Memory Archaeology

May 25, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I’d like to advise that I don’t condone repeating the efforts I’m about to detail. I can’t stop anybody from acting upon curiosity, but my actions haven’t done any real good for my well being. I wouldn’t expect another individuals experience to fair much better. I’ll get back to that subject later on, but I’ll first give you my actual story.

There’s a feeling that I’m sure many have experienced, even on a small scale. Before one is about to sleep, there’s a sensation in which the body feels like it’s sinking downwards, falling into nothing. This has been simply named a “falling sensation”, or at least I’ve never heard by another other name.

I’ve always had a large fascination of this sensation, to where I looked more into it. I studied the feeling down to its specific, and even learned how to prolong it by a few minutes. Aside from my strange amusement, my efforts did present a positive: The feeling could disperse my stress very quickly, leaving me more than relaxed.

There was a growing issue, however, that eventually led me to stay away: Every time the feeling was finished, despite my body being calm, there was a evident pain in my chest. This never happened at other parts of the day, or any time before or after sleep. I was concerned if I was causing damage to myself, so I made the sensation less frequent. They almost stopped altogether.

There came a night where my stress was through the roof. Since leaving high school, I was paranoid about having no money, so I worked three jobs at the time. Adding on the other obligations of my life, I needed a quick escape from reality. The feeling lightly came over me, so I grasped the opportunity.

I envisioned myself falling through stars as I usually would. My body began to follow my thoughts, as it felt heavier. I kept it consistent about a minute, as I usually would do. I never wanted to go overboard, so I typically opened my eyes and stopped it after that time. I did the same in that moment.

When I opened my eyes, nothing changed. When I say this, it means that I still saw nothing but darkness, as if my eyes were still closed. I thought this was the case, until I continued to feel myself blink.

I still felt myself falling, faster than I had seconds before. My body was paralyzed, still feeling weighted down as I continued to drift. The speed was building, and the thought that it was a dream came over me. It all felt too sensitive to be a dream, though. I could feel as though I was awake, yet blind to the world around me. The falling had progressed to a flying, plummeting towards the ground. My body began to ache, as it would when I would fall for too long.

The falling stopped, leaving my body floating in a pitch-black void. I couldn’t lift my head to see if the rest of my body was visible. My eyes only looked up, remaining still. Not long after I stopped descending, an image flashed across my eyes. It was quick to the point where I couldn’t pin any details down. It was bright than the void, for sure. I remembered it covering my entire vision, like I had been briefly transported to another place.

Soon, pictures flashed for longer intervals. They came one after another, with an occasional frame of darkness. The pictures included places and people that I recognized. There were my friends, workspaces, family members, but sometimes of individuals unknown to me. It wasn’t impossible that I could’ve seen them at some period of time, but they were a stranger to me in the moment.

An image passed that stayed longer than the rest. It was of a young man, perhaps in his twenties. He was looking directly at camera, or whatever was used to capture the moment. His hair was a short brown, and his smile suggested laughter, the kind that came after telling a joke. I knew him well. His name was Leon.

To bring some knowledge to light, Leon was my best friend for at least five years. We knew each other since my senior year in college, and we continued to be close after graduation. I say “was” because he disappeared three years ago. From what others told me, he had vanished overnight when walking home. I came under the impression that he had left the city for another life, not saying goodbye to make it easier on the transition. Even if this wasn’t the case, I liked to think that way, seeing as I could never contact him successfully.

A few similar images of landmarks and people rapidly flashed in my eyes, some of which I identified, but all of them felt familiar in the least. Finally, a realization reached me:

They were the sights of my own eyes.

They were my memories.

Most of the images beyond that point didn’t feel like major memories. They weren’t significant scenes in time, but pictures of places and people that I might have seen at some time in my life. There were still memories of people I knew, but they’re expressions were not one’s I recalled. Their faces were lifeless, holding little emotion. Their stare suggested no anger, happiness, or sorrow. Only emptiness.

There were some figures in the memories that didn’t seem complete. They were partially faded, appearing blurred or otherwise transparent. I suppose the best way to describe it would be comparing it to “spirit photography” one can find on the internet. I didn’t want to think of the figures as ghosts, but they did become more numerous as I seemed to fall deeper. There was a partial hand grasping a man’s shoulder, as well as feet on a completely empty, dark street. In an image of my mother, a pair of eyes appeared to hover next to her, staring forward.

The last of what I saw was more concerning. The final images were very limited in their view; There was a twisted, bruised leg. A wrecked car, its front flattened against a tree. A trail of blood on a dirt road, leading off-frame.

Piecing the images together, I associated them to be of a car crash I had been in years before. The crash had damaged my head, and its memories of the event with it. Others at the time explained that I had lost control of my vehicle, specifically a steering wheel malfunction. I had always thought the car had some potential dangers to it, after long use without maintenance. I had just been too much of a cheap prick to get them fixed. After the crash, that didn’t seem to matter.

After pictures of the crash I snapped back to reality, still lying in my bed, sweating. My chest was pounding harder than it ever had. It ached with every breath, delivering pain to my head as well. My body felt strained, like its muscles had withstood pressure for a long while.

On the subject of time, I glanced at my alarm clock to see how long I was subjected to the whole event: I had been under the state for nearly four hours. I lied awake for a while after, with my body being in too much pain to rest. When the aches degraded, I was exhausted enough to quickly fall asleep. I don’t recall dreaming.

During the next day, I was far more conscious (and maybe cautious) of my surroundings. I took mental notes of everywhere I went, and compared almost every sight to the images I witnessed. I studied people, locations, daily sights. Maybe entering the state had heightened my senses in some way? Regardless if it was correct, the idea brought curiosity.

I will say here that I take sleeping medication, which has occasionally yielded side effects (though they were all bodily based). I say this because, throughout the entire day, I would occasionally hallucinate for only seconds. I would be speaking with someone, and almost swear to see small parts of them…change. Portions of their skin would look more pale and aged. Their eyes would turn a gray, empty shade of color. Their teeth sharpened into an array of jagged, intimidating thorns. These disturbing appearances were brief, leaving with the next blink of my eyes.

The sights and thoughts by the end of the day left me in a madness. Trying to make sense of everything only worsened my confusion. The the idea of the memories was the worst of it: I couldn’t put them out of my mind, even if what happened the night before had been a dream.

While driving home, I passed a construction site. It was in it’s first stages, where the foundation was being excavated for space. The sight brought an idea to my mind about the night before, about everything that I was stressing over:

The falling sensation could be brought to a level to where one “falls” into deep areas of the mind, where memories themselves form into visible images. There are many thoughts and sights of life that are forgotten, whether lost from the pass of time or other external causes. In this mental place, the unprocessed memories are free to be examined, and therefore recovered. It was a sort of “archeology”, where the deeper the soul falls, the more buried memories it can uncover.

The idea was insanity to me, but it also presented an undiscovered opportunity. The potential to see distant, shadowed areas of my life was enough for me to continue focusing on the experience.

It was enough for me to try it all again.

I was prepared to start the following night, where my next day was free. I remembered that after the last time, my chest was in an alarming pain by the end. The risk of this being worse almost made me back off, but I thought about what I could find through the struggle. Even if there were no significant answers to be uncovered, the discovery of the phenomenon was enough to tell about.

I laid down, relaxed, and imagined the same feeling as before. It was only a few minutes until I began to feel it build. Typically, I would need to concentrate for as long as an hour to bring the sensation to its highest intensity, but it only took minutes with my concentration.

My eyes closed, and tension began to spike throughout my muscles. I tried to imagine the peaceful stars, but I was more focused on preparing for whatever uncovered memories would be recovered. The speed of the fall increased as it did before, and my body abruptly stopped, and began to drift.

I was back.

At first, I expected the same images as before. It wasn’t long until the image of Leon appeared. It took a moment to recognize it as the same image, because it had become different in ways. His smile appeared more menacing, filled with malicious intent. His eyes were more empty, soulless, grey with no flicker of life. His smile revealed teeth, sickly sharpened. This transition continued as more images of people passed. They were unrecognizable because of the changes, almost appearing as an entirely new picture.

The faded, intruding figures were also more significant. They were positioned in new spaces, reaching out their ghostlike hands to whoever was also in the picture. They’re faces were still too dark to decipher. I felt uneasy, nauseous as their blurred eyes locked towards me. Because of the assailment of altered memories, a new pattern had passed unnoticed:

The beings were in every image. As if they really existed, each figure had found home in the memories, beginning to change the rest to fit their appearance.I tried to contemplate why these creatures were in my mind. Thinking of them only seemed to bring more into my sights, an expected trap of thought.

I snapped back to my objective of discovery, specifically of what might have happened to Leon. For all I knew, the answers to his fate didn’t exist in my memories. He could have disappeared in an event unrelated to me, and I could’ve been wasting my time. My past closeness to him still got the best of my efforts.

A repeated memory appeared for longer than the rest. It was one of few that I recognized from the earlier night, my last time falling into the void. There was a view from inside a car, on a dim, unpopulated road. I made a connection to the image of the wrecked car, the accident I experienced years ago. Finding an explanation for that alone would be worth the effort, even if I was watching punishment for my ignorance.

The view was still from the drivers seat, looking forward. Because it stayed in my vision for a longer moment, I was able to examine it more: The image was distorted, blurred to a degree. The other difference I could find was a hand in the lower corner of the view. This wasn’t another another faded, phantom hand like the rest. It belonged someone else in the car. The next image looked to the right, and it confirmed whose hand it was.

It was Leon’s. He was in the same car.

I wanted out right fucking there. I wanted to snap back to consciousness and forget all the progress I had made from that point. I had an idea of what was about to be seen, and I wanted no part of it.

The images went on without stopping, like a rapid flip book. Every page moved more towards despair. Whatever this void really was, it wanted me to suffer. It wanted me to see the event happen steadily, in its best detail. Leon had an overjoyed, excited expression. He raised a large can, and I raised my arm towards his, holding the same object:

Alcohol.

More fear began to grow in my shaking, dropping soul. If I could’ve opened my mouth in the moment, I would’ve been screaming in self-anger and hatred. The car crashed as it swerved off the road, colliding with a tree ahead. Leon was ejected from the vehicle, cut apart from broken glass and the force of impact.

There were no more images, as the entire final scene played out as a first-person video. I stepped out of the car, stumbling from both my drunken vision and injuries. I walked towards my best friend’s body, who was crawling away from the scene. Blood was flowing from his head at a critical rate. Dragging forward with all his lasting strength, he collapsed into a limp sprawl.

Leon’s last moments of pain will be forever embedded into my thoughts. What will be forever scarred into my soul was the look of his face, as it looked back at mine. It was a look of defeat, hopelessness, regret. It was an expression that spoke “it’s not your fault”, but I knew the terrible choice I had made.

Nobody had ever told me the reality. Nobody ever told me Leon and I had made such a foolish, suicidal mistake.

Nobody ever told me that I caused his death.

Just as his face was looking into mine in the memory, it flashed with a hideous facade. The sorrow in his eyes turned to malice, an inhuman stare. The scars on his face multiplied until it was a mask of scrapes, and his mouth turned to a vicious smile.

I knew that this was not the reality of the memory itself, but my mind being possessed. Memories were shattering away into horror, from what waited in its depths. They had been waiting for a curious, ambitious soul to wander down, looking for answers. They gave me what I was looking for, and now they were looking to keep me there.

They wanted me to be trapped.

I was internally screaming, desperate to wake back to consciousness. I had no knowledge of how to leave the place. The only action I was capable of was thought. This guided me to different memories, twisted by the demons inside my head. No amount of mental concentration seemed to bring me to freedom.

I felt a pressure begin to build in my chest. In the moment, I had hoped it was the feeling of my heart stopping, killing my brain and ending the nightmare. There was a tug, jolting me upwards. Each pull was overwhelming, painful from the motion. This didn’t matter, as it still felt like I was moving upwards towards freedom.

Despite the hopeful situation, tainted pictures were still being forced into my vision. They were no longer visions of my past, but depictions of human torment. I saw the people in my memories continuously mutilated, sucked of life, burned to ash. The people in my mind had been turned to a canvas, being used to create pieces of repulsing, psychotic artwork.

The last sight I witnessed in that place was a blur of red, which covered my whole sight. When I think of it, it reminds me of what one would see when closing their eyes to bright, direct sunlight.

I gasped awake, if “awake” would be applicable. My entire body pulsed with aches, but there was a weight on my chest that made nearly every breath impossible. Attempting to get up for help was useless, as my energy was better spent keeping air in my lungs. I laid in the same place for two hours, with my heart screaming to shut down. To my surprise, I heard sirens approaching from the street, an ambulance. I was confused about the arrival at , but I learned a few days later that a neighbor of mine had heard terrible noises nearby, and called the authorities: In my unconsciousness, my suffering was audible, enough for a different home to hear my screams.

I stayed at a hospital for two days, as I had suffered a near-fatal heart attack. My examiners found the event rather surprising that a man as healthy and young as myself could fall victim to such a severe occurrence. They asked a few questions relating to my lifestyle, and potential medications, but I never mentioned anything about my recent experience. I was too tired to go through the entire story, or to be judged as insane.

Once I was released, I had the idea of speaking with others. Maybe my friends would tell me why they lied, especially about someone so close to me. I decided against it. I’m sure others were mourning enough without me trying to bleed explanations from them.

All I have left to do now is think how my last few months could have gone differently. I think about what it would be like if I had never discovered the ability to fall, into what I believe to be an undiscovered section of the mind. My life continues as much as it can, but I find it difficult to concentrate with those burning images in my thoughts. There’s so much guilt inside me now that I don’t see old friends anymore, or even family. I can say that I’ve had ideas of suicide, but only time will tell if I become that desperate.

Now, with my story concluding, I reach the part where the reader begins to associate themselves with the experience I had. With such a discovery comes the idea of it being used for personal desire, or even just reckless adventure.

I reach the part of the story where you think about trying it all yourself.

And with this comes the part where I try to warn you. Based on what I’ve described, here’s the best explanations I can give for what went wrong:

I’ll first present the notion that we all forget certain memories for a reason. There are parts of our lives that seem to fade from our minds, that we run to again. There’s an idea that in knowing everything, especially about ourselves, we are brought to a level of peace. Humans weren’t born to have a constant peace of mind, as much as we wish for it. In looking for all your memories, the only feelings you’ll find will be regret, anger, and frustration that you caused something that can’t be undone.

But your life’s not bad, right? You’ve had nothing but good memories, nothing but events that you only wish could be replayed. I’ll present you with another idea:

We’ve all felt negative emotions, dark states of thought. There are everyday occurrences that create fear, sorrow, dread, many unpleasant sensations. These don’t leave once their brought about. They’re only stored away, placed in the deep caverns of the brain, where they sleep.

That is, unless you decide to bring them back up. When awoken, they’ll gladly rise from the pits, taking their forms of the “ghosts” I’ve mentioned. Once they’re free, they will start placing themselves in other frames, infecting your memories one-by-one. Their possessions will continue, until their revolting forms are all you have left to remember.

I still see them. I still see their eyes in the people I see, walking by me or looking at me through windows. They stay there for longer, not just seconds like they used to. I can hardly stand living with them haunting me, but I know that my results could’ve been worse: I could still be trapped in the passages of my thoughts, left to whatever sadistic pictures they wished to place in front of my eyes. That was their goal, after all. The possibility would still exist for you.

I know I’ve said a lot, but if all I’m saying are warnings, what was the point of explaining the story at all? I may have discovered this on my own, but that’s not to say I was the first. What I experienced was at first an accident, which then grew to a mistake. The “falling sensation” is a common phenomenon, felt by hundreds of humans every night. There are people who die in their sleep, whether from heart conditions, strokes, or other causes. I shudder to think how many may have been somewhere else in their mind before then.

I know there will be those who be unable to keep away from the opportunity, and will seek to understand more. Despite all my words telling them to stay the fuck away, they will continue with their efforts. They’ll probably wonder how I made it happen, though I’ve already explained it:

Just lie down, relax, and begin to imagine yourself falling. You’ll start to feel it come over slowly, but keep concentrating. If it’s anywhere the same as it was for me, it won’t take long to arrive. You’ll see your memories, and the only thing you’ll be able to do is go deeper.

Your mind is the site, your soul is the shovel.

Lower yourself down, and start digging.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

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Just Your Average Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remembered that my husband was at work.

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

The light went out.

Credit To – Julie Oliver – Grand Pubaa of Shaddow Domain

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The Dream Weaver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This.. This is my dream?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dream Weaver

Credit To – Nightfall

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Deprivation

May 10, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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The first to go was my sight.

When thinking of the experiment in my mind, I was hoping that my sight would be one of the last senses to switch off. I wasn’t sure if the drug shut them off in an order, or if it was more of a random cycle. I it would only be temporary, but I prepared for an uncomfortable, but potentially interesting experience. I had been fascinated with sensory deprivation for a long period of my life, but a chlorinated pool wouldn’t satisfy me. I wanted something that would truly degrade my senses. I had acquired an experimental sedative, one that was used for a complete paralysis of sensation. I wasn’t a big-name scientific researcher, but I was curious, perhaps to an extreme degree.

My sight didn’t immediately die, but faded out. It appeared as if I was slowly shutting my eyes, still being able to feel myself blink, until all I could sense was darkness. Though I expected the thoughts, I began to sympathize to how a blind man would feel with that sort of limitation. It could be different for one who was born with the condition, but feeling my eyelids move across my lifeless eyes was rather haunting. I almost wished my sense of touch would go next.

My mind didn’t have any images to process, so I began to process my own. I would describe it similar to how, if one closes their eyes, they see faint, but recognizable shades of color – perhaps resembling what was in vision beforehand. With my vision gone completely, the faint colors made their own shapes, sometimes appearing to be silhouettes of people. I talked to myself to help keep these controlled, as they began to make me feel invaded.

The next to go was my hearing, in which my self conversation became completely useless. I first thought that my speech was growing weaker, but I realized that the volume of all sounds was fading, just as quick as my vision. When it too had left me, I heard only a single sound, or at least only thought of one.

There’s a familiar, god-awful ringing that many have claimed to hear on a regular basis, sometimes for short periods, others for as much as days. This can be an actual ear condition, but given how my hearing had diminished, I was sure that it was being produced my own thoughts. The ringing intensified, and began to sound inconsistent. At random, short intervals, the ring would change into (what I would think to be) a loud microphone screech.

Then I assumed that the next to go was my taste, though since I hadn’t recently consumed any food or liquid, I felt little change. I did lose a feeling inside my mouth, but this was being drowned out by the illusions being presented by my loss of sound and sight. More figures appeared in the blackness in my vision, and they then appeared to move. Their steps were jagged, and their ligaments contorted; staggering as if they were an abstract painting in motion. The ringing in my ear continued to grow more acute, more concentrated at intervals. The noises in my head were nearly in sync with the movements of the colored shadows, being the most evident when they were closer.

As my senses began to feel more hijacked than depraved, I recognized that my sense of smell was fading, though, like my sense of taste, this passed by me nearly unnoticed. I was far too distracted with what my mind was creating. There was only a single figure left, centered in the darkness. It stepped forward slowly, with the ringing now blaring through my head. My hearing didn’t feel gone anymore, but blocked out by the constant noise. I began thrashing at my surroundings, shouting for help that I wouldn’t even be able to witness. The shadow was tall, with some limbs wider than the rest of its body. Its legs still waved when it walked, twisting as I began to make out what I thought were its eyes.

The last sense to go was my touch, and this had proved to be the worst to suffer. As I could feel my body growing invisible, I flailed frantically, knocking into objects. I threw myself to the ground, and began to scrape my body with my nails and teeth, desperate to bring a sense to by mind.

After what felt like only a few seconds, with every one of my senses shut down, the ringing in my head ceased, and turned to soft, unrecognizable whispers. These, like the ringing, grew louder as the figure continued to approach. I could only watch as it came closer, and just as it appeared to only be a few feet in front of me, I saw its face.

I saw its eyes. They were black lenses, flashing with dim colors and swirling in a dark vortex. They locked onto me, and as I looked into them, the surrounding darkness became more like the eyes themselves – a chaotic, sickening void, with no calm in its storm. The whispering had passed and had changed into a violent screech. It was comparable to a low-quality, distorted microphone scream blasted on the highest volume.

In the midst of this mental suffering, which I was praying would end at any moment, I had the foolish, insane idea of speaking to the nightmare. I asked what it was, and what it wanted.

I had merely thought of the words, and its screeching ceased, only to begin speaking in the whisper it had made before. This time, I could understand every word:

“I am what remains when everything else has vanished. I am what is left watching you as you are distracted, made blind by everything else you sense and experience. I’m what you sometimes witness for a split-second, only to pass off as your imagination. I wait patiently, eager for the moment where your soul is left exposed, without a shell to protect you.”

The whispers made me convinced that my hearing had returned, that somebody in reality was whispering right into both my ears, as I continued to look to into the being’s tormenting eyes. It began to reach its jagged, deformed hand near my face, as if to grasp it. As I felt my spirit and sanity begin to collapse, the shadow began to dissipate, and fall back into the void that was now becoming brighter. The whispers and screeches fell back quickly.

Like my body was waking up from a violent dream, my senses quickly came back all at once. My energy had been massively drained, like I had just ran in circles for hours. I was only lying down on my living room floor, with the objects and furniture in shambles, wrecked from a struggle. My body was covered in bruises and scratches, covered in a thick layer of sweat as I panted from what had just gone through my head.

My ordeal was over, as the pill was only temporary. I looked at the clock, trying to remember when I had started the experiment. The entire event had only lasted four minutes, as the researchers had originally promised.

I spent the next hours trying to recollect myself, disturbed from what had took place. Although I seemed safe, I still felt a feeling of dread as I tried to remember everything I experienced. I tried to pass the experience as a fabrication of my own mind; that losing all my senses had caused my feeling of paranoia and fear to materialize into a vivid terror that would only vanish when my senses recovered.

What I can’t forget, however, was those words. Its words. The distorted being had vanished, but was it because my senses now blocked it out of my mind? I only wished that I had never been too daring to ask the question I had. Had I only kept silent, I would have passed this event off as my own intensified imagination – another horror only created, then destroyed by my head.

I want to be able to think that. But I can’t, because every time it comes to my mind, I can only think of it right in front of my face, invisible, waiting for when my body is dead and my mind is a target of havoc.

As always, I see the faint colors when I close my eyes, sometimes shaping themselves in a familiar, distorted figure.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

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Ink Filled Dream

May 8, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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“Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.” -Edgar Allan Poe

In a dream Joseph saw himself sleeping. His twelve year old body tucked in a thick comforter, on top of his old hand me down mattress. Even as he stood by his bedside, looking at himself, he could feel the warmth of the comforter. “Curious” he thought to himself, he decided to explore this dream. He looked out his window, the moon still bright, and with a bit of concentration he passed through the window, like a ghost in a movie. Gently floating to the ground from his second floor room, in the way gravity’s laws hold no sway over a dreamer. He explored the empty streets as snow started to fall. With great leaps he could almost fly, floating as he ignored gravity and the rules of the wakening world.

The streets where dark and only the sound of an occasional car could be heard in the distance, Joseph did not feel the night chill he should have. After a little time of playing and exploring he saw something. Down the darkly lit street was a figure, a silhouette of a child no older than him; the figure had no facial features and appeared to be a black mass only in the shape of a boy. It turned; even without eyes Joseph could tell it was staring at him. Unnerved by the figure Joseph ran home. Moving faster than his wakening legs would manage. He never looked back to see if he was followed.

Stopping when he reached the front of his house, standing on the front steps was his mother. The tall, blue eyed woman was smoking a cigarette in her pajamas, breaking another promise to quit. As she dropped the ashes into the flower pot next to her Joseph wanted to yell at her. However he quickly found he had no voice, as he tried to gain his mother’s attention he found she did not notice him at all. She tossed the last of her cigarette into the flower pot before going back inside, Joseph followed inside as well, and walking back to his room was the last thing he remembered before being awakened by the sun in his eyes.

As he walked out the door the next morning, he nearly forgot his dream. In the flower pot by the door there as a cigarette bud. “She really is smoking again” he thought to himself with a sigh as he made his way to the bus stop. It wasn’t till lunch that he noticed how tired he was, unable to keep his eyes open any longer he fell asleep right in the cafeteria, once again he dreamed. He saw himself face down in his chair, and the spitballs on his back from the kids at the table behind him. He watched the room at bit before moving out of the cafeteria. Unsure where to go, he moved to his next class. There he saw Miss Frances, teaching the class on the schedule ahead of him. They looked to be taking a pop quiz, Joseph felt dread at the thought.

Once again none of the kids or the teacher noticed him as he moved between desks, looking over each of his peers shoulders. Bored of school, he decided to move outside. He put his hands to the window ready to float out them like he had done before, however he noticed a dark figure just below. It was the faceless child again, crawling up the wall as it where the floor. It was on all fours now, looking even less human with extended arms and fingers that ended in points like one large claw.

Joseph almost fell out of his chair as the loud ringing noise of the bell went off. Once he stood up, he noticed the spit balls falling off his back, with a quick rub he wiped the rest off angrily and moved onto the next period. There Miss Frances announced a pop quiz. The Quiz read the same as it did before. Suddenly remembering the window he ran over and looked down…yet there was nothing there. The rest of the class stared at him. Mumbling “Thought I saw something” he sat back down and took the quiz. Joseph however could barely write, he was starting to understand his dreams where more tied to reality then he thought.

Over the next few days Joseph went to bed earlier and earlier, looking forward to his dream like playground. It was clear now that no one could see him in this state. He started with spying on his older sister as she spent time in her room, wakening and sneaking in the room later to confirm what he saw in his sleep. He did not see the dark figure for a few nights, and slowly stopped thinking about it, enjoying his newfound powers too much. However each time he waked the less sleep he felt like he had gotten. His mother noticed her sleepy child and decided to keep him home from school in fear of illness.

Before today most of his trips into the dream world had been at night. So Joseph did not put up a fuss when his mother put him back to bed, his body quickly dazed to sleep while his mind his spirit like form awoke. He only took one glance at his sleeping body before running off to the school. This time he was free with no time limit to spy on his peers. He moved faster than he even realized, surprised when he was already looking at the front gates of the school. Looking up at his classroom on the second floor his smile quickly turned to a frown as the creature was standing on the other side. Joseph turned around to run away but stopped when he heard a loud “Smash!” as the sound of glass landed on the ground. He turned around and saw his peers looking out of a broken window confused, an angry teacher beyond them. Joseph was shocked at the realization this creature could affect the real world.

As the weekend started Joseph had doubts if he should still be exploring this dream world. Despite his fears however he was enthralled. At this point he slept more than he was awake. He saw his monsters more than once, but managed to avoid it each time. This thing scared him, but it too was part of this dream world that fascinated him. He found it could change its shape, sometimes looking more human, more like a child. Other times it looked completely inhuman, like a dark beast. He always watched from a distance, and ran away when it noticed him. If he was cornered Joseph found he could force himself awake. He was addicted to the dream world. His overworked mother failed to notice, and his teenage sister was too wrapped up in her own life to notice her over sleeping little brother.

It was a cold night; Joseph was busy playing in the snowy streets when he noticed the creature once again. This time it was looking right at him, standing in front of his house. It turned and walked through his front door. Panicked, Joseph thought it was going after his mother or sister and ran after it. He quickly checked his mother’s room, but no sign of it. Then he looked in on his sister, but still not there. Joseph felt relived for a moment before remembering that he still had his own body, sleeping soundly in his bed. Rushing into his own room he saw the creature sitting on the floor, looking like a human child without a face. A soft glow was next to him on the corner of Joseph’s bed. A smile formed on the creature where there was no mouth before, on the floor next to his hand was Joseph’s mother’s lighter. Joseph could feel warmth in his feet, and saw the glow for what it was, fire. He immediately tried to wake up, but he couldn’t. The oil like child got up off the floor, and walking right though the wall. Joseph could not see it, but the newly formed mouth never left the shape of a smile. In a matter of moments the fire spread over the old mattress. Joseph could feel the flames. He felt the burns and he screams in agony, but makes no sound. He ran to his mother’s side trying desperately to wake her. All of his words where without sound, and she slept soundly as her son burned to death.

The neighborhood was awake that night, watching firemen come into and out of there neighbor’s house. A teenager and middle aged woman where saved thanks to smoke detectors, but the firefighters could do little for the boy whose room the fire started in. The firefighters had seen this sort of thing before, an unwatched child playing with fire and an old mattress. Yes, this was likely another case of the same. Unknown to everyone else however, there was someone else watching. Joseph watched as he saw his mother and sister crying, begging for them to notice him.

Credit To – BlueHero

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Logical Explanations

May 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I awoke that night to Echo, my dog, barking up a storm. He was perched on the edge of my bed, facing the door and yapping away like crazy. I scratched him behind the ear to get him to calm down and guided him to his usual spot on my bed.
In hindsight, him barking was the first warning.
My brain, overactive as it is, was curious as to why he was behaving so oddly. Echo rarely barked at anything, so it was unlikely he was barking at nothing. Perhaps there is a skunk in the yard, I thought to myself. Seeing as how I was half-asleep at the time, that explanation seemed perfectly logical. Had I been more aware, I would have realized that any skunks in the neighborhood would be weeks into their hibernation this time of year. Even if they weren’t, the vicious snowstorm outside would deter them from wandering about.
I attempted to fall asleep after that, and how I wish that I did. Unfortunately, due to my habit of sleeping with my mouth open, I was becoming increasingly aware of how thirsty I was. I tried to stay in the warmth of my bed for as long as possible, but it wasn’t long before my tongue felt like sandpaper. It was clear to me that I wouldn’t be able to sleep without a glass of water.
I told Echo to stay and slipped into my moccasins. The air outside my nest of blankets was freezing so I put on my housecoat as well. When I left my bedroom, I noticed that the basement television was showing static. Mother probably forgot to turn it off after watching her murder mysteries, I thought. The TV’s playing static because of the storm outside. It’s just messing with our cable. Another logical explanation, which would be far less logical if I were fully awake. My mother, no matter how tired she was, would never leave the television on. She’s far too meticulous to do something like that. In my sleepy brain, however, it made perfect sense. I couldn’t find the TV remote, as the room was dark and I didn’t want to accidentally blind myself by turning on the lights, so I left the TV on.
I should’ve turned back, crawled back into bed and waited for morning.
I climbed the stairs to the landing, which was bathed in an orange glow, cast by the streetlights reflecting off of the clouds above. From up here, I could hear the wind battering itself against the house’s walls. I was starting to wake up a little bit. I noticed that the deadbolt on the door was unlocked.
That was my final warning.
My parents felt that it wasn’t necessary, what with the storm and all. The seeds of doubt began to form in my mind. I knew that that wasn’t the case. Some new neighbors have been suspected of breaking into people’s houses and stealing their liquor. My parents, being collectors of fine wines, have made it a habit to lock the deadbolt every night for the past few months, even when the act was completely pointless. My conscious brain was starting to wake up, starting to notice these things. A feeling of uneasiness began to pool in my gut. Still, after locking the deadbolt, I continued to the kitchen.
From the kitchen, I had a clear view of the living room, and while I filled an empty glass with water from the sink, I not only noticed that the television up here was also showing static, but that there was a figure seated on the couch. Don’t worry, I thought nervously, that’s just Dad. He’s been sleepwalking again. This time, I was fully aware of the flaws in the this ‘logical explanation’; the fact that the figure on the couch was bald and plump, while my father is lean and his hair is only beginning to thin. The fact that my father has been taking medications to prevent his sleepwalking. The fact that I could hear him snoring from my parent’s bedroom. I tried to disregard these thoughts, to push them to the back of my mind like I had done before. This time, it didn’t work.
I gently set my glass on the kitchen counter. My hands were cold and clammy, shaking in terror. My heart rate was increasing and my breathing was rapid. Even in the confusion of the moment, I knew that this wasn’t just some regular burglar, I doubted that the thing on the couch was even human. I reached for the phone to call 911, only to find out that I couldn’t get any service due to the storm. Frustrated and confused, I started randomly pushing buttons on the keypad.
That’s when I heard the thing move. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make my blood run cold and send clammy sweat down my back. It was the sound of bones popping, not just a few either; it sounded like an entire room full of people cracking their necks, backs and knuckles all at once. I turned from the useless phone to look at the creature for the first time.
It was now standing, facing me and illuminated by the orange glow from the living room’s window. It stood at about six feet tall, was completely naked and was rather plump. Its skin was a sallow grayish color and looked almost slimy. The creatures arms dangled as if they were boneless and at the end of each was a gnarled mess of fingers. The worst part about the creature, however, was its face. The thing had no nose, only two slits where its nostrils would be. Its eyes were hollow, white orbs that seemed too large for the rest of its face. As for its mouth, well, it didn’t really have one. It looked as if its entire lower jaw had been knocked clean off the rest of its face, leaving a swollen, pink tongue hanging against its neck.
The creature started walking towards me, making that awful sound with each step. It looked like it was trying to speak to me, but without its jaw, the tongue could only wriggle around helplessly as sinister moans escaped its throat.
I did what anybody else would do in that situation. I ran like hell.
When I got to the landing, I closed the door between the landing and the first floor. I had three options: I could surrender myself to the creature, I could run downstairs, which would eventually lead to a dead end, or I could run outside and face one of the worst blizzards of the decade. None of my choices were desirable, but I knew that I’d be dead anyway if I kept standing there. I didn’t get much time to choose though, as the door between me and the creature swung open, revealing that thing in all its grotesque glory. It began to descend the stairs toward me. I made my decision, and as stupid as it was, I wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t done it. I unlocked the deadbolt and ran outside.
For the first few seconds, I felt absolutely nothing save for the adrenaline and fear surging through me. Looking back at the house as I ran, I swear I could see the creature looking at me through the kitchen window. It looked almost… happy.
By the time my house faded into the blizzard, the cold was starting to set in. Wearing only pajamas, slippers and a housecoat, it wasn’t hard to see why. I continued running, in fear that the thing would chase me, but I was starting to go numb. By the time I reached the highway, I couldn’t feel my fingers. By the time I noticed the approaching headlights, I couldn’t feel my toes. By the time the vehicle had stopped in front of me, everything was starting to go black.
I awoke several hours later to the sound of a machine beeping. At first, I thought the whole thing was a nightmare, that I was back in my bed and that my alarm clock was telling me to wake up and go to school. I began to regain consciousness and realized that I was no longer wearing my pajamas, rather I was wearing a hospital gown. There was a nurse standing above me, checking my vitals.
Apparently, a tow truck driver had found me on his way to a job. He did what anyone else would do if they found a teenager running like hell in the middle of a snowstorm at midnight and rushed me to the nearby hospital. I was admitted to the ER with severe frostbite and a moderate case of hypothermia. My parents were contacted immediately and at first, it seemed like I was going to go back home again. That is, until the doctors asked why I was outside in my pajamas in the first place. I told them the story as I couldn’t think of any excuse that sounded less crazy.
As one might expect, I was shipped off to the psyche ward. That is where I’m typing this now. See, the doctors can come up with any number of logical explanations. They can tell me that I was hallucinating, that I was having a nightmare, that I was over-stressed. With a medical degree, one can explain any unnatural phenomena with enough pills and prescriptions. But just because an explanation is logical, doesn’t mean that it’s true. At first I believed what they were saying, at first it all made sense. But something that happened later in the day changed that.
I was reading a book in my bed, starting to come to terms with what happened, when the TV in my room flickered to life. It was showing static. Outside the window, I could a gray figure outside the hospital. Even though I was on the fourth floor, I could tell that it was looking directly at me.

This story is a Crappypasta Success Story – it got such a positive reception over at Crappypasta that it’s being moved here to the main site. Congratulations to the author and thanks to the Crappypasta community for the save!

Credit To – InsanityUnderHats

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