Nightmare Walking

July 11, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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Have you ever had one of those dreams, where you dream you’re doing something, only to wake up and realize you’re almost acting out your dream in real time? The most common instance of this is the ‘it’s completely normal’ wet dream, though there are many other common instances, especially in sleepwalkers, where you see yourself walking along a path, only to wake up and find yourself actually walking somewhere, and other similar scenarios. I, despite no longer being a sleepwalker, have one such story myself, from my childhood.

The year was 1996, I was 5 years old, and had recently lost my great grandmother. I was having these weird ongoing nightmares at the time, where someone would call my name, I’d get up, and walk in their direction, only to be brutally murdered in any number of ways. I remember being strangled, stabbed, hung drawn and quartered, fed to wild animals, and my personal favorite, being pushed into a wood chipper. Often, the voice calling me would be someone I actually knew, whether it be my parents, a friend from school, a teacher, my sister, or Lenny Kravitz asking me “Are you gonna go my way?” Even at 5, I had an appreciation for good music, but I’m starting to get off track.

Anyway, there is one particular nightmare that will forever haunt me. This time, it was my recently deceased great grandmother calling to me. “Wookie” she called… I was a really hairy baby, so that nickname stuck for a while with the grandparents, and aunties and uncles… “Wookie, come give Nan a hug, I have to go now.” I remember getting to my feet, and lazily dragging myself out of the room, in the direction of her voice. Like I said, my nightmares seemed to have an ongoing theme, so even though I was walking toward my great grandmother, I was expecting her to transform into a dragon and bite me in half, or for a ninja to leap from behind a wall and put countless shurikens into my skin, or even a tank just to drive through the wall next to me and crush me under its treads. I usually woke up instantly after dying anyway, so it had stopped being overly threatening. Anyway, I continued to walk down the narrow hallway toward the frail old lady, arms outstretched, when suddenly a loud explosion woke me from my sleep.

I woke with a start, standing in the hallway outside of my room, peering into the blackness of the quiet family home. I turned around, stumbling sleepily back into my room, remembering the dream like a far off memory, and directly in front of me, the window that once sat above my bed sat empty, shattered, with its glass fragments dug into my mattress, exactly where I would have been had I not been sleepwalking…

To this day, I don’t know what caused the window to shatter, nor how the glass had managed to embed itself so deeply into the bed, nor do I know if my sleepwalking was a lucky coincidence that saved my life, or an intervention from another being. If you’re looking for a nice clean ending where everything is wrapped up and explained nicely, I’m sorry to disappoint; I’ve been searching for the answers too. Regardless, sometimes the things that scare us most, are those that we’ll never be able to rationally explain.

Credit To – Uforia

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Chronicles of the Mark #1: The Crazy Place

July 8, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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This is an entry in the ongoing Mark of Canus pasta series.

Two concepts exist in our world, the natural, and the supernatural. Humanity actively sees and understands the natural, as we progress in science and mathematics, but most of us refuse to observe the existence of the supernatural, as we usually cannot perceive it. Many outright deny the possibility of supernatural occurrences, artifacts, or entities entirely, on the grounds that these things cannot be logically explained. The supernatural cannot be explained logically because it is not based in logic, as logic itself is a natural principle.
The human mind, or at least the part our basic consciousness resides in, is another natural thing, an article of logic. This is why we are not able to accept the supernatural as real, because it goes against the very basis of our understanding. Many argue the supernatural is in a part of our minds, the usually dormant part from where psychosis comes from, the crazy part, and that our minds have the capability for the supernatural, but that portion is almost always locked for some reason. Either way, the supernatural most certainly exists, and there is a lot of power in it even today. One such case of supernatural power in the world is the Mark of Canus, a manifestation of evil in the universe, and a driving force for violent insanity and even deeper darkness in the confines of the mind.
Throughout time, the Mark of Canus has touched certain individuals to the point of total, unfiltered madness. Francis Bandersnatch, an English archeologist of the early 20th century, recounts his encounter with the Mark as it drove his compatriot off the edge of the human psyche, and sent him spiraling in to the dark depths of lunacy:
The year was 1912, and I, Francis Bandersnatch, had only just earned the position of head archeologist of a dig team at Oxford. A fetching 27 years of age, I was in the prime of my life, and ready for any kind of adventure, or so I had thought. When my first assignment came in, I was eager to test my wits and determined to make my country proud through discovery. However I was not prepared, contrary to my attitude, for the horrors to come.
Apparently, some American chap by the name of Edward Kripp had been exploring in the Yucatan, a jungle peninsula in Mexico, when he stumbled upon some odd ruins from a seemingly ancient civilization. He then proceeded to enter the main structure, as any self-respecting explorer would have done, and scope out the place. He found things quite interesting, obviously, interesting enough to contract a dig team from Oxford, with yours truly as head, to excavate to ruins and uncover the secrets within.
I must admit, it sounded marvelous, a great first assignment for my team, and I accepted without hesitation. In two weeks’ time, my team arrived in a small village outlying the jungle and met up with this American fellow. At first sight, he seemed like an eager man, full of energy and passion. We only exchanged a brief greeting, but I liked him immediately. The locals at the village, however, did not.
Strange lot, these Mexicans, they completely avoided Kripp, and refused to speak with him. The night before we set out for the ruins, as my team and Kripp all retired to get some sleep, one of them came to me. He looked grave, almost frightened, said he had come to warn me.
“You and team go to ruins. Stay away! I warn you, evil crouched in old temple. Aztecs from here, they build great temples all over. This one different, no Aztecs, someone else. They deny Aztec Gods, worship true evil. They gone, but evil remain.”
I listened intently to the man’s story. It was foreboding, I must admit, and I was a little spooked, but nevertheless I had an assignment. I was hungry for adventure. I realize now I should have heeded his warning, and left right then, that night. But I didn’t listen. The man looked agitated; he continued.
“That man, American explorer, he went inside temple. Now he branded with Mark. Evil has him. Stay away from him, do not keep him with you. We have seen It with him, the Mark has him, the evil is in him. Please, leave this place now, leave American! Run away!”
Determined to stick to my assignment, I told the man to leave my room. Yes, his words were marked with grave honesty, but I didn’t care. I mostly considered him a nut, as these Mexicans usually are. I decided to sleep off his weird story, to be refreshed for the next day’s journey.
In the morning my team packed up and left for the ruins, right on schedule. We would have to trek through the jungle for a day and a half to get to the ruins, and then commence the digging the following day. As we moved through the dense tropical foliage, I had a chance to speak with this Kripp. In the back of my mind, the Mexican’s words still sat. I had been mulling them over all morning. Now was my chance to actually see what the Mexican may have meant, why he was so spooked.
“So, Kripp. Tell me more about these ruins you’ve found.” I started the conversation off, and studied the man’s face as he began. Yet again, he seemed passionate about his find, as was evident in his words. His face held an almost enlightened expression as he spoke of the discoveries we would make.
“Well, Mr. Bandersnatch, I was just mapping out some of the terrain when I came on it. It was magnificent, the stone temple looming over me, just hiding the sun’s light; it seemed to almost glow. The normally aggressive flora of the area seemed to surrender to the temple, as it was completely clear for about fifty yards all around the structure, not a vine or tree penetrated the stone either, as was normally the case in these parts. I have to say it was glorious. The dark entrance just screamed discovery! So of course I went in…”
“Then what?” I pushed for some information, at this point I was equally excited for the dig. Suddenly his demeanor changed, only slightly though. An infinitesimal sense of confusion, almost irritation, was present on his face here. There was an almost unnoticeable twitch in his right eye as he continued.
“That, my British friend, is the best part. But explaining it wouldn’t do it any justice, so I’ll just let you see when we get there. Anyway, I’d better move a little ahead, the jungle gets pretty tricky at this part of the journey. You men can follow behind a few steps.”
As Kripp walked ahead, one of my own men came to my side to replace him. A taller, burlier gentleman named Harold Ross studied Kripp as he walked away. The man was one of my diggers, and a veteran of the trade, who had been to numerous excavations in Africa. He was a trusted member of my team whom I held highly. The look on his face was a distrusting one.
“Boss, I want to talk to you about something, if I may.”
“Why yes of course, Mr. Ross, what is it on your mind?”
“It’s just that I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with the American. I’m not so sure of his story.”
“What do you getting at, old bean?”
“I’ve seen a lot of weird things in this business, things no one should see, but this man is odd. I don’t like him. Ever since I saw him, something about him seemed off, like he was hiding something. And when he wouldn’t tell you just now about the inside of the temple, which I’m sure any explorer would have relished in doing so, it just didn’t seem right. Also, the villagers back there never said a word to him the whole time. They all avoided him. I’m telling you, boss, I don’t think he checks out.”
I didn’t want to unsettle any of my team, I would have hated to dislodge their focus on the assignment, so I neglected to mention the Mexican’s warning. No doubt, Kripp did seem kind of odd, but I had no reason to be suspicious. However, I though it a prudent fear, as many criminals have been known to stalk these kinds of ruins. They would hire dig teams like mine, only to have them dig up treasure then in turn shoot the diggers dead and haul it off for their own gains. It was a legitimate concern for archeologists like myself. To ease his mind, and the fraction of mine which was paranoid, I told him we should keep an eye on Kripp, and he agreed.
We traveled the rest of the day through the jungle, and when night came we set up camp to rest. After dinner, we all retired to our tents and got ready to sleep. I was updating my logbook when I heard some voice talking at the camp. I thought everyone was asleep, so I left my tent to investigate. The voice was coming from Kripp’s tent.
I leaned in to get a better listen. It appeared as if he was talking to himself, but I couldn’t make out any words or sentences in his speech, just obscure ranting. It was mortifying, listening to his hurried nonsense, gapped by outbursts of chuckling and awful gargling sounds. The sound was positively unsettling, it touched the bottom of my gut and made my neck hairs stand. Just as I was about to open his tent to see if the fellow was alright, he fell silent, and I heard the sound of his head dropping on the pillow. Aghast at this incident, I crept back to my tent, and attempted to get some sleep.
In the morning we set out again. I was considerably less energetic than before, as I was unable to sleep well after listening to Kripp the night before. He looked worse as well, his eyes now lined with dark bags. He looked pale, worn out, quite the opposite of yesterday’s Kripp. The more I observed of this man, the more he puzzled me.
The jungle became denser and denser as we moved closer to the temple. The aura of it changed as well. Unlike the day before, no animals were around. Gradually, the sounds of the jungle started to fade out, until the area became completely silent. The only sounds were of everyone’s steps and breathing, everyone’s except Kripp’s. His breathing was inaudible, and is couldn’t discern his footsteps. It was perplexing.
We trekked on through until my watch read noon, and shortly after, Kripp stopped. He looked back at us, and with a grin revealing all of his teeth, he pulled back an elephant’s ear leaf, revealing the temple. It was not as he described. The stone temple had an ominous look to it, the grey stone appeared to be untouched by the elements. The structure was plain, yet almost insinuating vanity. The feeling I had from looking upon it was confusing. I had never seen architecture like this.
Then, my eyes settled on the large image above the entrance. It was a symbol of some kind I had never seen before, utterly unknown and mysterious. It had a parading look about it, but just seeing it gave me deep chills. I didn’t know what this place was, but I was starting to believe the Mexican’s words about some evil, as the building practically poured out an alien energy, felt in the deepest reaches of my mind.
I couldn’t take my mind off the marking on the stone face, until a member of my team fell to his knees. I watched him start crying and heaving, stupefied at what was happening to him. He heaved more violently now, and then he let out a mouthful of blood onto the ground. Terrified at his own blood before him, the man started shaking and looked up to me.
“Probably the jungle,” noted Kripp, “There are a lot of sicknesses that can be contracted from the various insects and plants out here. Let’s get him inside.”
I looked at Kripp’s face. I had a very dark quality to it now. This man was totally different, there was an insidious look about him. I turned to Ross, who was studying Kripp as well, that look of distrust intensified.
We drug the coughing man into the dark temple entrance. Kripp lit some torches, and when coupled with a few of our lanterns revealed a large chamber. I looked around at the walls, all bearing the same mark from outside. Corridors on all sides remained pitch black for now, to be explored later. I must admit, the find was incredible. To have a structure as old as this, completely intact, was an oddity. It was the discovery of the century.
The sick man was given some water and made to rest in the main chamber, and the rest of the team split up to start mapping the temple. Ross and I stayed together with Kripp, because I was the head, and because we wanted to have our eyes on him. We found passageways that led us underground, and the deeper we got, the more the temple appeared to have succumb to nature. We came to a point where the way was blocked by earth. And so, the digging begun.
The whole time I was in the temple, I kept hearing frightening sounds from the blackened corridors. The overwhelming sense of lurking darkness got to me after a while. It was like nothing I had felt before. The fear in my heart rose with every step, and a feeling of some terrifying discovery waiting for me kept reentering my mind. I never knew my digs would be like this. I began to feel sick, and agitated. My mind started wandering, until I had completely lost focus.
Suddenly, I felt I had gotten lost and separated from the two others. I felt completely alone, that is, except for the creeping entity which lurched forward in the darkness towards me at every turn. My mind kept going back to that mark. I saw it over and over again, covered in ancient blood. I had a vision, a nightmare from the very depths of my mind. A sacrifice, blood all over the walls of the temple; that Mark everywhere. People dead. Then the sounds came, a horrifying song in some foreign tongue, dancing to the beat of some drums, a great crescendo until the finale I felt was coming. That Mark the whole time. I felt a slight slithering inside my bones.
I wanted it to end, I reached for my eyes; gripped the eyeballs themselves, realizing the ultimatum of my situation. I was then yanked from my state by Ross, who said I’d gone blank for a moment. I shrugged off the shivers as those feeling completely resided. By then Kripp was looking at me. I could see him in the corner of my eye, grinning a dark grin.
A member of my team ran up to meet us, said that they had discovered something I should see. We followed him back to the main chamber, and down an opposite hall which led underground even deeper than the tunnels we were just in. At the bottom, the hall opened up to another dark room, with a great circular door at the opposite end. The Mark was carved with special attention to detail on this door, and I feared for what was inside.
I looked back to see if Kripp had discovered this as well, but he was gone. Ross looked surprised that he has lost Kripp, having kept a close watch on the man. We studied the current room for a bit, then went back up to the main chamber, where a base had been set up, and found Kripp there talking to a member of my team.
“He says a group of diggers hasn’t come back yet, as they were supposed to.” Kripp looked grim as he spoke, “I warned everyone to be careful around here. Someone could get lost easily in this place.”
A team was sent to look for the diggers, with Kripp leading them, and by nightfall there had still been no word. The rest of us decided to turn in for the night, and as we all sat around eating I studied their faces. My men looked worried, frightened, and irritated. They all had a desperate nature to their tone of voice, and a resigned quality in their movements. They talked about odd feelings they’d been having since the dig started, swapping stories of creepy moments that concerned them. Not a one felt comfortable in the temple. They said they could feel it enveloping them, and if they didn’t get far away soon, they would go missing as well.
Their concern was genuine, I had felt the same thing since entering the temple. I noticed a great many of them scratched their eyes a lot. When I asked a few about it, they said that their eyes hurt from the darkness, and the markings on the wall seemed to exacerbate the problem. Greatly puzzled and afraid, I agreed that we needed to scrap the dig, and leave as soon as we found the rest of the team. For now, we would try to get some sleep.
I awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of terrible screams. When I fully I came to, I realized I was tied up, and being drug along the ground through a familiar passageway. My thoughts scattered, and the screams continued from down the hall. I looked up at who was dragging me, and found it to be one of my team, he was moaning. When I called to him, the man stopped walking and turned towards me. He continued his moans while he revealed his face.
Blood ran down his cheeks like red tears, his eyes were shut. When I shakily asked what happened, he opened up his eyelids to reveal his sockets were empty. Blood poured from them down his face. I was terrified, it was a nightmare. I screamed for help, but he just turned around and kept onwards. When he reached his destination he pulled me to my feet, allowing me to distinguish the room from before with the circular doorway, which had now been cleared away.
I was led forward and into the bottom chamber, which gave me the single most gruesome, horrific sight I had ever and will ever encounter. The walls and floor were red with fresh blood, and mangled corpses littered the whole room. My entire team, even the missing men from before, all dead and mutilated. Their bodies had been positioned in ways that resembled a twisted reenactment of an excavation. Their faces had all been ripped away, and their chests opened up, their hearts removed. I fell to my knees immediately and vomited. This could not have been a nightmare, it was way too real.
That damned Mark was everywhere, covered in blood as in my vision. I gaped at the overwhelming terror as I realized just what that Mark really was. I was, as the Mexican had put it, ‘true evil’. Nothing in the world came close to its intensity of utter horror. I was paralyzed by the scene before me.
There was a stone table in the middle of the room, on which rested a miserable Ross, he looked over and saw me. His eyes bulged out of his head and he called out to me for help, but I was still tied up and paralyzed with fear. He was bound by his wrists and ankles, and was naked from the waste up.
A figure appeared before him. It was Kripp, covered in blood. He started laughing maniacally and turned his attention towards me.
“Cut him loose.”
The eyeless man who dragged me now cut the ropes, but for some reason I still could not move. I watched in horror as the eyeless man, now having no use left, was ordered to kill himself. He proceeded to take the knife he just used to cut my ropes and slit his own throat, gargling as his blood spilled out on the ground. He fell over dead.
“Welcome, Mr. Bandersnatch, to my Crazy Place.” Kripp cried out with a degree of lunacy, “When I found this temple, I discovered an ancient evil more powerful than any God or Devil. The markings on the wall are that of the Mark of Canus, they have revealed themselves to individuals over time. This was a place of practice for those taken by the Mark, as I am. I’ve been ordered to let myself go free, submit to my dark desires, and kill for the Mark. I must obey its blessed commands. I was told to gather a team to open this chamber, and kill them all. As you can see I’m almost finished. Now, I’m creating art. Care to watch?”
My feet moved instinctively closer to the table where Ross lay. Kripp laughed uncontrollably as he took a knife and slowly gouged out an image of the Mark onto Ross’ stomach. I watched in disgust at his practice, and Ross screamed as the blood ran down his sides. Kripp looked in ecstasy as he proceeded to make large craters in the squirming Ross’ cheeks.
“Now, you shall see the Mark with clearer eyes! The very Mark which haunts my own mind and drives me to this! Welcome it inside you, it loves you. Its loving insanity will be your life blood and your poison. The Mark is, and always was, and it lives in us now!”
The madness became much deeper as he continued his dark art. He revealed a mass of eye balls wrapped in a cloth. Carefully placing them into the sockets he’d made in the dying Ross’ face, he reveled in his craftsmanship. Having ran out of eye balls, with only two sockets left empty, he turned to me.
“Come now, Mr. Bandersnatch, let us have those eyes of yours, and your sight will be joined with theirs!”
I could feel my hand reach for my eyes, as I had done earlier, and a grinning Kripp extended his hand in anticipation. I fought hard, but the Mark had insinuated itself into my mind, and I had little control. I fought it, and with my other hand reached for my pocket knife.
Kripp loved the idea, “Ooh, nice choice, just be careful not to damage them.”
He didn’t realize my intention. I pulled out the knife, and stabbed my other hand. The blood ran down my fingers. The pain kicked in, freeing me from the Mark’s hold. I turned and ran, much to the surprise of a deeply insane Kripp. I ran hard, all the way out of the temple. The whole way I heard his incensed laughter and growls of intent, as I knew he was chasing after me. Running for my life, the darkness closing in on me, I ran into the main chamber and right out of the temple into the night.
I just kept running out into the jungle until I was stopped by a hand on my arm. Screaming, I lurched back, not realizing at first that it was the Mexican from the village, alongside several armed villagers. I looked back at the entrance to the temple, and saw two figures in the dark corridor, both had glowing eyes. One had multiple sets on his face.
“You see, true evil in its form.” The Mexican said, trained on the entrance, “Time to go. They will not follow us now.”
I stared as the two figures backed up into the darkness of the temple. Never to be seen again. I could still hear the maddening laughter and screams.

Mr. Bandersnatch’s story is only one of many involving the Mark, and all its innate evil. Bandersnatch would return to England, where he would spend the rest of his days haunted by the memory of his trip. In June, 1956, Bandersnatch would be found dead in his apartment. He had a knife in his hand, and he had gouged out both of his eyes. He must have figured it was the only way to rid himself of the visions he had of the Mark of Canus.

Credit To – Greg P.

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Behind The Veil

July 7, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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There are some things that are not part of the world of the living; questions that should never be answered, places that should never be discovered. But there will always be fools who will try to. And those who do, suffer a fate worse than death. Worse than any torture ever conceived in the dark corners of the human mind.

One such place lies deep beneath the ground, in an unreachable cave. Its entrance hidden, invisible to everyone, except to those who are cursed. After a three-day descent towards the source of the foul air, wandering ever further from sunlight and its warmth, you reach a vast opening.

An empty hall, more grandiose in its size than any King’s ever was, with only one object on the very centre; from the entrance of the hall it looks like a large stone pillar. But once closer, you can clearly see markings on the stone. These markings form the outline of a door, but can be deciphered by no man; they are written in a language that predates all.

Those who reach this door are unable to turn back or look away. Oblivious victims of the evil that lies in wait. It is this unknown force that compels them to examine the pillar closer. Not a single thought crosses their mind; loved ones are forgotten, secret desires neglected.

With the first touch, the stone crumbles. All dust and broken pieces fall into the dark abyss it was sealing. A veil of shadows forbids you from peeking through to the other side. Torches are extinguished and all light fades to nothing as he who stands before it feels the void sucking out the very warmth out of his body.

In the few moments you are allowed to remain in the world of the living, you become aware of your impending doom, the horrible fate you have brought upon yourself. Your mind has now gone blank. An empty vessel, mere puppet waiting for your master to give you the order; the order to take the last step and plunge into the abyss.

And without hesitation, you obey.

There is no pain behind the veil. No happiness or sorrow, no anger.
No emotion or sensation to experience lies hidden in the infinite abyss.
There is only existence in its purest form; enduring, timeless, eternal.

Devoid of all stimuli, all external feedback from the environment, from its own body, the mind goes insane. Those who are lucky lose their sanity before they can cause any more harm. They are to remain in their prison, their isolation from all to last for all eternity.

You, however…

A voice that belongs to neither a man nor a woman offers you an escape. In exchange for your freedom, you must speak the names of three people. Three people you love, three people you would give your life for. The voice will then show them the same dream that brought you here and you will be returned to your home.

Some, despite feeling their psyche crumbling, in a final moment of lucidity manage to remain silent, realising the truth. You, while frantically searching for an end to your torment give the voice the names it desires. The thought that you could return and warn your loved ones of the horror that awaits them, giving you hope.

But the voice only knows lies and deceit. It abandons you, and you are once again left alone. Only now, you are left knowing of the fate that awaits those who follow their dream. Those you once cared for, but will soon no longer even remember.

Credit To – TheZomber

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Nightmares

July 4, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I used to think nightmares were fun, so I asked for more. They were the only source of excitement in my endless rut of a life. I never used to get nightmares, and for that, I should have been grateful. I wasn’t. I wished for more, I craved the adrenaline and the pounding of my heart as my eyes flew open. They say be careful what you wish for. They are not lying.
The nightmares started to come quicker and much more often. It was small things at first, the things anybody would have. Being chased by wild dogs, being abandoned, or running naked into school. I tired of them quickly, I had no reason to keep myself awake after them. Soon, they began to become more intense, my brain began playing with me.
I’d be held down by my throat, unable to breathe, unable to scream, my chest heaving but no air entering my lungs. I’d be torn at, my skin coming away like butter. I’d be tied down as those I trusted sliced into me. I began to dream of Hell. Then I’d wake, my eyes not quite focusing on anything in my small box room.
The purples of my cushions would merge with the cream of my wall, and the giant teddy bear that sat in the corner would blur. But I could breathe. There was no pressure on my throat. I would take in deep lungfuls of air, as if I hadn’t breathed for hours. I scratched at my skin to check if it was still there, and it was. I would check my clock, and it would always be the same time. Five minutes past three in the morning became my waking hour.
My eyes would try to slide closed, but I couldn’t let that happen. Instead, I’d pull myself to the bathroom down the carpeted hall and splash icy water on my face until I was in no danger of sleeping. The sleep deprivation, I concluded, would be better than facing the horrors of the night.

I’d go into school like a zombie, and nobody seemed to notice that anything was different. I began to become paranoid. As people walked past me, the memories would come rushing back, invading my mind. She was the one who made the first incision two nights ago, he was the one who had his hand over my neck last week, and they were the ones that retrieved the knives in the depths of Hell. I pushed everyone away, in fear that they would build Hell on Earth, so I sat alone, excluding myself from the drone of conversation and the inconvenience of life.

My nightmares would plague me. Creative writing assessments in English were easy. Just pick a night and there was a horror story right there. Talks of battles in History shocked others, but barely even struck me as odd. The drawings I did in Art made everyone feel nauseous, but seemed quite normal to me. Lessons on Hell in R.E. would strike fear into my very soul. Of all the things I needed, more imagery about Hades was not one of them. Those lessons began to creep into my dreams too.

A human being can go fourteen days without sleep before they die. The record for days without sleep is eleven days, a record which is held by a university student from America. My record is five days. I started hallucinating so horrifically on day five, I couldn’t take it any more. The susurrus whispers began first. Those voices assuring me I was crazy, that I was worthless and doomed to be ended by my own mind. Next, it was the high-pitched, sempiternal squealing. It sounded like nails running down a chalkboard, or a knife scraping against a plate, only twice as high and five times as loud.
Then, inanimate objects began to turn clinquant, the spots of brightness emitting from plants and pictures blinded me. I knew that these were merely chimerical, but can a schizophrenic stop having hallucinations? Neither can someone suffering with extreme sleep deprivation.

I decided to suck it up and face the monsters every night.
I’ve been sleeping well. When I say well, I mean I’ve been getting six hours of sleep a night. That’s why I know I’m not hallucinating when I see dark figures in my bedroom at night. When I hear the creaking of my door opening, I know it’s real. When the piercing screams of tortured souls invade my eardrums, it’s actually happening. When I hear the hissed threats that they’re coming for me, sadly, I know that’s real too.

They say be careful what you wish for.
I wished for Hell.
I got it.
It’s five minutes past three in the morning.
I can hear them.

Credit To – Anabiel

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My Face

July 2, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I’m not sure why I’m writing this right now. I’m not even sure if I am writing this now or, if I am, whether the words I’m seeing in my mind’s eye are the same as the words my hands are typing. I suppose the only way to find out is to check tomorrow and see if this is still here. If it is, and it still looks like this, then I’ll know it wasn’t some dream I was having with my eyes open.

‘Dream’. Even looking at that word right now makes some guttural part of me tense up. I’m not surprised though. After all, my dreams are the reason I’m even awake at this hour. Everyone else in the house is asleep right now. Well, except for my mum, but she always wakes up at 4 AM like clockwork. Hell, she doesn’t even need an alarm.

I’m looking back at what I’ve written so far and I realise I’ve been rambling. I tend to do that, simply because my thoughts just get scattered like dandelion seeds when I don’t completely concentrate. There’s only so much concentration you can give something when you keep getting flashes of terror every time you blink. It might just be that I’m doing it so that I can stay awake as long as possible by writing. Either way, I should probably at least explain what I’m babbling about some time before my parents find me awake like this.

I’ve been a student at London University for a year now, studying psychology. I would be in my second year, but I had to stop mid-way through, so this year is a resit. I was hoping at some point to be a counselling psychologist, to help people get past their problems without being the guy who forces a prescription down their throats.

It went fine for the first semester; I even managed to make a few friends, which is an achievement for someone as socially awkward as me.

For the first few months I would hang out with a small group of people, all of whom shared my weird interests: we’d talk about the usual nerdy pop-culture we’d digested that week, about how we all threw our shoes at the television when a certain character from one of our shared favourite TV shows was killed off very ignobly and needlessly by a bear, that kind of shit. Of course, as close as we got we never saw each other outside of lecture days, which suited me just fine.

I remember exactly the day that my current “predicament” started. I only call it that because even now, six months later, I still don’t know what the Hell it is.

It was February 2nd when we received a foreign exchange student from Canada. I’m not going to name him here, partly because he wouldn’t want me to and partly because I don’t want this to come back to him. It was clear on his first day that he wasn’t the talkative type, so it wasn’t surprising when he started gravitating towards our little clique. He seemed enthused about what we were saying, sure, and he even managed to get some of the references we flung out about some of the TV shows that was more localised to Britain, but none of our geeky bullshit would ever stimulate a reaction with him quite like his extensive knowledge of urban legends. I’m not talking “Sewer alligators of New York” kind of legends either: I’m talking about the kind you see on the darker underbelly of the internet; the ones that make your palms sweat and give you a nervous tick while you read about them.

The first time he ever mentioned his . . . “hobby” was after a lecture we’d been given on the neurotransmitters involved with fear. Our lecturer, on one of his slides, put up a rather disturbing image of a dog with a malicious grin across its muzzle in an effort to demonstrate one of the technical variations of fear. Needless to say, it worked.

After we left, our new Canadian friend told me and the group that he knew where that image came from, and then went into great length on the mythos surrounding what he called “Smile.jpg”. At one point, I remember him using the word “Creepypasta” and one of my friends, who we’ll call “Michael”, inquired, after the obvious quip about haunted ravioli, what he meant. After a quick explanation on what he meant, our friend continued on to say that, according to the Smile Dog myth, everyone who saw that image and didn’t pass it on to someone else would be plagued with nightmares from the creature in the picture.

After joking away the macabre subject and going our separate ways, I took the Canadian aside, curious about where I could find the original story. At that point, I thought it might give me a good laugh, and when he told me to listen to a narration on YouTube for the best effect, it didn’t take long to find what I was looking for.

Of course, being the cynical asshole I was back then, it did make me giggle a little to think that something as simple as a photoshopped picture of a husky could inspire such fear in people, but ever more curious, I kept going into the topic of Creepypastas to see what else I could find. Most of it was the same shtick about being stalked by creatures with no face or eyes as big as dinner plates with claws the size of your arm, or the trope about some kid picking up a bootleg copy of a nostalgic game only to find out that the main character had been warped into some sadistic shadow of its original self, but some of them actually sent a real, visceral chill down my spine, which really surprised me.

I think by about 2AM the next morning, I’d watched about twenty different videos of narrated Creepypastas and I was about ready for bed. I didn’t have anything resembling an early morning lecture the next day, but I knew I’d have to be up and about by around ten o’clock.

Now, I always considered myself a rational human being, not prone to believing in boggarts and the sort, but for the life of me I swear I couldn’t keep my eyes closed for five seconds without flinching from some gut feeling that there was another presence in my room, and in my mind’s eye it kept metamorphosing from one form to another, and after around half an hour of my futile attempt at sleep I decided that enough was enough and that I should go into the kitchen and get something to calm myself down.

As soon as I put my hand on the wood of the kitchen door on my way back to my room, a sense of danger jabbed at me inside my stomach, just like it had before in my room. I got that same irrational feeling that I wasn’t alone, and I spun around, my eyes scanning every facet of the brightly lit kitchen, even checking the doors of some of the cabinets, and saw nothing. I sighed, knowing that my binge on horror stories was getting to me, and that it was my own fault for listening to so many of them, especially so late at night, so I went down the corridor and back to my room.

As I opened the door, I did my best to swallow down the feeling of dread that was accumulating in my gullet like a stone, and when it was open all the way, I had to take a step back for a second. My breathing picked up as I stared wide eyed at the empty space where my bed once sat. Everything was gone, from the crates underneath to the posters on the wall, leaving a barren, white-walled corner.

As I stared in disbelief I heard a soft, muffled whisper of a chuckle from one of the nearby rooms.

Thinking that maybe one of my roommates was playing a prank on me, I smiled and looked back at the door behind me that led to Jenna’s room. Jenna was the only person I got along with on my corridor, and she even showed up in some of my lectures as her sociology course sometimes overlapped with my own.

I quietly knocked on the door, and when I heard the lock click I came in ready to confront her. “Alright, Jenna, I know you took my bed, so. . . .” my words died in my throat as I looked into Jenna’s room, or what should have been Jenna’s room. As I gaped blankly through the doorway, I saw my room exactly as it was, right down to the last detail, and sat on the bed was a young man with bedraggled red hair, exactly the same as mine, looking down at the floor. He was making some sort of sound as he held his face in his hands, and to this day I still don’t know whether it was laughing or crying, but it was a wheezy, choked noise that ran through me like a cold breeze.

I dared not move. I didn’t even blink, though my eyes were becoming itchy and irritated.

I blinked once, and in that short time between closing my eyes and opening them, something flashed against the inside of my eyelids too quickly for me to figure out what it was, and when my eyes opened again, I was face-down against the keyboard of my computer, which had grown tired of waiting for me to turn it off and gone into standby.

I let out a haggard, relieved breath. It was only a dream. Just a bad dream.

I was reassured the next night when my dreams returned to normal. Hell, I don’t even remember what I was even dreaming about that night. All I remember is waking up the morning after like I always did and getting on with my day. It was a long lecture day, though, and I remember being almost completely wiped out when I left the lecture hall at 6PM, cursing my allergy to caffeine. I would’ve killed for an espresso right then.

I remember feeling slightly on edge as I walked the path back to my hall of residence. I put it down to the cold winds and the darkness at the time, but I couldn’t shake that ominous feeling I held in my gut as my eyes darted around the darkened campus grounds. It was that same feeling as in my dream, that feeling of being watched.

I heard a sound against the wind buffering my ears. It wasn’t quite a giggle, but it wasn’t quite a sob, and it seemed choked and gargling, as if both had been stuck in the throat of whatever had made it and formed some odd chimera of the two.

The hairs raised on the back of my neck. I knew that noise.

The sound was getting closer with every quickening step I took, and no matter how hurried my stride it gained on me. I knew I’d look like a pussy to whoever was watching, but I had to run.

The sound was right in my ear by the time I touched the front door of my hall.

I jerked awake and looked around at the emptying lecture hall. I’d dozed off again.

I was, as you can guess, as unnerved as they come when I left the lecture hall. My hurried pace was brought into question several times by my friends but, unwilling to talk, I brushed off their questions. Placated by my repeated insistence of “It’s nothing, really: I’m just being silly”, they decided to leave me be and go off, disgruntled, in another direction.

It was about quarter-past -six when my hall was in sight again. That was when I heard that noise, that goddamn choking laugh again echoing in the distance. This time I knew not to take my chances. I bolted, and as my legs pounded and my body lurched forward from abject fear, I heard the giggle slowly ascend into a mangled cackle that grew louder and more fervent as I ran.

I didn’t even make the door before I felt a hand clutch my throat.

I awoke again in my room and looked at the clock, which had long since abandoned trying to wake me up, I recoiled in surprise: I’d woken up at 8:30 PM. I had to check twice to make sure it was in fact evening time and not just early in the morning, but it was.

I’d slept through an entire lecture day. Up until that point I’d never done that before in my life. Hell, I didn’t even take sick days when I was a kid, but now I’d missed a whole day for no reason.

But still, from the dream, I would’ve sworn I was in the lecture

The worst part was that that was the pebble that set off a snowball.

My dreams became worse and worse for the next few weeks. I’d awaken several times every night in a hard sweat and have to gnaw a little at the same spot on one of my fingers just to make doubly sure I was awake. If it drew blood, real blood that I could taste, and I felt real pain from it, only then would I calm down. I had a bandage on my finger for weeks, and people were starting to notice.

That man . . . creature . . . thing that I saw sitting on my bed was there in every single one of my dreams. It would always just appear in random places in my dream environments, always keeping its face obscured in its hair and always laughing that wheezy, throaty laugh, sometimes approaching me, other just keeping its distance and watching.

It was almost as if it was toying with me, playing on my subconscious irrational fears for sport.

Thanks to those dreams, my sleep patterns were getting so erratic that it even got to the point where I was awoken by security after having slept for five days straight. Jenna had called them after having missed me at a lecture and not seen me enter or leave my room at all that week, not even to eat or go to the toilet.

Missing lectures was starting to become a habit, and my grades were beginning to suffer from it. That only served to aggravate the problem, it seemed.

My coursework and assignments were beginning to suffer as well, but in the most disturbing ways. I’ll give you an example: at the end of February, we were told to carry out an assignment essay on the relative effectiveness of talk therapy on alcoholics and other chemically addicted people. I remember specifically that I’d finished it right down to the references and saved it before putting it away for later submission.

Being a meticulous student, I had the urge the next day to check it again to make sure I hadn’t missed any key points or references.

It wasn’t there. I checked the recycle bin frantically, thinking that maybe I’d accidentally deleted it, but it wasn’t there either.

I did find something else in that folder, though. It was a gigantic, unpunctuated wall of rambling nonsense, as if someone had gotten jacked up on cocaine and decided to write an essay on whatever random word would pop into their head until they got bored. Interlaced with the text were several disturbing images of the corpses of small animals, ranging in size from mice to squirrels. In each picture, the animal’s eyes had been removed.

When I checked the timestamp, it read “27/02/13, 15:45”, the exact same date and time I saved my last draft of that coursework.

As time went on, it was as if my idea of reality was beginning to unravel around me. As my constant nightmares began to erode my fondness of sleep, it got more and more difficult to tell when my dreams stopped and my waking moments started. When I was in the middle of working on something, I’d begin to see hands reaching for me that vanished when I turned to look, and when my stubborn refusal to sleep faltered, I’d hear a low chuckle in my ear and bolt awake again, terrified that it was too late and it had already dragged me into another dream. Sometimes it really was.

At one point, I was getting so distressed by these dreams that I began entertaining the possibility, against my better judgement, that it could have been that fucking dog in the picture my lecturer used in his fear presentation. After all, the Canadian told me that it’s supposed to haunt your dreams, right? Looking back on it now, it seems stupid, but I was desperate enough at one point that I actually had an email ready with a random ‘Smile.jpg’ picture I’d lifted off Google Images just in case.

I didn’t need to, it seemed. It showed me its face a month into the “predicament”. It’s a face that still haunts me this very second, and I see it against the blackness of my eyelids every time I close them.

It happened when I awoke one day after a peculiarly dreamless sleep. I tried not to think about it too much in case I jinxed something, but I let myself feel a small sense of relief.

It was patently obvious that I was in dire need of a shower it seemed, as I’d been wrestling with my “predicament” for weeks now, leaving little time for hygiene. As I walked into the shower room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror and nearly jumped out of my skin.

Having simply mistaken my reflection for someone else, it didn’t take long for me to calm down and assess my appearance: my eyes had devolved to pinkish orbs of irritated veins hooded by purplish-black bags of skin that attested to my lack of proper sleep and the utter destruction of my body clock. I’d grown a thick, prickly beard of red hairs across my chin, and my hair now lay dishevelled and greasy across my shoulders in long curtains. I chuckled: this shower was a long time coming.

That shower got rid of aches I didn’t know I had. I felt like a new man after I stepped out of the steaming glass cubicle to towel myself off. By this point, the mirror had fogged up beyond being a mirror, so to help get my hair in some semblance of order I decided to wipe it off and sort my hair out then and there.

I froze. The blood in my veins screeched to a halt, and my breath caught in my throat like a vice.

The figure that stared back at me from the now cleared mirror was not my reflection. It wore my face, but I swear on my life it wasn’t me. Its mouth nearly touched its earlobes and was contorted into a horrible rictus grin filled with yellowing teeth. The skin of its face seemed stretched over, like a mask, and its hair stuck to its scalp with a layer of shining grease.

It didn’t have eyes. The sockets were just empty, featureless craters, made all the more haunting by the sagging black bags beneath them.

Despite this fact, it still managed to look at me in a way that made my windpipe tense up like it had hands squeezing it.

It laughed. It laughed that same gargling chuckle I’d heard countless times over, but this time it felt as if, between its maniacal giggles, it was forming words with its croaking wheeze, repeating the same fragmented sentence over and over.

“Missed . . . you.”

I blinked, and the words were scratched all over the walls. Missed you. Missed you. It covered every bare patch of wall, scrawled frantically.

It was then that I finally snapped. I punched the mirror as hard as I could, knowing it had trapped me in another nightmare, and kept punching until most of the glass was either on the floor or sticking out of my hand.

It was only after the last of my anger had given in to a crushing sense of defeat and I slumped down into the corner that it dawned on me.

My hand was hurting.

I flipped out. According to Jenna, when I asked her about it earlier this year, I was inconsolable for the rest of the day. I was just sat in the shower room next to the pile of broken mirror shards letting my hand bleed out as I held my head in my hands, trembling and muttering in tongues. I apparently wouldn’t even let the paramedics come near me when the ambulance Jenna had called finally arrived. Of course, I remember none of this.

My parents, being the insufferable worrywarts they are, have insisted I live at home while I resit my freshman year so they can keep an eye on me. They’ve thrown me into a therapy program too, for all the good it’ll do me. Kind of ironic, if you think about it: I was going to be a therapist, but now I’m sitting here on the other end of the stick.

I did have a mirror in my room, one of those old vanity mirrors you sometimes get on top of chests of drawers, but it’s been covered up at the request of my therapist.

After I told my parents what I saw in the mirror, they went white and looked at each other as if I’d just threatened them with a knife. Then, with great reluctance, they told me that when I was just turning four I’d had an imaginary friend that looked exactly like me with what I described as “a nice big toothy smile”.

I called him “Timmy-Tom”, and explained that he was born without eyes, so naturally the best thing to do was find him a pair that he liked. It started out with household objects like sequins, buttons and marbles, so my parents never paid much heed, but soon it became apparent that these weren’t what he was looking for.

That was when they found me cutting out the eyes of a squirrel, and fearing for my sanity they had me . . . as they put it, they had me corrected.

Even now, months into my therapy, I still have those dreams sometimes: sometimes I’ll wake up in my old bed back in the halls of residence, wondering if everything up to that point was just another twisted dream; sometimes I’ll wake up in a padded room, the screams of other broken souls ringing through the little viewing slot in the door, and wonder if I’ve always been there. That last one seems to be its favourite place to send me.

It doesn’t matter where I wake up though. It will be in there with me when I do, giggling that mind-curdling giggle just to let me know that I’m still at his mercy, that I’m still its plaything.

It’s here now, just sitting in the darkest corner of my room watching me write this with that distended grin spread across its face, across my face.

It’s wearing my face.

It’s not even giggling anymore, it’s just . . . it’s just sitting there.

It’s still wearing my face.

It won’t stop looking at me with that goddamn eyeless smile.

It’s STILL wearing my face.

Maybe it just wants my eyes. It has the rest of my face, so why doesn’t it have my eyes?

Either way, if I didn’t have eyes, I wouldn’t be able to see it anymore. Maybe it’d get bored and go find someone else to drive insane.

Now there’s a thought.

Credit To – DementedEmperor

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What I Forgot

May 30, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I awoke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. I smiled to myself, relishing the quasi-rational excuse to sleep in. I could see light through my closed eyelids, and hear the seagulls squawking nearby. If it wasn’t about to rain, I would probably encourage myself to get up and outside to do some yard work. Spring was finally managing to punctuate a particularly long and snowy Maine winter. I had things to sweep and rake and plant outside, but it would have to wait for another Saturday. I stretched my legs out while cozily snuggling further under the blanket. I swept my feet across the foot of the bed but was impeded by a firm object blocking my path. Slightly annoyed but not at all surprised, I pushed my cat over with my foot so my tall frame could take advantage of the full length of the bed. She reacted to this rude awakening by standing up, stretching her muscles and settling back down for more sleep.

I should probably mention that sleep doesn’t come easily to me, and when it’s disturbed I can be pretty unpleasant. I’ve had a problem with insomnia for as long as I can remember, and take medicine to help me sleep. It works pretty well, and I always try to get enough sleep at night so I don’t fall asleep driving and hurt someone. These current pills seem to make me more forgetful than I used to be, but I can live with that. Not being able to sleep is worse.

As I was drifting back towards unconsciousness, my ears suddenly registered a muffled noise coming from somewhere. It was a monotonous beeping, like that of an alarm clock. Knowing it wasn’t mine, I lay still trying to ignore it, patiently waiting for its owner to wake up and turn it off. After about 10 minutes, I rolled over on my back and groaned, accepting the fact that I wasn’t going back to sleep. So much for cozily napping with my cat during the thunderstorm.

The sound was, as I was now clearly aware, coming from my neighbor’s apartment above me. I lay staring at the ceiling for several more minutes, silently hating him, and finally decided to get up. I sleepily walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, my bare feet quietly padding on the old wood floor. I took a shower and sat down at my kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee, carefully sipping it. As I quietly sat trying to finish waking up, I realized I could still hear the alarm from upstairs. I looked at the clock. 10:11. The alarm had started at nine-thirty. Jesus, that guy must be capable of sleeping through anything. If the alarm is loud enough for me to hear it, it must be blasting in his ears up there.

Maybe he died, I thought with a wicked smile. Or, as I continued to postulate, he’s a jerk who went out of town without turning his alarm off. Probably that one.

I finished my cup of coffee and stepped out my front door, fully intending to yell at this guy if he was home. I clomped angrily up the wooden stairs leading to his front porch. When I reached the top, I could see through the window in his door that his apartment was dark inside. I peered in the window and examined the lifeless interior. I knocked and waited. No answer. I knocked again twice, both times receiving no indication that anyone was home. I walked over to his window and, upon trying to open it, found that it slid up easily.

I leaned down and called in, “Hello?” No answer. I called once more, louder. I listened for any sound coming from inside, but there was nothing apart from the beeps of his alarm. From my position at the window I could see into his bedroom and that his bed was unoccupied. I debated for a moment and decided I might as well pop in and turn the alarm off. I’d come this far and the damnable thing was sitting roughly 20 unimpeded steps from me. He’ll never have to know his privacy was violated, I reasoned.

I opened the window as far as it would go and climbed through. I stopped and listened to make sure I wasn’t about to be chased out by a frightened guy with a bat. Nope, still nobody home. I went into his bedroom where the alarm was blaring and saw clothes scattered on the floor. Dude’s kinda messy, but that’s not that unusual I suppose. I walked over and turned the alarm off. Ahhh, silence. My ears rang as they adjusted to the newly silent apartment, the peaceful sound of ocean waves caressing my ears from the open window. I took a curious look in his bathroom and saw more mess, bottles and things lying around on the counter and floor. Kinda looks like someone was looking for something, or packing in a hurry.

As my eyes finished scanning the room, I suddenly felt something soft touch my leg. I jumped back with a frightened shriek, only to find a cat looking up at me inquisitively. Sheesh. Thing just took ten years off my life.

Given the rushed state of affairs in the apartment, I wondered if the guy remembered to feed the cat before leaving. I went back to the kitchen and found the cat’s food bowl overflowing under a pile of food. The bag of food was sitting overturned next to the bowl.

Something in the back of my mind gnawed at me making me increasingly uncomfortable. The longer I stayed in here, the more I risked being caught in my breaking-and-entering foray. My curiosities and samaritan duties now satisfied, I climbed back through the window, closing it behind me. I leaned against the balcony rail, enjoying the satisfaction of having successfully completed my stealth mission.

Man, this bastard is lucky, I thought. His balcony has a nice view of the ocean over the neighboring houses and treetops. I surveyed the dark clouds looming in the distance, now noticeably closer than before. I’d almost forgotten the encroaching storm. As if on cue to remind me, a crack of thunder echoed across the sky, interrupting the quiet. As I listened to the rumble get quieter and quieter, the same sense of unease I felt before came creeping back, although this time I couldn’t pin it on a fear of being caught. It was quiet. Too quiet. I kept listening for several seconds, fully expecting to hear some kind of noise. Given that I’m in the middle of the city, I should be hearing all manner of sounds right now. I strained to hear a car, a dog barking, music playing, people talking, anything. But there was none. Not even birds, which I found disturbing. Just the roar of the ocean. And the thunder. How long had it been this quiet? I didn’t notice it before.

I’m pretty introverted and also work from home, so I can go days without talking to another human being, and when I do it’s usually the cashier at the grocery store. But this was unnerving. Right now all I wanted was to hear someone’s voice.

I called out to no one in particular, “he-Hello? HELLO?” My shaky voice echoed through the trees and nearby houses. There was no response. The only contact with life I’d had since waking up was with two cats. Loneliness was beginning to soak into me like cold water, and a sound like static on an old television invaded my ears as the panic rose in my throat.

And that’s when I heard it.

Or rather, stopped hearing it. You know how sometimes when you hear a noise go on long enough, it seems to fade away into the background of your subconscious even though it’s still there? Like a loud smoke detector chirping, or locusts in a forest, or the noise of an electric fan? Only when the noise stops do you become aware of it. Maybe that’s what happened. Or maybe my mind blocked it out to protect me from the dread I’m feeling. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

I slowly began backing away from the balcony rail, my mind reeling, until I bumped into the damp vinyl lounge chair behind me. I didn’t hear the sound of the chair’s legs scraping against the wood as I collapsed into it, my legs finally giving way beneath me. My stunned mind desperately tried to explain the noise away as something else, replaying it again and again from where it still lingered in my cloudy memory, burning like ash, making my eyes water. But the sound was undeniable.

It was the city’s emergency alarm. The one they use to alert you of some impending disaster. When I finally accepted that, my memory made a connection. The emergency weather bulletin that came on as I was drifting to sleep last night. Something about a major storm and massive ocean swells.

As the sobering reality washed over me, the static in my ears was reaching deafening levels. But it wasn’t my panic. It was the ocean.

My memory quite often fails me, but usually not quite so colossally. Not with such… finality. A sick feeling of regret tore at me, leaving me in my final moments with only my eternal yet fleeting remorse, and the shame at being the cause of my own demise.

I slowly got up and walked over to the edge of the balcony to look in the direction of the ocean. A monstrous, unforgiving wave was colliding with my abandoned neighborhood.

My heart sank. I was alone.

Credit To – herbalcell

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