, but he never really got a chance to come into contact with playing cards until many years later when he became very ill with a fever and was informed that he would be bedridden for the rest of his life. It was during this period that Charles began learning card games to pass the time, such as an early version of black jack, “vingt-et-un” (twenty one).

Charles lay in his bed for two years, constantly fiddling with the cards and always getting weaker. As time continued to pass, there were reports that Charles had begun obsessing over the idea that the king being the thirteenth card in a suit was causing him bad luck. He talked about how he was starting to see the number pop up everywhere and that he was close to figuring out its secret. Of course, his ramblings were blamed on the fever, and by the end of the second year, he had been declared insane, and his son Louis XII took over the thrown.

One day, several months after the end of his reign, one of Charles’ physicians went to his chamber to find the frail old man standing in the middle of the room wielding a large sword. Before the doctor could react, the king said, “Ils m’ont montré la vérité de treize, et il n’est pas signifié pour les yeux mortels.” which roughly translates to, “They have shown me the truth of thirteen, and it is not meant for mortal eyes.” Without hesitation the king proceeded to ram the blade in through the left side of his head (between the ear and temple) until it came out the other side. He wavered a moment, before collapsing to the floor dead.

After the incident was announced and it was made public that the king had gone mad, the image of Charles on the king of hearts was altered to show himself offing himself. Although the picture is now shown significant-ly less graphically, the image of Charles thrusting the sword into his skull can still be found on modern day playing cards. Perhaps the strangest part of the whole story, however, is the day that Charles chose to kill himself: 7/6/1462. Whether or not it was intentional of the king, the facts that 6+7=13 and 1+4+6+2=13 can only be explained as coincidences.

//
Credited to John ♠.

Evaporation

Water.

Water is the cornerstone of life. It nourishes us, irrigates our crops and waters our livestock. Water is vital for all known forms of life. We rely on it to wash our cars, clean our food and produce our power. It has an effect on almost every activity in everyday life. Without it, civilisation would cease to function. Governments would collapse, crippled by an undefeatable enemy – drought. It would be a matter of days – no longer than a week – before every living being on Earth perished. In short, we cannot live without water.

Two days ago, we were forced to begin doing just that.

I don’t know how it began. Nobody left alive does. During the initial hours of it, theories ranged from the barely plausible, like a new form of greenhouse gas, to the ridiculous, such as a new type of light, one that only evaporated water. I remember those hours fondly – the true enormity of what had happened had not yet sunk in and hysteria had not yet clutched the human race.

What happened?

I’ll put it simply.

The first was that every single drop of freshwater on the entire planet evaporated instantly.

I don’t think I can do this event justice, but I’ll try.

Can you imagine every single river, every single lake, every single natural source of water drying up instantly, without rational explanation? I doubt you can, but that’s exactly what happened. It wasn’t restricted to natural sources, either. As far as I can tell, all the bottled water in the world also evaporated, as did that in water tanks and other similar sources. It also disappeared from other substances, including soft drinks, creating foul sugar compounds that would make those that consumed it quite ill. There was not a single drop of freshwater left anywhere on Earth for anybody to drink.

But by far the worst result of the lack of water was the nuclear reactors.

Without pressurised water, most of the nuclear reactors in the entire world – those that utilise purified water as coolant – had no available sources of coolant, and just under half of these had poor or untested failsafe plans. The resulting effect of this led to catastrophic nuclear meltdown in roughly 46% of water-cooled reactors. The world, already reeling from the unprecedented situation, fell into total anarchy.
International communication ceased after almost exactly twenty-four hours after it began.

But there was a second effect.

The saltwater poisoning.

Many people flocked to desalination plants in the first few hours, hoping for salvation.

They found none.

At approximately the same time as the worldwide evaporation, saline increased by fivefold in every sea or ocean on Earth. Desalination plants were able to cope with this load for approximately twenty hours. Then, fuel began to run low – and with the imminent collapse of civilisation thanks to the multiple nuclear catastrophes, no more was delivered. Thus, the last ever drop of freshwater on Earth was pumped out no later than midnight yesterday.

After the drought came the collapse.

With no water available, civilisation soon descended into anarchy. Governments, typical of authority to the very end, tried maintaining order. It didn’t work. Soldiers rebelled, shooting rioters and runners alike. Those who didn’t die were brutally executed moments after. They turned on each other soon enough, with only a few militaries intact from the carnage. The deserters fled, unwilling to stay and watch the extinction of Earth.

But then came the worst, far worse than anything before it.

There was, in fact, one source of water that hadn’t been touched.

I’m so lucky I realised before anyone else in my town.

It was blood.

Blood, which is over 90% water, was the only remaining liquid fit to drink.

And so some did.

At first, I didn’t believe it. It was too horrific.

Animals went first. The desperate drank the blood of cats, dogs, pets and feral animals of all kinds. Many offered too little blood to be of any value. The situation was made worse by the fact that I live in a rather large metropolitan city and beyond domesticated pets and the odd feral animal, there was no animals to catch and drink from. Perhaps those in the country fared better – I have no way of finding out, and frankly I don’t really care.

I knew then that humans were the only other option.

I first saw it twelve hours ago.

An elderly man, dressed in nothing but a torn dressing gown, slowly made his way down the street that ran in front of my house. He called for help desperately, croaking out that his entire nursing home was dead or dying, that the nurses had fled and that he was looking for help. He was so pitiful that I almost opened my door, if only to offer him some respite from the midday sun, and some of my sparse rations.

If I had been a second faster, I would not be writing this.

Before I could open the door, three people – two men and a woman – pounced from the shadow of a nearby tree. The poor old bastard had no chance. They leapt upon him, frenzied in their dehydration, and set on him with makeshift tools. It was the most terrifying spectacle of my entire life. One of the men had a hammer – he set about bashing the man’s joints in, one by one. Crack. Crack. Crack. I retched bile each time the hammer slammed into bone, so sickening was the crunch. The other had a gardening hoe. He hovered above the elderly man, bringing the makeshift weapon down once, twice. The tool cut through the man’s ankles like a knife through a steak.

The metaphor made me vomit. After I did, I looked back, if only to satisfy my own growing horror.

Oh, how I wish I hadn’t.

The woman, who was weaponless save for her own two hands, had straddled the man’s chest. Her hands were spread on the screaming man’s face as her own companions butchered him. Then, even as I watched, she dug her thumbs into his eyes. He howled like nothing I had ever heard before. She dug harder, pushing inwards and outwards simultaneously. When they were pulled free, blood and some even less discernible liquid splattered all over her. She grabbed them and ate them like fruit. I could hear the chewing sounds from my door. They bent to consume the precious blood and I turned away.

I call them the Drinkers.

There’s one thing I want to make very clear about them. They aren’t zombies. Nor are they affected by some external force that forces them to drink the blood of humans, such as a virus or disease. They are entirely human. I suspect that dehydration affects them worse than it does others and this forces them to drink from humans in a form of pseudo-cannibalism or perish. They represent the dark side of humanity. The Drinkers also seem to recognise each other through some subtle signal. Not being a Drinker, I wouldn’t know it.

As fast as I possibly could, I took my meagre supplies, some small comforts, this journal and my .357 Desert Eagle up into my bedroom. I pushed the bed against the door with my rapidly fading strength and piled furniture on it. The Desert Eagle has a full clip of seven, and I have one spare. Enough for thirteen Drinkers and - well, I’m sure you can imagine.

—

Another six hours have passed. I can really feel the dehydration now. My tongue feels numb and my skin feels like sandpaper. I tried to eat some bread before and I almost choked, with no saliva to moisten my throat. Now I’m hungry as well as thirsty. I don’t even know why I’ve kept writing this. Maybe it’s something to occupy me during the final hours of mankind. Maybe I hold some hope that a solution will be found and somebody in the future will read this and remember what it was like. Maybe I’m just delusional.

—

It’s getting worse. I’m breathing heavily and becoming more and more lethargic. This room feels like a sauna. I can almost see the heatwaves bouncing across the room, becoming more and more intense until I am literally cooked alive. It’s not a pleasant vision. My pen keeps slipping from the page as I suffer random bursts of weakness. I’m scared I won’t even be able to pull the trigger if the time comes.

—

I’m so terribly thirsty. The last time I urinated it burned. I haven’t defecated for a long time now. My vision’s fading in and out and my head feels like it’s going to split open from the intense pressure inside. My skin is so dry and leathery. I know I’m dying, but I’ve still got the Desert Eagle. Maybe I should kill myself before I lose the strength to do so. God knows it’s better than dehydrating to death or letting the Drinkers get me.

—

so thirsty
its dark and i’ve lost the gun
vision almost gone
so THIRSTY
i’m going mad
i’m dying
wait
what’s that
so thirsty
somebody’s knocking at the door
they want to be let in
they say the drinkers are coming
should i
i don’t know
maybe i’ll go get a drink.
i’m so thirsty.

//
Credited to Archfeared.

I Don’t Sleep Anymore

Earlier this week, on Sunday night, I had a dream in which I knew I was asleep. I was stood outside of my house in torrential rain at night and thought I needed to get inside in order to wake up. I approached the front door and placed my knuckles onto the door-window ready to knock. I knew that my next action would bring me one step closer to consciousness. The moment I knocked on the door, the thudding sound of the knock was so loud, so frightening and so real that it woke me from my sleep.

BANG BANG BANG

I jumped up immediately and listened out for a further knock at the door. I was roasting hot, sweating profusely and my heart was beating so hard, I don’t think I would have been able to tell the difference between a knock at the door and my thudding heart beat. After I came to my senses and realised that the possibility of the door knocking at the exact moment of dreaming it is incredibly low, I fell back to sleep.

Monday, the very following night, I had the same dream. Right back outside the front of the house in the pouring rain again, intensely staring at the house. I slowly walked to the front door, this time it was open. I walked in and went straight into the kitchen. I opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out the largest meat knife I have. I looked into my reflection through the blade of the knife.

If you stare directly into the reflection of your eyes for long enough, eventually it will hit you that someone is looking at you. You know it’s your reflection, but for just a second, you forget and become self conscious, as if it’s somebody else behind your reflection’s eyes. It didn’t take a second of looking at my reflection through the blade to realise that somebody else was looking back. The moment I realised it was somebody else wearing my grin in the reflection, I slammed the cutlery drawer shut.

BANG

Again, I shot up out of bed. The sound of the metal clanging in the drawer as it abruptly closed was so defined and so crystal clear, it couldn’t have been a dream. Really spooked this time, I went downstairs into the kitchen. I was half asleep and had to check. I opened the cutlery drawer. I was relieved to find the knife still in the drawer. I closed it and went back to bed. It took a little longer this time, but I fell asleep.

Tuesday night, my dream started with that grin in the reflection. From the look in his eyes, I could tell that the man in the reflection knew he was looking back at someone confused and scared. I found myself looking into the reflection of the knife, already in my hand, while stood outside of my house in the rain. The front door was open again. I walked into the house, directly up the stairs and into my bedroom. I looked at the bed and saw someone sleeping in it. It was me.

I knew what I was going to do, but also knew that I couldn’t stop myself. Instead, I kept think over and over again “Wake up”. My emotions were both in two extremes at once. I was terrified, but at the same time I was thrilled and excited to kill. “WAKE UP!”

I shot right out of bed and stood up. I was absolutely drenched in sweat, roasting hot, but relieved to find nobody stood in front of me with a knife. It took a few seconds to realise that I was gripping something tight in my hand. I knew what it was even before I looked down at it and saw my reflection in it. It was the meat knife, and this time the reflection in it looked terrified.

I don’t sleep anymore.

Self Preservation

If you’re reading this, then I am hopefully long gone. It’s been… two months now since the meteor struck Mississippi. There was a lot of public interest in it, astrologers and the like all gathering around for a look. They took samples of the rock and shipped them all over the world to museums in every country. Hell, I almost made a trip to have a look myself, but I had an interview with a potential employer. If he hadn’t called me up the previous day, I’d be dead now. Three days later, after the initial hype died down, the news reported nothing on the meteor for a couple of days.

The next thing I heard about it was when I got home from the pub and turned on the late-night news. I was just in time to catch a breaking news article. The worried-looking reporter informed me that almost everyone who had been in the vicinity of Mississippi when the meteor went down had been hospitalised. Their symptoms were similar to those that a corpse experiences during decomposition. Ten people had already died, mostly the elderly and the very young. Scientists and geneticists from all over the globe were working frantically to try and find a cure. Being smarter than the average bear, I gathered some supplies and prepared for an epidemic. Years of being paranoid beyond reason was finally about to pay off.

The news the next day had a lighter tone. A Chinese scientist had worked out that the meteor had contained an alien strain of bacteria that slowly broke down flesh tissue. The scientist also remarked that the bacteria were only affecting humans. He had also worked out that if a victim consumed a living being, such as an insect, it would delay the progression of the bacteria, giving the scientists more time to figure out a permanent cure. Anyone who thought they may have contracted the infection was to eat as many live creatures as they could. The reporter also explained that the US Army was attempting to contain the infection.

They failed.

Anyone who has read Stephen King’s book, The Stand, will have an idea of how the bacteria made its way around the world. It passed through the air, but to catch it, you had to be near someone infected. Because the symptoms took between three to five days to kick in, people didn’t realise that they were infected. In a week, Victus Somes Disease, as it had been named, was global.

I had barricaded myself in my house, with towels and blankets stuffed into every crack. I had the TV tuned to the news all day and night. The scientists had not predicted that the bacteria would adapt to the infected people’s efforts at trying to keep it at bay. Victims all over the world were claiming that the insects were no longer working. People were starting to catch small mammals and eat them.

As the days went by, people were slowly eating larger and larger animals. The first reported case of cannibalism was, ironically, the last broadcast made. The anchorman’s hair was falling out and he was missing three teeth. He nervously told America that there had been a reported case of cannibalism in Southern Europe. He also said that there would be no further broadcasts. All survivors were to lock themselves in their house and not let anyone in.

For the next week and a half, I watched the infected shamble up the street, knocking on doors. One of my neighbours, a couple of houses down from me, was stupid enough to open the door. Three people dragged him out and started biting his flesh. They started with his arms and legs, trying to keep him alive for as long as possible. They were crying as they ate. Their meal was shrieking in pain, and the three people eating him were apologising furiously through mouthfuls of his arm. I don’t think they were unable to control themselves; it looked more like they were disgusted by what they had to do to stay alive.

They tried to break into my house five or six days later, but my barricades held. They were outside, begging me to let them in. “Just one bite. Please, be generous.” I listened to their pleading all night, too scared to sleep.

I suppose I should explain why I’m writing this. I’m infected. Yesterday I coughed and lost a canine. I spent the night pulling out my teeth, easing them out one by one. It didn’t hurt; they just slid out, like pulling up carrots. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m infected. The bugs have stopped working, and all the wild animals have long since run away. I have decided to lure someone into my house and attack them. It sounds so wrong writing that out, but I don’t want to die. And I’m so hungry.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

//
Credited to BananaCorn.

Seriously?

A man and woman walked out of the bank, hand in hand. This might be a normal thing for anyone, maybe even you. But not for her.

The man made a typical, throwaway remark about their lunch plans. Under usual circumstances, this would just be interpreted as a feeble attempt to incite lightheartedness into the conversation. But not for her.

With a quick, agile movement, the woman, his wife, picked up a slab of concrete by the sidewalk and, with great aim, hit two doves perched on a low-hanging branch. They fell, like two pathetic white balloons. As soon as they hit the ground, his wife beat them to a pulp-she could see that they were still breathing. And her husband knew that he fucked up again.

Some passerby began to stare openly at the horrible sight of two bashed birds.

“Linda!” Her husband yelled. “Stop it!”

“I thought we were going to kill two birds with one stone?” She replied, in a voice of unnatural calm. Her face gazed up at him from the ground, stoic and rigid, like some dread mask.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

She had a certain….well, mental illness is a bit of a euphemism. Let’s just say she had a disability. A serious and rare one. Linda could not understand the difference between jokes and imperatives. She took every figure of speech she heard seriously, and was often compelled to make whatever it was into an actuality. Her husband recalled, one point, when she nearly pushed him out the window, when, in light of the recent resignation of his business partner, he remarked that he was in fact flying solo. Linda wasn’t always dangerous, though. Sometimes, he’d go home only to find her giggling like a little girl at the sight of milk on the floor. Or maybe even staring out windows during rainy evenings to see whether any cats and/or dogs were to be found falling from the sky. But then came the times when she would get harmful. Only last month, the pediatrician living in the apartment next to theirs got pelted with apples and other fruits. Poor woman nearly tripped down the stairs. This other time, an event which still scared him up to now, she shoved in his hands a bit of her bloody scalp, saying it was a piece of her mind. She had to wear a bonnet whenever she had to get out of the house after that. In spite of all this strange and violent behavior, he still loved his wife very much and could not bear to send her away to a mental hospital.

His mistake.

He became very careful around what she would see or hear coming from anybody since the episode with the birds. Much to his joy, a year and a half passed without much incident, and their firstborn child was soon to come. It was good, since the coming of a baby took their minds off whatever financial problems they had.

He was away when it happened. After he heard that child was born, he rushed back home.

As soon as he stepped through that door, he knew something was wrong. His wife was calling him from the kitchen. In her arms was the son he could never know.

In the light of their kitchen, lain on the table, were the remains of the baby, their baby. Its mouth was stretched open to such a degree that it split open, the underside of its jaws seen. It reminded him of a tear in cloth, the seams not made of fabric but of flesh. What little blood the baby had to spare was everywhere. In response to his child’s grotesquely expanded mouth, his father’s jaw fell open in surprise and terror and disgust, threatening to do the same. A scream tried to come out, but it did not.

Forcibly thrust into the gaping hole that was a baby’s mouth, was his wife’s forearm. She seemed to be trying to claw something out of the-

As soon as his wife spotted him, she turned in his direction, bloody baby still stuck on her arm.

“You have to help me! The doctor said he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth!”

//
Credited to Truncheon

DAY OF ALL THE BLOOD: THE MOVIE

So, uh, who did this?

The Black Door: A Tale of Personal Phobia

I never liked doors. There was always something about doors that freaked me out. When they were open, I felt exposed. When they were closed, I felt a bit safer, yet nervous about what was on the other side. So I often lock my doors and the doors that lead outside of my small rural house have plenty of windows. I’ve told people about this phobia, I guess you could call it that, before. They’ve rationalized it, saying “It’s like how some people aren’t afraid of the dark, but what the dark hides”. Yes, that makes sense. I guess, ever since I was a kid, I always imagined watching one open on its own and a monster would come out and get me. Even now and again into my teen years did this happen. It was always a door, never through a window, never out of a dark hallway or corner, but a door. The knob would turn, the hinges would creak and out came a creature of utter blackness and it would take me away, kill me or whatever monsters did. That is why I hated this particular door.

This door was tall, nearly eight feet tall and about three feet wide. It was black, jet black. I didn’t like it. It was big, dark, and in my bedroom. I never used this door often. I kept some old clothes behind that door on racks. Suits, ties, dress pants, just some random formal stuff I hardly used. I was just a cook so I never really needed them unless I needed a job. Luckily I was able to stay with this diner for a long time. I haven’t opened that door for five years. I often wonder why I never got rid of it. If I didn’t like it, why keep it? Well I guess because it just seemed silly. It seemed silly to get rid of a door just because of some childhood fears. I was a big boy now, I’m not supposed to be afraid of the dark or the boogeyman.

“Heh, yeah.” I rapped my knuckle against the door as I stood in front of it, “I’m not afraid of you. You’re just a big piece of wood. All you got behind you are some old clothes that probably don’t even fit me anymore.” I tried to laugh away my concern as I looked at the door. It seemed to tower over me, two small panels at the top of the door seemed to angle down at me. For a moment I felt like it was looking right at me. I tried to laugh again, but I couldn’t quite muster the humor. Instead I gave it another rap and walked off. I had things to do, get ready for work, bills to pay, and people to see. I didn’t have time to be afraid of a door.

A couple of nights went by after I ‘mocked’ the door. The feeling of being looked down on didn’t leave for the rest of the week. For some reason I just felt…watched by the door. I lay in bed one night, parallel to the door, and stared at it. The door was hidden in the darkness, with only its brass knob to let me know it never moved. I stared for some time, looking directly at it. I felt like I was in a staring contest with the door. We just looked at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. We waited until one of us broke the stare, we tried to intimidate the other. We stared for a long time before I finally blinked. When I did blink I expected the door to suddenly swing open and reveal some sort of monster. Nothing happened, the door simply stood there, looking at me, looming over me. A chill ran down my spine and I finally turned away. I went to sleep, but not after several glances back at the door.

I woke up that morning with a headache. My head pounded like a death metal drum solo. I groaned, it hurt like a son of a bitch. I pressed my hands on the bed to feel something warm dampen my hands. I opened my eyes. There on my pillow and down onto the white sheets was a pool of blood. I sat up, tearing my face away from the pillow. It was sticky from the dried blood. When I examined the sheets closer I saw drops falling from my nose. I had a bloody nose, of course. I quickly stood up from my bed and ran to the bathroom with my head up like some sort of super snob. Ya know, the kind where they even look down on God. Anyway I ran in and looked at myself in the mirror. The left half of my face, mostly the cheek and mouth area, was dark red and brown and two streams of blood still dripped from nose. I held it up again, this time feeling around the bathroom for some toilet paper. I found some and quickly plugged my nose up in a hurry. The toilet paper stopped the blood and I was able to sigh in relief. I felt dizzy though and when the crisis ended, my headache decided to take center stage again. With another groan I wandered into my bedroom and called in sick. I couldn’t go to work like this. I called my boss, and with the toilet paper in my nose, I sounded more convicting. He told me to call someone and so I called Fred, he’s a good shit.

“Hello?” Came up his voice. I must’ve just woke him up.

“Hey, Fred. It’s Josh. Listen man, I’m feeling like shit and I need you to come in for me, alright?” There was a silence on the phone. He was probably nodding. Fred had a stupid tendency to do that, like he thought the phone had video or something. Finally he responded.

“Yeah, yeah sure.” He said with a yawn.

“Thanks man, I’ll take Friday for ya, if you’d like.”

“I would like that, Josh. Thanks.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to ya later.” I hung up. There, I had the day to get cleaned up and my head to feel better. As I laid my phone back on the base I noticed something odd. There was a sheet missing from my bed. Figuring I just kicked it off as I slept, I took a look around the bed. Nothing. Not under the bed, not behind it, not around it. I looked all over and couldn’t find it. With a sigh I sat down on the bloody bed. What a day, and I just woke up. My headache pounded as I tried to think, tried to calm down. I felt like crap, but I also felt nervous for some reason. A bloody nose and a headache then my sheet is gone. I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. What a fucking day. Then I looked up, intent on some aspirin…and I noticed something else. My closet door wasn’t closed all the way. I could tell because the latch rested on the outside of the frame. Now I was really freaking out.

I stood up, in nothing but my boxers and approached the door. I reached for the handle. I looked up at those two panels and again, they seemed to angle down at me, staring me dead in the eye. I hesitated and took a step back. Why was it open and why was I so scared of it? It was just a door. Nothing to be scared of…yet I was. I was absolutely terrified of this door right now. My head pounded, my nose was plugged with toilet tissues, and I was alone in my boxers. Dawn was just creeping through my window. I gripped the handle. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to be scared of. I told myself this probably a million times as my hand shook on the knob. The quaking knob made small rattling noises as the latch vibrated against the frame. Finally I took a deep breath, made a tight fist, and swung open the door.

Inside was the five jackets, dress shirts, dress pants, and two pairs of shoes I wear for interviews. They were all aligned and straight on the rack they hung on by their hangers. Just as I had left them five years ago. I looked down and there was my sheet under the coats. It was folded up neatly into a perfect square. One word raced across my mind a thousand times. How? How how how how how how? I didn’t know, and I didn’t think I wanted to know. Mustering my courage again, I reached down and grabbed the sheet then I shut the door. I must’ve used more force than usual as the door shut with a small slam. I jumped in response, but I stood my ground otherwise. I looked back up at the two panels and remained still. They looked back. They seemed to be waiting for some sort of response to my findings. Did they want praise, fear, scolding? What was I do to? Should I tell it how much it scared me and how terrible of a trick it was? I looked up at it. It looked back. I never moved from where I was until around 10 am.

The day pressed on. I was downstairs, cleaned up and my headache was gone. I was sitting on my couch watching TV. I was watching a documentary. It was about the civil war and how Sherman marched through Atlanta burning all in his path. Next to me in a chair was the sheet I found in the closet. I didn’t take the time to put them back on the bed, nor did I take the bloody sheets and pillow to be washed. I didn’t intent to sleep up there anyway. Yet it seems my venture to avoid the door was not something I was destined. As a man talked about how Sherman planned to burn Atlanta to the ground I heard something that made my blood run cold. A loud slam echoed through the emptiness of my house. It was a fierce slam, like someone who was running for their life would slam a door in front of a killer. Or like how a child looking for attention would slam their parent’s door. I jumped up from the couch and look up the stairs leading to my room. The slam echoed in my ears a few times as I gazed up, unable to move. I was not just scared anymore. I was terrified. Something was in my house, something hid behind that door. And that something wanted my attention.

“Hello?” I called out. I wasn’t sure how I was able to muster the courage to call out into the empty house. I wasn’t even sure why I thought I’d get answer. I didn’t and the house was silent once again. My nerves were not settled however. I took a few steps forward, my socks whispering on the pale carpet. I stopped and nothing continued to happen. I licked my lips, they were incredibly dry. I then jogged. I couldn’t believe how fast I decided to see the door. My body felt like on autopilot as I skipped up steps to my room. I flew past the bathroom and suddenly found myself at the doorway leading to my room. I looked around the corner. There was the door. It was shut tight, no latch left out. I stepped into my room. I stepped slowly, cautiously. Those two panels watched my every move like the eyes of a hawk, or that of a demon. I looked at them as I continued. Every few steps I paused to listen and watch. Nothing happened. Then I was at the door. I looked up at the panels again. This time something else caught my eye. It was a long streak. The door was covered with them, but this one was larger than the rest. The streak extended between the two panels and curved. It was smiling at me.

I was downstairs again. This time with a beer in my hands, the quilt over me, and my head on the arm of the couch. The time was 11:30pm. I was watching a movie. One of the Die Hards I think it was. I sat, my eyes blank and my body cold. I was very cold now. I even wore my jacket under the quilt and I was still shivering. I was probably actually very scared, yet I didn’t feel all that scared. Just cold. I watched as explosions came off the screen, as gunfire was passed back and forth between Bruce Willis and some terrorists. I watched, my body shivering yet still. I took a drink of the beer only every ten minutes, on the minute. I watched…and waited. I knew I was waiting for something. For the door to do something, yet I couldn’t leave. I didn’t feel the need yet. I felt distant, actually. I felt like I was watching myself watch TV. I only ever came back to the present whenever the ten minutes came up. I watched TV and kept an ear out for something.

At 12:00 midnight, just as I drank my beer I heard what I was waiting for. The walls shook, the ground quaked, and my heart stopped. There was another loud slam, oh, but it wasn’t over yet. That slam was followed by another, and another, and another. The pace was slow at first, but it picked up quickly. It was almost like listening to a giant smash against a wall over and over again. My body moved faster than I ever thought I could, yet I remember every moment. My hair standing up, my legs kicking off the quilt, my hands grabbing the keys to my car. My head turning to the stairs. The slamming continued throughout the process. I ran out the door, I ran to my car. Then I drove away. I drove so fast, so fast to get away from the slamming. It continued in my head. Pounding, over and over and over again. It just wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t concentrate. I just heard the slamming of my closet door over and over again, like a jackhammer. It pierced my mind and broke my sanity. I began to laugh and laughed even louder as I watched a pair of headlights rush into my car.

–
Credited to Eman.

Do Try

Found the shit on my porch one night… Fucking ding-dong ditch or whatever. A little baggie with two blue capsules. And a stupid note with two words… “Do try”

I figured it was some shitty prank from my “experimental” friends from down the street. We’ve tried nearly every reasonable drug there is, trying to get the most psychadelic trips, maintain the best highs..

DMT, E, Acid, some experimental shit this dude sold me for wayy too much. Shit fucked me up… I tripped I was dust floating down from the ceiling. Lasted like eight hours. Fucked… me… up…

Anyway, the pills had like an orange 17 on them… Looked them up online, and couldn’t find anything.

I threw it on my dresser and crashed for the night.

I called all my friends the next afternoon. They all “claimed” they had nothing to do with it. “Wasn’t them”. I figured one of them would fess up eventually…

Over the next week, I pretty much forgot about it. None of my friends said anything, so either they forgot, or it really wasn’t them. I didn’t feel like mentioning it, we had some concentrated Salvia, so we lit that up.

The next day, curiousity killed me, I picked up the bag. Glanced at the note again… “Do it”… I swore it said “Do try” but I was high when I picked it up, so I dont know. But it entrigued me even more. I examined the pill. I reasoned with myself. I just couldn’t take it, it could be anything, but I was so curious. What if it was THE best high, the MOST psychadelic trip. I talked myself out of it. I set it down again, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing out…

The next few days were hell… I had a fever, and I felt like literal shit. Probably strep. I slept most of the day, but I awoke from the sound of my own heartbeat. My thoughts went instantly to the pill… I picked it up. It was practically calling my name. What the fuck did I have to lose. If I die, I die. I felt like dying anyway. For all I know, it could be some fucking antibiotics. I hoped for the latter. I looked at it one last time.

I downed it.

I remember “waking up”. The world was in negative. I was strapped to a chair, and these dark pulsating lights were eating away at my vision. I had no Idea what was going on, but I wasn’t scared. I was used to fucked up trips, but this was different. I felt empty. Time was moving backwards. Light was inverted. These dark lamps pulsing energy through my brain. A bass tone vibrating my body. I couldn’t close my eyes… I needed these “lights”. They were blackening the world. My world. The world where I resided and wasted time in the light. I finally understood. I was in the dark.

I started seeing the figures after what seemed like an eternity. Black masses of energy crawling towards me from every angle. I was seeing them in strobe. As the dark flashed, they crept closer and closer. I recognized them as friend. They were to free me from the light. Take me away from this white hell we all know so well. I wanted to go to them, but I made no attempt. I focused on the strobe. I needed them to move faster. To rid me of luminescence. Once and for all.

The strobe frequency slowed. Time started to speed up. The figures were stationary. The light was coming.

My cornea’s burned as the trip wore off. My emptyness enveloped me. The stobe was near out.. The figures no longer visible. I finally closed my eyes. Such a pale dark compared to true darkness.

When I opened them, I was in my bed. I shut them back immediately. I hated light. I hated our world. I wanted nothing more than to return to the chair. I couldn’t live here anymore. I couldn’t open my eyes. I reasoned with myself for hours to get up, to open my eyes. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I didn’t. I prayed for darkness. It meant nothing. I was in the white. The only way I knew to return to the black was the pill. I had one left, but I had to open my eyes.

My luminous mind was telling me it was just a trip. Don’t go back. Forget the abyss and return to normal life. The darkness was in favor. I didn’t want to go back, I needed it. It was the realization the world needed. But I didn’t care about the world. Only the dark.

Night came. I finally opened my eyes. Not to let the light in, but to get the pill. The last pill. As far as I knew, it was the last pill on earth. My want for darkness convinced me I only needed one. The figures would take me this time. I would forsake the light for the wondrous dark. I cared not what was in the dark. As long as it was unlit.

My body was weak. My eyes so adjusted to our world’s pathetic darkness, I felt as though I was looking at the sun. I needed the eclipse. I grabbed the bag. And without hesitation, swallowed the capsule. I would be home soon. I closed my eyes.

I “awoke”

I was back. Again in the chair. The dark was so comforting. Time moving the way I remembered. My frail body energized by the tones. The strobe showing me truths. The darkness was truth. I waited for the figures. I was confident they would take me this time.

Finally they limped into view. I praised them. Every strobe showed promise that I would soon forget light. Their movements were choppy and slow. But promising.

I urged them closer. Watching intently between strobes for their presence. They were getting close. I could feel them. Their pulses heavy on my chest. Our hearts beating in unison with the strobes. They were here.

The saviours were had arrived. They circled me. Crippled creatures that would transform my world. They opened my eyes to the dark, and closed them to the light. They held out their hands as the strobe slowed to a near stop. Everything was speeding up. I thought they took me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, I was in complete darkness. Beautiful, astonishing darkness. Every direction, an endless abyss void of light. This was what I had prayed for. Where I belonged. I never had to see light again. To open my eyes to anything but black was impossible. I loved it.

I got up to walk around my uncontaminated world. The dark Eden.

I stumbled over something. Something in the void? I felt around. This overewhelming darkness contained something familiar.

My old world.

–
Credited to Pill.

Frozen Release

A few years ago, I went hiking in northern Oregon with five close friends. Although we had planned the trip for months, we had no control over the weather, which had turned especially snowy and cold upon our arrival. Regardless, we decided to carry on with the hike. We were all quite experienced and well-prepared, so none of us really gave it a second thought.

The wilderness was stunning. The blankets of snow had given the landscape a dreamlike quality; it almost seemed like a crime to disturb the unbroken, white expanse before us with our footprints. As time passed, the sky became noticeably darker, while the temperature dropped even more. At -23°F, you can’t afford to leave any skin exposed for more than a few minutes. It really is amazing how sensitive the body is to extreme cold.

I had the feeling we were being watched. I would catch momentary flashes of movement or a brief glimpse of something pale in the underbrush, but I could never make out the form. It was unsettling, but I tried not to think about it. In any case, it was hard to think about anything besides the temperature, which had fallen to -29°F.

One night, I ventured out of my tent to urinate. As I approached the perimeter of a heavily wooded area, I saw undeniably human eyes staring back at me from the darkness. As soon as I saw them, they retracted back into the shadows. Spurred to action, I drew my hunting knife and ran towards where I saw the eyes. I sprinted through the blackness of the woods, chasing after what seemed to be a naked human form. After following the figure’s winding path, I found myself at a huge, blank clearing that continued to the horizon, where I saw a faint gold glow in the distance. The vacant white field before me seemed haunting, yet inviting. I knew the gold light was civilization. I had no choice but to go there, since there was no chance I could find my way through the woods back to the camp site.

I started walking. The frigid air pierced my layers and made me gasp for breath. The cold around me was almost dense enough to be palpable. Slowly, figures began to take shape around me. They were pallid, naked people that appeared to fade in and out of the air. All of them were staring at me and speaking in hushed, synchronized whispers.

Set yourself free…

I kept my eyes to the ground and kept walking. In my state of mind, I didn’t care about the paranormal phenomenon I was witnessing; I was worried about the cold. My hands and ears had begun to go numb.

Don’t fight the cold. Become one with it…

I blocked out their whispers. They couldn’t possibly be real anyway; I must be hallucinating from hypothermia. Is that possible…?

You’ve reached your limit. Now embrace the cold and be liberated of all limits…

I couldn’t help but smile. I wasn’t planning on dying today. I was close to death, but even closer to salvation. I looked up to see two lines of the naked, ghostly figures on both sides of me, all staring.

Don’t curse the cold. You can’t understand its beauty until you transcend the confines of living…

Ha! Don’t they understand that the confines are what give life value? Of course death sets you free, but that would be meaningless without the vulnerability you face in life! I shivered. At this point, my hands, ears, and nose were completely numb.

A new existence awaits you. One without fear or pain…

A gust of frosty wind stopped me in my tracks. The cold was agonizing, but I wasn’t ready to give up. I was the most tired I had ever been in my life, but I couldn’t lie down. Not yet.

Do you take pride in your weakness? Why do you fear invulnerability?

I don’t fear invulnerability! I would love to be freed from the shackles of mortality; to experience the world in ways I couldn’t in life! My vulnerabilities prevent me from truly living out my dreams…but no, I can’t die now. Suddenly, a white, naked ghost appeared in front of me with a grin on his face.

Then join us.

The wind stopped. Silence filled the air. I looked at the spirits around me. Unburdened. At peace. Free. My whole body was tingling with frost. I took off my jacket, threw off my gloves and hat, and pried off my boots. I shed every piece of clothing I had and I threw myself on my back. I gazed at the stars above me. Even as my vision started to fade, I smiled when I realized I was viewing eternity.

–
Credited to Dan.

Gateway Of The Mind

In 1983, a team of deeply pious scientists conducted a radical experiment in an undisclosed facility. The scientists had theorized that a human without access to any senses or ways to perceive stimuli would be able to perceive the presence of God. They believed that the five senses clouded our awareness of eternity, and without them, a human could actually establish contact with God by thought. An elderly man who claimed to have “nothing to left to live for” was the only test subject to volunteer. To purge him of all his senses, the scientists performed a complex operation in which every sensory nerve connection to the brain was surgically severed. Although the test subject retained full muscular function, he could not see, hear, taste, smell, or feel. With no possible way to communicate with or even sense the outside world, he was alone with his thoughts.

Scientists monitored him as he spoke aloud about his state of mind in jumbled, slurred sentences that he couldn’t even hear. After four days, the man claimed to be hearing hushed, unintelligible voices in his head. Assuming it was an onset of psychosis, the scientists paid little attention to the man’s concerns.

Two days later, the man cried that he could hear his dead wife speaking with him, and even more, he could communicate back. The scientists were intrigued, but were not convinced until the subject started naming dead relatives of the scientists. He repeated personal information to the scientists that only their dead spouses and parents would have known. At this point, a sizable portion of scientists left the study.

After a week of conversing with the deceased through his thoughts, the subject became distressed, saying the voices were overwhelming. In every waking moment, his consciousness was bombarded by hundreds of voices that refused to leave him alone. He frequently threw himself against the wall, trying to elicit a pain response. He begged the scientists for sedatives, so he could escape the voices by sleeping. This tactic worked for three days, until he started having severe night terrors. The subject repeatedly said that he could see and hear the deceased in his dreams.

Only a day later, the subject began to scream and claw at his nonfunctional eyes, hoping to sense something in the physical world. The hysterical subject now said the voices of the dead were deafening and hostile, speaking of hell and the end of the world. At one point, he yelled “No heaven, no forgiveness” for five hours straight. He continually begged to be killed, but the scientists were convinced that he was close to establishing contact with God.

After another day, the subject could no longer form coherent sentences. Seemingly mad, he started to bite off chunks of flesh from his arm. The scientists rushed into the test chamber and restrained him to a table so he could not kill himself. After a few hours of being tied down, the subject halted his struggling and screaming. He stared blankly at the ceiling as teardrops silently streaked across his face. For two weeks, the subject had to be manually rehydrated due to the constant crying. Eventually, he turned his head and, despite his blindness, made focused eye contact with a scientist for the first time in the study. He whispered “I have spoken with God, and he has abandoned us” and his vital signs stopped. There was no apparent cause of death.