To say that I was an explorer would be an understatement. Many in Bristol knew me as the Duke of Hamburg, the second knighted gentleman of Nottingham or as the bastard son of Saint Dizier and Saint Brihmat.

But most knew me as Agustine.

As a man of great courage, and an overly fed ego, I would often make regular trips to the great city of Stockholm. There I would go to masquerade balls, grand gatherings as such. But my visit to the Swedish city was for a different reason this time.
It was for adventure. Yes, the great quests that most children would dream of, it was to become my reality. A wonderful adventure, it would be, indeed. My heart would race every time I would speak to someone about it. Piles of treasure that I would discover, realms I would explore and claim with my own name, the fame I would have once I returned home to Bristol. I suppose it was a surprise that those dreams of grandeur became a nightmare.

It started with me arriving in the small town of Dalaro. I stayed, for a night, in my personal estate. An archaic, Victorian style castle, scarred with streaks of vines and years of roots working their way through the cracks. Beautifully detailed seahorse statues decorated the rooftops of the mansion. Their stone necks up in a haughty pride to reflect my own. The wood furnish inside made from the finest birch tree in Guernsey. The garden led from the open balcony from the back doors of the estate, down the marble staircase and through a vast field of roses. Bush sculptures lined the pathway down the center. Further down, a fountain was placed in the center of the garden. It sprouted pristine water that twinkled in the sunlight. Fallen rose pedals floated on the surface of the pool, oh so delicately. Cherry blossom trees lined the sides of the garden, shedding its shower of pedals. An enormous hedge surrounded the entire border of the garden. It was a beautiful estate, indeed, a symbol one could be proud of.

I had met up with my stepbrother’s cousin’s business partner, who was also my high school friend. His name was Aegelmaere Mac-Aesir, but I always called him Mac. He was a stern man, with a slender face, furrowed eyebrows and a haircut that, if you looked closely, resembled a mushroom hat. His skin was a deathly dark pale color and his eyes wore a strange gaze that, if you looked closely, you could see the hidden flame of a chaotic and deceitful personality.

Normally i wouldn’t admit this, but he never has liked me. Not since i had taken his fancy. Elisa, a french woman with a body so stunning and face just as beautiful. I had taken her to my bedroom in my estate when i was younger and Mac had walked in on us, while we were making sweet love.

And he couldn’t do anything for her or himself. He and Elisa were both mine to keep.

It had turned out that Elisa had stolen some of my gold, i had ordered Mac to dispatch her quietly. He never hesitated, though i never knew what happened before then.

Like i said, Mac was not the type of man who enjoyed small talk or conversations.

We had arrived at the shipyard at around 8 in the morning the next day. The ship that we were to take out on our expedition was quite old, with a red paint job and a nice wood furnish.

The island we were to visit was located on the coastal islands of Dalaro, known to many as Darwell Isle: 150 km of jungle and darkness. Some have said that this island was haunted; others say that an unknown race of hostile natives lives there and many more have said both. But Mac and I were going to explore and see if the myths were truth or not. It wasn’t long before we set out on our journey into the mysterious unknown.

The island was close to the shore, about 20 or 30 minutes away. It wasn’t long before we arrived at the shore of the isle. The very sight of the island made me shiver. Jungle trees surrounded the border; darkness hid whatever secrets were behind those trees. We lowered the dinghy from the ship and rowed our way to the beach of the grim trees.
I had stepped onto the stand and with an air of arrogance and pride; I strutted towards the darkness of the jungle that was uninviting and forbidding and with the grandeur all around me, I made my claim to the dark forest.

“I claim this island, in the name of Agustine Stephens, for England!”

A flock of black sparrows took flight at the sound of this and headed the way of Dalaro, away from the island. I could see the faces of my crew, their nervous expressions I could read. But I was not, for I ventured to spend a night upon the new beach of Darwell, England, and so we did, unaware of the coming dangers that were to befall us.
The campfire cracked and with each crack, a new spark flew up into the night sky with the trail of smoke. My crewmembers were fast asleep, but I was on watch duty. All was quiet, except for the faint cries of the swallows within the jungle itself. It was peaceful almost.

“BLEAUGHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The scream echoed throughout the night. The slumbering crew woke up instantly.

“RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!” the screeching voice bellowed.

Suddenly, a shadowy figure blasted through the jungle trees. It came hobbling, almost at lightning speed. In the light of the fire, I could make out the predator.

A small body connected to two thin, small but fast legs were joined together to a large, unnatural arm that towered over every victim with five bloodstained nails jutting out of each finger. It growled as though it had a full set of snarling teeth, however, it had no head.

One of my men came, unfortunately, too close to the monster. It had trapped its appetizer.

It pounced on top of the young man. A gaping hole, surrounded with a set of sharp teeth, suddenly opened within the monster’s bodily flesh and started devouring the crewman’s leg. He let out an ear-piercing scream. The monster devoured its prey like a snake. Soon, it reached the upper thigh. With incredible strength, the monster lifted the poor man up with its strongest arm and forced the screaming man down its throat. The man was gurgling and sputtering up blood. His pupils had gone to the back of his head and all you could see was white. Blood trailed, like tears, down his cheeks; a look of terror crossed his face before his head disappeared down its throat as well.

All that was left was the blood that stained the sandy beach.

Then it stood up and faced me.

I looked at him, my heart was quickening and I was starting to shake. The monster just stood there, facing straight towards me. It growled one last time
It then sprinted for me.

I screamed and I ran for dear life, away from the camp and into the jungle. My heart was running as fast as I was, I was shaking all over and it made it difficult for me to run away from it. The monster was gaining on my tail, its towering arm flailing like a mad. It let out a scream. I could hear its snarls and growls getting closer and closer. I had tripped over a root sticking out from the earth, and that sent me sprawling to the ground. I shielded myself from my incoming death and right as the monster was about to leap upon me, a gunshot threw the monster into an eroded pit.

Mac held the rifle with a powerful stance of aggression. A small trail of smoke billowed up from the barrel. His dark, sunken eyes gleamed in the darkness with a spark of flame.
“You sure have a way with that thing.”

That’s when he pushed me into the pit as well.
I had hit the ground hard on impact but the fall did not kill me, which I believed was Mac’s intention.

“Poor, Agustine! A shame that you must perish here!”

“Mac.. Why?” i stammered.

“Ironic how you used to look down upon those who served you. I feel that same power now that i am in your place!”

“I treated you with respect!” i said through my teeth, angrily.

“Wrong! You took my life away! You made me into your own henchman. You spat on my mistakes and disregarded my achievements! You treated everyone you knew poorly. From Dalaro to Nottingham, you disrespected those who were seen unfit of your attention! The wounded men who begged, the sick women who cried, it all meant NOTHING to you! NOTHING AT ALL!”

“Mac.. i didn’t mean to-”

“You stole everything that you desired. You had even stolen the love of my life.. the women that you could’ve just taken, the whores that you could’ve screwed! and you picked her! You bastard!”

“Mac, that was a long time-”

“NO. MY LIFE. MY LOVE. MY FREEDOM. ALL WERE SCREWED BY YOU!”

I was desperate enough to start bribing him.

“I never wanted this to happen, Mac. You and i are joined together, we always have been, friend. What a shame it’d be if our friendship would end like this.. Help me out of here and we will go home together. We will tell the tale of how we claimed this god forsaken island! We will tell how you saved me from this horrible monster. Please, don’t do this. I am too young to die, Mac. Please!”

He laughed weakly, “And yet, you still try to bribe me with lies.”

He then stood up.

“Damn you! No one will believe you! No one!” I shouted angrily.

“Oh, they will. Enjoy the rest of your life in hell, Agustine!”

And as he said that he kicked dust down into the pit.

He then left me, and even after a couple minutes, I could still hear the echo of his laughs. Here I lie, after waiting for an hour, with a rotting corpse of a monster just to become one myself. I suppose that it is too late to save me now, for MacAula and the crewmembers had already left for Dalaro. But then again, I was beyond saving in the very beginning – Cheers, to letting pride blind you into falling down a hole of broken dreams.

Credit To: Jaemison Yoon-Hendricks

A businessman drove up to the countryside to stay at a secluded inn and get away from the rat race for a little while. The receptionist gave him the keys to Cabin 10. Before he set off for the cabin, the receptionist warned him to stay away from the nearby Cabin 11. The man asked why, but the receptionist simply ignored him and told him never to go inside.

Once inside his cabin, the man glanced out the window to see Cabin 11. It looked fairly normal from the outside. Suspecting that the inn’s proprietors might be trying to cover something up, the man decided to check it out while it was still day.

To his surprise, the door was open. Inside, the cabin seemed pretty average. The bed was messy and unmade, and there was a knife scratch on the window in the shape of an X, but aside from that, there was very little separating Cabin 11 from his own.

The perplexed man’s thoughts were interrupted by a thumping sound underneath his feet. He jumped back in shock and listened more closely. It was a rhythmic banging sound that reverberated through the cabin.

Thump, thump, thump.

And it was getting louder.

Freaked, the man ran back out into the early evening sun and slammed the door behind him. He dashed back to his cabin and locked his door. Whatever was in that cabin, he didn’t want to meet it.

The man slept poorly that night, the experience haunting his dreams. After a few hours, he woke up to hear the very same noise, presumably coming from Cabin 11. He told himself it was okay, that his door was locked and he could just leave this place tomorrow.

Thump, thump, thump.

He pulled the covers up to his face, breathing deeply. The sound was louder and more resonant now than ever before. The man kept his eyes squeezed shut.

Thump, thump, thump.

The man waited and waited, but the noise wouldn’t go away. It only got more and more overwhelming, making the bed’s frame vibrate.

Thump, thump, thump.

With his face peaking over the top of the sheets, the man, unable to resist, opened one eye to see Cabin 11 through the window. The image he saw was burned into his mind.

His window, with a knife scratch in the shape of an X.

The door swung open, and the thumping stopped.

Credit To: Raki

A few months ago, we bought a new house. It was just down the road from our old house, but it seemed way more remote, and I only had three neighbors. It was a beautiful wooden house, very old, with two acres of land, the house itself, one acre, and a pond of one acre. I previously never got to see the inside of the house, but because the land was so spacious, and it had a large barn perfect for working on my dangerous experiments, I begged my dad to buy it.

We did, and now I finally get to tour the inside of the house. It wasn’t very big, but I liked it. I walked through all the rooms. I chose an upstairs room, because I’ve always wanted an upstairs room. The rest of my family chose rooms, too. But this was a five bedroom house, and we had four family members, and my mom and dad would sleep together. One extra upstairs bedroom would be converted into a guestroom, but there was one room that didn’t get chosen. I had never been in there before.

As soon as I stepped in the room, a sudden heaviness overcame me. The air felt so stagnant and heavy. There was no window in the room. It had a low ceiling, and it seemed like it was more of a storage room than a bedroom. It had a single fan, each blade painted a colorful color of blue, red, yellow, green, and orange. I assumed that this used to be a child’s bedroom. I really felt apprehensive about that room, and I didn’t want to go back in there.

That night, we moved in. My room was comfortable, and repainted a wonderful shade of blue. My old room used to be lavender, but as I grew older, I started hating the color for many reasons. It was a childish color, and also, lavender is a color that has been shown to cause depression in some. I fell asleep rather easily in my new room. It felt quite cozy.

I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. I heard children’s laughter, and a lullaby. My brother often plays creepy games in the night, so I just went back to sleep. The next morning, my parents were out. Out of curiosity, I went to the stuffy room. I didn’t notice something before. Instead of white paint covering the wall, it was wallpaper. Seeing no need of it now, I tore a sheet of the wall paper off. Underneath was a pastel colored wall with floral designs on it. Peeling the rest of the wallpaper off, I noticed that all four of the walls were painted a different pastel color, and the floral pattern circled the room. Drawings of several children playing appeared on one wall, three of them more prominent than the others. They were very nicely drawn. The previous owner must have been an artist. Here and there, there were crayon marks on the walls. I took a brush and scrubbed them off.

This WAS a children’s room. When my parents got home, I pointed out the paint job. They seemed happy with it, so it was left as is. I decided to do some research on this house. I Googled my address. A Wikipedia page popped up. I clicked on the link, and the images on the side showed a grainy old picture of a man, a woman, and three children. The children could not have been more than three in the picture. I read the article.

“George Ashford first built this house in 1926. Planning a long marriage with his soon-to-be wife, Elena Cooper, they built this house in hopes of having many children and raising them to be successful. George Ashford worked as a painter, and earned a living making portraits that sold for over a thousand dollars apiece. In 1928, Ashford finally married Elena Cooper, who then became Elena Ashford. In 1929, they had fraternal triplets, Harvey Ashford, Julia Ashford, and Allison Ashford. The Ashford family went smoothly, until one day in 1934, George and Elena got in a violent fight. Elena had then ran into her room, locked the door, and hung herself. Then the kids, who witnessed the entire fight, and had ran to Elena’s room and hid under the bed, then went to their room. Old enough to process what had happened, all three of them committed suicide themselves. Allison hit her head very hard on the floor, causing severe brain damage. Julia found a blade under a cabinet, and cut herself, and she bled to death. Harvey electrocuted himself. George, suffering from the suicide of four family members, was now alone. He apparently painted a picture of his three children in their room, playing, but the paintings were never found. He painted a commemorative painting on an easel of his wife. He wrote a note, explaining what had happened, and dropped it in a mailbox of one of his neighbors, and kept alongside, his painting, with its own note. He added a third suicide note, and proceeded to drown himself. He was found by his neighbors a day later. The house still remains today.”

I stared at my computer in disbelief. We had moved into a suicide site. I pulled open another webpage, with the more recent details about the house. And what does the article mean when they say the paintings were never found? They are right there, under the wall paper! I guess George Ashford must have changed his mind at the last minute, and then covered the entire room with wall paper. He must have also painted several children before then, too, because there were definitely more than three children playing.
“House last owned 1934. Renovated and repainted 2011. Sold mid-2012.”

This was a very old house. The last owners were the Ashfords themselves. I found it disturbing I now live in a suicide site.

What time is it? I lost track of the time. It is past midnight now. I didn’t think I was on the computer that long. I decided to call it a night. As I got to bed again, I heard the giggling and the lullaby again. I wondered if the children never left, and the giggling is coming from their ghosts. I decided not to worry much, as even if they were ghosts, they are still children, and can’t do much harm.
The next night, I had a thought. I once again Googled my address, but this time, I added the word “haunting” to it. A list of sites came up. All of them had the same suicide story, but some had one more important piece of data.

“Children, anywhere aged from age eight to eighteen, were seen playing around the house, and then suddenly disappearing without a trace. It has been noted that only the kids that wander in the house disappear. For that reason, the house was condemned for 20 years, but that didn’t stop kids from exploring it. In the 1990s, the disappearances stopped, and it started declining in popularity. Since then, no kidnappings have been recorded. In 2010, the county started renovations on it, and plan to sell it to new owners soon.”
I found a few pictures of some of the missing children, and printed them out. I put them in my pocket for later examination. I went to bed pretty late, with the giggling still there. Is it my imagination, or is the giggling getting louder each night?

I woke up late into the evening. It was about five in the evening, and my parents were out. I decided to wait until they came home, and then I’d eat. So I just sat at my computer, and watched a few movies. They finally came home at nine. When I came down, my dad had a stern look on his face.

“You could have at least cleaned up, you know? We’re already so busy cleaning up the house and putting things where they should be, and now you make an enormous mess in the kitchen? Clean it up now. Also, you are wasting food.”

I just stared blankly at him, and the mess. There were pots and pans on the counter, flour scattered everywhere, eggs broken on the floor, and more mess that I didn’t make all over the place.

“But Dad! I didn’t do this!” I exclaimed. “I swear!” Now I really made him mad. “You know I can’t tolerate lying. Now clean up this mess. NOW.” I don’t lie. I can’t believe he thought I was lying. “Can’t you at least help me clean up? Honest, I didn’t do this!” Big mistake to say that. That tipped his scales. “That’s it. Either you are lying now, or you are so unobservant, you didn’t notice a break in. Both things are bad. Go to the storage room. NOW.”

“The storage room? No! Not there! Not there of all places!” I shouted. “I’ll go to my room! Just not the storage room!” He just laughed. “With your video games, laptop, and other entertainment up there? No. You have to learn a lesson. A small lie is just as bad as a big lie to me. Go to the storage room. One… two… three.”

He came up to me, grabbed my arm, and dragged me to the storage room. It was empty, except for a few boxes. He tossed me in there, and locked me in. I quickly turned on the light. I gasped. All the painted children’s eyes were staring at me. Not in the way those pictures with the eyes that seem to follow you do, but, they were staring right through me. It wasn’t like this before.

“Dad… please let me out… I’m sorry…” I moaned. “No, I won’t take the obvious bait. I looked at the door, and then back at the paintings. All of them now carried a smile. I screamed, and started banging at the door. “IF YOU MAKE ONE MORE SOUND, I’LL TRIP THE BREAKER TO THAT ROOM AND YOU WON’T HAVE ANY LIGHT!” He yelled.

I heard a lullaby. It was a pretty clear lullaby, but it sounded tinny, like one of those little old fashioned music boxes. I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t help to whimper. I got up and tried to find a way out. The only way out would be the air duct, but I couldn’t reach it, and the boxes weren’t sturdy enough to stand on. Then… the giggling started. It came from all directions. I tried not to scream.
Something cold touched me. I accidentally let out a scream. I covered my mouth. The papers fell out of my pocket. I only had seconds to observe them. Before I could gasp, the lights went out. I started screaming and banging on the door, frantically flipping the light switch, to no avail. He was completely ignoring me. This is too much…

The lullaby and the giggling grew louder and louder. The last thing I heard was “Come play with us…. But to play with us… you have to be with us…” before everything was black.

TEN YEARS LATER
The house is finally being sold again. Our moving van pulled the last load from the house, never to see it again. It was too big of a house, anyways. The new owners have a kid about my age. That is a huge relief to me. It was getting lonely being the only teenager on this wall.

Credit To: TeslaCoilGirl

I was running.

It was such a normal day.

Where was she?

I took my seat and pulled out my book.
No way would I make it out of here.
The teacher droned on and I let my eyes close as her voice faded into background noise.

The forest will swallow me up.

I was called on during my nap and stumbled through my answer. I could tell my teacher hated me.

The Secret Gardener would get me sooner or later.

I waited for the bell to ring so I could rush home. I was hungry. Mom wasn’t home. I made a sandwich and went out for a walk. As I sat by a tree in my front yard and munched on my sandwich, I brushed through my hair and tied it up high so it didn’t drag along the ground. I broke up the extra crust and tossed it all around for the birds.

A Large blue bird grabbed a piece and flew into the tree above me. I watched her land and break it up for her babies. As she turned, her tail feathers nocked a baby from the tree. It flapped its wings but it was too weak to fly. The baby landed right in front of me. I reached for it, but it hopped away. It was edging closer to the woods. “Come back!” I called but it disappeared into the brush.

I’m not aloud in the woods. Oh well, I thought as I stood up, pulled my socks up high, adjusted my skirt and pushed through anyway. The bird needed to go home. I was afraid it would get lost. I tried to do a bird call, but it was a waste of time. Out of the corner of my eye there was movement. The bird! I inched closer. I could see the bright blue color through the greenery. It was still. It did not move even when I picked it up. It was dead.

I dropped the bird and took a step back. The ground was soft. I looked down to seethe body of an orange and white kitten. I jumped away. Then the smell hit. It was a bad smell, a gross smell. Dead animals surrounded my feet. As if I was on a trail paved with the deceased. I looked behind me but couldn’t see where I had entered. I followed the smelly, dead path. The further I traveled, the larger the animals were. Out of no where, animals faded into a path of faces. Human faces. Some were happy and some sad. There were other variations of different emotions, too. I kept walking because as I took steps the path disappeared behind me. I was afraid if I strayed from the path, it would escape me all together and I would have no idea where I was.

The path abruptly ended with a puddle of blood. I stepped into the blood. I could hear faint singing. I think it was ‘Pop Goes the Weasel” but I’m not sure. The longer I stood there, frozen in fear and confusion, the louder the song got. Before my very eyes, I watched another girl fade into view, sitting at the edge of the puddle. She looked exactly like me in everyway. The only difference was that she was naked and lacked reproductive organs and had no bellybutton. She looked human but something just didn’t seem right about her. Her toes flicked the blood at me as her fingers twirled in her hair that floated around her feet, soaking up the puddle. “Who are you?” I whispered.

“I am all.” She replied.

“Where am I?” I could barely croak out.

“You are in my garden.” She smiled and it sent shivers up my spine. She had no pupils.

“Garden?”

The girl stood up. “Yes. I plant secrets. My garden is difficult to tend. Would you like to know your secret?” I shook my head. She even had my voice. “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t your time to know.” I shook my head again as I took a step back. I looked down at the path of faces. The eyes rolled to look at me. “It is your time,” she stated again as she stepped closer. She reached down, into the puddle of blood and submerged her hands in it. She pulled out a wooden box. I began to run. I ran as far and as long as I could. She opened the box.

I could hear her sing:

Inside the forest
Of forgotten secrets
Lies a box
Of forgotten lives.
Lives that dissipate
Into forgotten screams,
Screams of love and
Screams of lies.
Along the forest floor,
Hidden beneath the flowers,
Covered with the petals
Of dead and dying beauty
Is a trail paved with life,
Speckled with personality,
And halted by blood.
Tiny feet play in the liquid,
Tiny hands tangle in thin hair.
Giggles and laughter
Light up the forest,
The Forest of Forgotten Secrets.
The child, the girl, the light of the forgotten,
The forgotten has her own secret,
A secret of evil and a secret of death.
The forest is her secret garden,
To keep her secretive secret:
That she no longer lives
And neither do you.

Credit To: HiddenHikari

It had been three years since my family had last gone on a vacation to Florida, something we did annually before the recession hit. Since we now had enough money, my parents decided (under the popular demand of my sister and I) that we go to Walt Disney World, again. We were both teenagers, and our parents kind of saw this as a bit juvenile, but decided it would be fun anyway. I could not wait to finally go back, and neither could my sister. Being avid theme park goers as well, we were especially attracted to the creativity and the, well, “magic” as one would say about the rides there. They never got old, and had their share of nostalgia and excitement. However, there was one other reason I wanted to go.

You normally associate Disney World with words such as excitement, fun, and happiness, but with these characterizations, come counterbalances. After scrolling through OMG Facts one night, I came across a rather interesting fact. It was about an abandoned water park in WDW, apparently named “River Country”. I was absolutely appalled by this, since I had previously thought of Disney in a more idealistic and perfect way. The water park was directly on the shores of Bay Lake, being that huge, stagnant body of water adjacent to the Magic Kingdom. River Country was, and still is, on the same side as the theme park just mentioned, but right next to a resort called Walt Disney’s Fort Wilderness Resort. Surrounding the water park on the resort side is a large, green wall, with signs dotting it

The place opened in 1976, and used water from Bay Lake in most of the park’s attractions. It was very rustic and wilderness based in design, and contained artificial rocks that resembled those used on another attraction, Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. There was a dam present to keep chunks of dirt and mud from getting into the water too, so guests did not have to worry about swimming in an artificial bog created by water from the lake. It was open for 25 years, closing its doors in 2001, and in 2005, a statement released by Disney said that the park would be closed for good.

So, for about 11 years, River Country has been sitting abandoned. Nature is in its advanced stages of reclaiming the area, but the slides remain, and so do the artificial rocks, and the small pond (now a swamp) that was used for swimming. Many urban explorers have infiltrated the area, jumping over the walls to get footage of the abandoned water park. One of the most controversial things about the park nowadays, is why it closed, which is what I was destined to find out.

I wanted to see some real footage of the area before it closed as well, since from what I heard, it was very joyous and bustling with tourists, compared to its ghost town status today. I was without internet at the time, so, about two days before we were planning to leave, I went to the local library, which archived many old videos that people in my community had dug up in their attics and donated to the library to be part of a small historical society. Hoping that I might find some good footage, I asked the librarian if they happened to carry any videos concerning family vacations. She nodded, and brought me to a small section, containing many old VCR cassettes, and a few DVDs here and there. After about half an hour of searching, I finally came across a cassette with the words “The Old Fashioned Swimming Hole” inscribed on the top of it. This was a term used to describe River Country during its glory days, so I took it, almost certain that it was the footage I was looking for. I asked the librarian if I could sign it out, but she told me that the historical videos had to stay in the library. I could, however, watch the video in a small conference room behind the front desk.

The librarian led me into the windowless room, and I took a seat in front of the television. She left the room and closed the door so that the audio would not disturb any of the other library patrons. I popped the cassette into the VCR under the TV, and turned the lights off so I could see the video better. I was expecting the quality to be low anyway.

For about half of a minute or so, the screen was grey, and was accompanied with a loud beeping noise, typical for old VCR cassettes. The grey soon disappeared, showing footage of two individuals in front of the entrance to River Country. They were both men, and it was either very late at night, or very early in the morning, as nobody else was in the park. Very few of the water park’s lights were on either. On the bottom left corner of the screen, the date “ November 1, 2001” was displayed. This was significant because the water park closed for good the very next day, on November second.

The two men were talking about how they had been denied entrance to the park in the morning, since it had reached its guest capacity limit. They also stated that at only these hours of night could they get passed the park security. The two walked up to the bigger water slides in the park, which led directly into the pond, supplied by the green water of Bay Lake. Once they both got to the top of the slide, which was encircled by artificial, orange rocks, one man prepared to slide down. The two laughed over what seemed to be an inside joke, and finally, the cameraman ended up pushing his friend down. I heard him scream in delight as he descended to the pond. The cameraman then proceeded back the way they came to get to the slides, and across a bridge that traversed the small lagoon. He ended up back at the pond’s shore where the sound of a splash was heard.

This is when the video started to… unsettle me a little. After waiting at the shore of the pond for about three minutes, nobody surfaced. The cameraman began to cry his friend’s name frantically, and started to run back to get help at the Fort Wilderness Resort. He stopped abruptly though at what seemed to be the kiddie area, a small, shallow pond, on hearing a faint cough. He instantly turned around, and saw a barely visible shadow about ten or so feet behind him. Relieved, the cameraman started to approach his friend, glad that he was okay, but again, he abruptly halted.

The friend’s head was hanging down, and he slowly inched it up. The cameraman started to hyperventilate, as the features of the other man’s face began to show. Crimson, dry blood was caked around his mouth, and some was even dripping off his chin. He was missing all the hair on his head as well, but, one of the most disturbing parts of this image, was that…there were patches of skin missing that revealed parts of the man’s skull and jaw bone, and he was even missing his right eye, leaving an empty socket. I became severely nauseous at the sight of this, to the point where I was swallowing my own vomit. My heart also began to race as fear started to settle in my body. As the last minutes of the film approached, the horrendous figure muttered something , something that sounded like “there is no hope under the water”. With that, the cameraman ran for his life, wheezing and panicking throughout his ordeal.

I wanted to turn the television off and run myself, so I bolted to the door leading out of the room. I reached for the doorknob, but paused. The television was giving off the sound of an old furnace found in the basement of a home, just in a softer tone. This tone, for some unknown reason, kept me from moving anywhere. I was just staring blankly at the television.

The cameraman was still sprinting, but did not seem to be making any progress. He had ended up back at the large pond where the slide had dumped his friend. You could hear him sobbing softly, fearing for his life. Suddenly, the tape began to gradually slow down, as the man frantically looked from side to side. The audio volume, along with the furnace sound, went up as the video lagged. Haltingly, the cameraman turned all the way around, and shrieked at the sight of his friend. The video paused on this frame, exposing the caked blood all over the other man’s face. The top of his skull bone was now completely exposed, his right eye still missing. His mouth was wide open, and coming from it, was what looked like a combination the water from Bay Lake, and bile. This stayed on the screen for about ten seconds, and switched to a black screen, displaying one single message:

The epidemic begins today.

Instantly, the power went out, and I was left alone in the darkness of the conference room. I became so terrified, as I could not see a thing, and I could not see the door either. I began to shake in absolute fear. River Country had closed because of this, and it was obvious. Walt Disney World had been keeping a disgusting secret. I rushed to the other side of the room, disoriented…

But all I felt was warm breath seeping down my neck, and the smell of bile….

An Ending Note:
River Country is an actual abandoned water park that has been sitting dormant in Walt Disney World for over a decade. Oddly, the lights are still on within the area, and the music still plays as well. Many theories have come up about its closing, but one of the most plausible ones, and one that has been confirmed by WDW employees, is that a deadly type of amoeba was found within the water of Bay Lake, which was used to supply many parts of the theme park. This amoeba can cause severe illness or death, so as a precautionary measure, Disney closed the park for good…

This is a story about something that happened to me a few years back. I haven’t told many people, and those who I did tell dismissed me out of hand. So now I come to you, the internet. Sure, most of the people who read this account won’t believe me. But I still cling to the hope that someone out there will take me seriously. Maybe someone has had a similar experience. Anyway, that’s enough rambling. Here’s my story.
I grew up in a small town in Restigouche County, New Brunswick. For those of you who don’t know, the area is a cool, mountainous region of Canada known for its beautiful forests and rivers. And it lives up to its reputation for natural beauty; the rolling hills, golden shores and lush woods make it a pleasure to explore in the summer. However, being fairly far north, it cools down quite a bit by early autumn, which is when the event I’m about to describe took place. As I said I grew up in a small, friendly town, and we didn’t have much in the way of “Haunted houses” or urban legends. But one town over, a few miles down the road, there was an old Victorian era mansion that was said to be haunted by the spirit of a woman. I had always heard the story growing up, but by the time I was about 12, I had stopped believing in ghosts and other such nonsense. But I’m getting ahead of myself; I should explain the legend as it was told in our area.
The spirit was known to local kids as “Old Nan” or “The Shrieking woman”. Some people who thought it was all bullshit would dismissively call her “Screaming Granny”, while shaking their heads at the foolish people who believed in her. Now, the details of the story vary depending on who you ask, but here’s the most common version: during the 1800s, there was a local outbreak of pneumonia one winter. There were some other sicknesses like colds and flus going as well. It was a cold, snowy year and everyone spent their days huddled inside – perfect conditions for a disease to spread. Couple that with the poor hygiene and primitive medicine of the time, and it’s no wonder that people started getting sick. The doctor in town – and yes, there was only one – was extremely busy treating the sick and trying to slow the spread of the disease. He went up to a large house on the outskirts of town, trekking through the snow and icy winds, to check on the family that lived there.
Now, the history of this family was tragic enough already: the man who owned the house had died several years earlier of an unknown medical condition. His wife, distraught at losing her beloved so suddenly, had run away to America in the hopes of starting a new life, leaving her three young children in the care of her mother. The last anyone heard of her she was a drunk living in the slums of some American city, though no one can agree which city it was. I should stress that the details of this tale are hard to verify and that I am merely explaining the story as I heard it growing up. Anyway, by the time this outbreak of pneumonia hit, the three kids were in the care of their grandmother, a kindly old woman who tried her best to hold what was left of her family together.  When the local doctor made his way up to the house, which was outside of the main settlement, he was relieved to find no signs of disease in the family. He explained that due to the high rates of sickness in town, and the difficulty of journeying to their outlying house in such inclement weather, he wouldn’t be back for at least a week. He was satisfied that the inhabitants of the house were healthy, and as long as they stayed home they couldn’t contract any disease.
Of course, the doctor had neglected to consider that he might have carried the pathogens from his patients in town up to this family. This turned out to be the case, for even though the doctor had not fallen ill himself, he must have been carrying some sort of bacteria or virus when he visited the family on that cold, bleak day. He spent the next week or so working almost without rest to treat the ill and dying in the town, and during that week it snowed every day. It was one of the harshest winters on record. But the doctor kept his word, and as soon as he could, he made his way back up to the old house outside of town where the grandmother and three children lived. Apparently it took him four hours just to walk through the snow that lay thick upon the road, though at least the blizzard had finally stopped.
When the doctor arrived, he knocked on the door. He received no response, so he knocked again, calling out to the old woman. Again there was no answer, so he let himself in. I don’t know if the door was locked or not, but he got in somehow, and what a terrible sight he found. He first walked through the kitchen, seeing utensils and old food strewn about haphazardly. The furniture was in disarray. Now very concerned, he made his way into the dining room and gasped in horror: there, in her favourite rocker, sat the kindly old grandmother, but she was a hideous mockery of her former self: covered in blisters and cysts, with her skin a pale gray colour. Her eyes were bulged and glassy and her nostrils were flared. Perhaps most disturbing, however, was her mouth. Her lower jaw hung open at an impossible angle. Her few remaining teeth, yellowed and worn with age, jutted out of her now bluish and shriveled gums at odd angles. The doctor felt her hand. She was frozen. She had obviously become very ill and passed away, and with no one to tend the fire, the house had become frigid, freezing her disease-riddled corpse. The doctor got up and ran up the stairs screaming for the children. He burst into the nursery to find two bluish, unmoving forms. He began to weep as he tried hopelessly to resuscitate one of the children, but was surprised and relieved to find that he actually began to stir. The child was frostbitten and ill, but still clinging to life. His sister was less fortunate; she had frozen almost as solidly as her grandmother. The third child was missing. It is presumed that he tried to go for help in the blizzard and froze to death on the way, though since a body was never recovered, no one could be sure. The surviving child was delirious and could not remember where his brother had gone. This one fortunate boy was nursed back to health and eventually he was adopted by the doctor, who felt immense guilt at having carried the fatal disease to the small family. The old house was never lived in again.
Anyway, that’s the story as it was told to me in my childhood, and it persists to this day. But I have yet to touch upon my own experience with “Old Nan.”

As I mentioned earlier, I had stopped believing in ghosts, including this one, by the time I was about 12. But later in my teen years I developed a fascination with the occult and paranormal. I still didn’t really believe in any of it, but like many people I enjoyed being scared. I loved the tingling in my spine when I heard a good horror story. Unfortunately, none of my friends shared my interest. You have to understand that back then, believing in “fairy tales” was a sign of weakness after a certain age, and though my town was a pretty friendly place overall, some of the young punks would mock or beat up people who they didn’t like. My ghost hunting hobby and collection of horror stories made me a bit of an outcast. But I guess there are assholes everywhere; people who will punish those who are different. I didn’t so much mind the teasing, but the fact that no one would come along when I went to check out “haunted” locations was discouraging. Nevertheless, when I was 16, I decided to go by bus the nearby town where this supposedly haunted house was.
I know I’m repeating myself but I must stress that at heart, I didn’t believe in ghosts. I’ve always been a skeptic. But I did enjoy scouting out creepy, abandoned locations, and a part of me always wanted to find evidence of the supernatural. I guess these days people call it urban exploration. It was a blend of that and half-hearted ghost hunting. Anyway, this would be my first expedition outside of my immediate area. After half an hour, the bus arrived and I got out.
I didn’t bother asking anyone for directions. I knew the name of the street the house was on, since I’d heard the story a hundred times. It was at the end of Birchwood Lane. Besides, I didn’t feel like embarrassing myself by asking anyone where the town’s haunted house was.
After wandering around the core of the town – what you’d call downtown, were the place not so small and sparsely populated – I saw a street sign marked Birchwood Lane. Following it, I made my way through a few blocks of modern houses, then some older buildings, and eventually the town thinned out entirely and I found myself walking into the woods. At the edge of the woods the road, which had been paved up to this point, gave way to a gravel trail. I sighed and pressed onward. I had brought a flashlight with me, but as the sun had not quite gone down, I didn’t need it yet. As I continued the path got more and more uneven, and the sinking sun and increasingly thick foliage above me shrouded the narrow trail in darkness. Before I got the light out, however, the trees thinned out again and I saw before me a large, dilapidated two-story house. By this time the day was nothing more than a fading orange glow on the horizon, and the mansion was basically a silhouette. I’ll admit I was a bit apprehensive at this point, but it was far too late to turn back. I walked across the overgrown lawn, which was covered not only in tall grass but also shrubs and a few young trees. As I got closer to the house I could see it more clearly. There was a single door hanging from its hinges in the middle of the façade. The remains of what was once a front porch lay rotting beneath it. Above the door, a small awning bent dangerously downward, looking as if it could give way at any moment. Only one of the pillars designed to support it still stood. The exterior of the house barely had any paint left on it, and what little still remained was chipped and cracked. Most of the windows were shattered, though only one had been boarded up. The house looked old, to be sure, though it didn’t look like it had been abandoned for 200 years. If that had been the case, it probably wouldn’t have remained standing so intact. I reasoned that someone must have kept the building in shape for a while after the old woman had died, and it only fell into disrepair sometime afterward.
As I came to the door and climbed up over the remains of the front porch I felt a chill run down my spine. I’ve felt fear before, but this was different. It was more than fear. It was a feeling of being unwelcome. Of not belonging. I dismissed it as paranoia and gave the battered wooden door a push. It was partly open already, but the wood of the doorframe was too warped for it to swing freely. I pushed it again, harder, and heard a loud crack as the rusted hinges broke apart. The whole door lurched and then fell outwards. I had to jump out of the way as it nearly fell on me. I dusted myself off and clambered inside.
The sunlight was now gone entirely, and I was extremely wary of tripping over old furniture or holes in the floor. I switched on my flashlight and swept the beam over my surroundings. I was in some sort of large hallway that branched off in several directions. At the end was a staircase. I walked along the corridor and looked into each adjacent room as I went. It was hard to tell what any of these rooms were supposed to be; each was just a mess of exposed wooden beams, old trash and pieces of the walls fallen onto the floors, and the pervasive smell of mildew. A few books, ruined beyond recognition, lay upon a shelf in one room. There were several broken jars on the floor.
I made my way slowly to the staircase and began to climb it. I was nervous, as the stairs were old and rotted and creaked loudly under my weight. Carefully I got up to the top and looked around. The second floor was much like the first, except that it was even more uneven. This did little to comfort me, as I knew that the floor could give way under my feet and send me toppling down 9 feet to the lower floor in a pile of debris. But what can I say? I was a dumb, fearless kid. To me, giving up and going home seemed worse than risking my own neck. It’s funny how teens think sometimes.
As I explored, I came upon a bathroom. It looked so dated. That may sound weird, especially since the whole house was pretty ancient, but just seeing the old fashioned pipes, the archaic toilet, and the bathtub on little ornamental legs just seemed so quaint. I was a bit confused when I looked into the bathtub and found dark, reddish stains. While the first thing that popped into my head was the phrase “Bloodbath,” I laughed when I realized that they were probably just rust stains.
The next room I entered was truly unnerving. I recognized it almost immediately as the nursery from the story. There were two small beds and a small cot. For some reason, the child’s sized beds were made up, with moldy, moth-eaten blankets tucked neatly all around them and turned down partly at the top. I guess the last caretaker of the house had just left them like that, but it seemed so eerie to me. It was almost as if someone had just prepared the beds for the kids a few hours ago. The cot, by contrast, was completely bare.
Now, if this story is making me sound brave so far, please realize that I really wasn’t. I’ll admit that I was terrified. The feeling of being unwanted hadn’t left me; if anything it had grown as I explored the house. As I got further from the door, my heart began pounding harder and harder. But as I said, I was determined not to chicken out and leave. I steadied myself and fought the urge to run. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have.
There wasn’t much more of interest upstairs, as the other bedrooms were pretty much empty. The furniture had mostly been removed long ago. I spent about another 20 minutes upstairs before heading back to the creaking old staircase and carefully making my way back down. I realized that I hadn’t yet seen all of the rooms on the ground floor, as I had been eager to look for the nursery upstairs. I really felt like I needed to leave, but that stubborn part of my mind stopped me. I made my way through a few small, nondescript chambers without finding much. But then, in one of the last unexplored rooms, I saw her.
Look, this is still hard for me to think about, much less type out. The memory is so vivid. I’ve spent the past 6 years trying to forget what I saw that night, and now I’m recalling it. And the image hasn’t faded at all from my mind. Fuck. Alright, I’ll do my best.
I came around a corner into a new room and as my flashlight beam swept across the wall I saw her face. The dead grandmother’s face. I swear to you. It was only there for a split second but it was so clear, I know I didn’t imagine it. Her skin was mottled gray, blackened in some patches. Wrinkles and cracks covered every inch of exposed flesh.  Her eyes bulged out, but they were pure white, as if covered in a thin film. Her lower jaw hung slack, but not in a way I’d ever seen before. It was as if her jaw was dislocated or outright broken. A few small, jagged teeth sat around her gapping maw, and a swollen tongue was visible between them. Her white hair clung to her scalp in patches, matted and stained. She wore an expression that I can only describe as desperation, almost as if she was pleading for someone or something to save her from her awful fate.
I really only got a good look at her face, but I also glimpsed her upper body, and while I can’t be sure, I think she was clutching something in her wizened hands. A bundle. It was about the size of a small child.
As soon as I saw her I screamed. I screamed louder than I ever had before. Or since, come to think of it. You know that feeling of pure, absolute, all-encompassing terror? Fear so powerful that it numbs you, while at the same time making you hyper-aware of everything around you? Some of you will know what I’m talking about. I dropped my flashlight and ran. I ran through the house, now completely dark without my flashlight. I tripped and hit a couple of doorframes, but remarkably I seemed to remember the way out even in my state of total panic, because I was outside in about 10 seconds. I just kept on running, now with the moonlight to aid me.
I’m not sure exactly when I stopped screaming, but by the time I saw the outskirts of the town a little while later I was merely sobbing. I ran to the first house that had lights on and pounded on the door. A bewildered man opened the door and I ran inside, nearly collapsing on the ground from exhaustion after running so far. My mad dash for town had left me with more than a few scratches and bruises. When I calmed down enough to speak I told the man I needed to use his phone. He still didn’t really know what was going on, but he led me to the telephone in his kitchen. I’ll skip the details. I got a ride home with my father. Despite his repeated questions, it took me weeks to tell him what had happened. He was pretty upset that I had broken into an abandoned house, and to this day he doesn’t believe that I really saw Old Nan. Whatever, I wouldn’t have believed it either.
It was months before I could get a full night’s sleep again, and even today I have nightmares about that dead, pitiful face staring out of the darkness at me. And though she made no sound when I saw her that first night, in my dreams she screams and wails. They say that memories of important or traumatic events are far more vivid than memories of mundane events. I guess that’s true. I’ll remember that face until the day I die.
I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me. But I’m not the only one who’s seen her. There are a handful of other unlucky people who have gone into her house at night. I’ve heard a rumor that someone even snapped a picture, which is online somewhere. I don’t know about that, since I never searched for it. I never want to see Old Nan again.

Credit To: SammyTsuroka

You’ll think I’m crazy. Or just some idiot trolling online. I don’t care. Something happened to me and whether or not you believe me is moot, because it happened to me. It happened.

I don’t want to tell you my name. It doesn’t matter anyway, because you won’t believe me and I don’t want people thinking I’m insane. But maybe my telling will mean something to someone. Maybe this has happened to you too and I’m not just imagining things. God, I really hope I’m just imagining things.

I visit my grandparents every summer. They live in Eastern Europe, in one of those tourist cities where the capital draws in people from all over the world. They live in an old, faded-yellow apartment building.

There’s an elevator that I have to take to get to their floor; the eighth floor. It’s one of those old elevators that most people would probably think wasn’t very safe. The ones where you walk in and it’s super tiny, like just big enough to hold four skinny people if they don’t mind a cuddle. While there is a metal door you need to open to enter, the elevator itself has no doors. So as the elevator rises, you can reach out and run your hand along the passing wall, scraping against your fingernails. I used to like to do that. There’s a little mirror someone has hung on the wall opposite, a square one with a red frame. I used to use it to check my makeup.

Two days ago, I got back a little later than usual. My grandmother buzzed me in. I called the elevator. You can always see it arrive through the little window in the metal door. It makes a loud sound each time it stops. I got in the elevator, hit the eighth floor, and turned around to face the mirror.

While indulging in my little moment of vanity, I noticed something really strange: The elevator was taking longer than usual to get to the eighth floor. I turned and watched the floors fly by. Every once in a while the metal door of the next floor would go by, where someone had scrawled each floor number in marker. Except the numbers were gone and I suddenly realized I had no idea how long the thing had been rising or what floor I was on.

I also began to feel a strange warmth emanating from behind me. I turned back to the mirror and saw nothing peculiar, but the temperature continued to rise until it was uncomfortably clammy. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the heat, like I had been sitting in a sauna for hours. I remember stumbling backwards slightly, my hand reaching back to balance myself and expecting to feel the motion of the walls as they rose and fell. Except what my hand touched wasn’t moving. And it was warm.

The mirror reflected only the same elevator and the same passing wall. I turned around to make sure.

I woke up later inside the elevator, a concerned stranger shaking me awake.

Nobody will believe what I saw when I turned around, so I’m not telling. At least, I’m not telling anyone I know. It was…and this is insane, I know… The elevator; its comfortable chalk walls, the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, everything familiar had vanished. In its place was a rectangular box with pulsating layers of speckled…something. Like old meat. Like the inside of a mouth. All around me. Then the smell hit me. That’s the last thing I remember before I passed out. The smell. Like puss and rot and vomit and the grave. It hit me hard and I felt my sinuses burning in agony. I was instantly blind with my own tears. Choking on my own bile.

I caught one last glimpse into the mirror, through my stinging eyes. The only thing that stayed. I could see it, reflected inside. I could see my elevator. My nice, normal, elevator. People were getting into it, their faces plainly visible in the sunlight streaming in from outside. Pushing the button for their floor. I wasn’t in it. Around me, the walls began to convulse. There was a sound. Like retching.

Then I was unconscious.

I don’t use the elevator anymore. I take the stairs. I think, maybe, if you see an elevator like this, you should probably take the stairs too. Please, take the stairs too. Please.

Please.

Credit To: Erika Griffin

There exists a curious legend among the people of South Africa. Although somewhat obscure now, it was prevalent during the late 19th Century colonisation of Africa which saw the construction of railways across the countryside for the transport of workers. This is the legend of the witch trains – ordinary-looking trains, but staffed by the debased servants of a powerful being generally thought to be a witch, or sometimes even thought to be multiple witches. These trains would appear to people travelling alone at night in the countryside and take them aboard, never to be seen again. This was far from the full extent of the machinations of the being that controlled the trains, who will henceforth be referred to as the Witch, but more on that later. Although the activity of the Witch and Her trains has subsided as of late, there is one witch train still roaming, still waiting to return to the Witch’s house.

Seeking out this train is difficult and will take some time; the rails themselves are not mapped so prepare a rucksack for a long day’s journey – and to carry what you will be bringing back. On the first or last day of any month – this is most conducive to the likelihood of the rails appearing – travel by any means to the town of Karasburg in South Africa. When the sun has gone down, begin walking in any direction between north and north-east of the town. It may be advisable to prepare some sort of self-protective gear for travelling the South African countryside at night, but be warned that, once you reach your destination, whatever protective items or weapons you may bring will not be of any use against what you will encounter there.

Keep walking until you find a railroad track. Inspect it carefully to ensure that it is not merely an ordinary track. The track you are looking for will be in excellent condition, and if you look closely, the ground beneath the track will be completely undisturbed – there should be no difference between ground beneath the track and nearby uncovered ground. Walk in either direction along the track. It should take no longer than an hour for you to reach the station.

In stark contrast to the track, the station is a hovel. You will find the few small buildings completely deserted, and all but one have been burnt to the ground. The one that remains standing is a blackened, rickety, wooden shack, though the single front door appears brand new. A sign nailed to it reads,
“STAFF ONLY.”
In older days this station would have actually had staff – the station hadn’t been burned, either. The witch trains didn’t just stop abducting people of their own volition. The train you are looking for will stop here for you soon, but to make proper use of it you need something from the staff room. No matter what you try, the door will not open for you, but fortunately the Witch gave no special treatment to the walls, trusting them by themselves, along with Her staff, to keep intruders out. They are badly burned and worn. A good kicking at any wall should provide an entrance. The staff room is completely bare, save for a few equipment closets along the walls. Search them thoroughly. Most will contain generic, 19th Century mechanical equipment not worth taking, but one will contain a silver control rod for a gearbox. This control rod will be easy to find – it glows, yet curiously it provides no illumination for anything at all save for itself, no matter how dark the environment is. This is what you need. Take it and wait outside. Now wait, however long it takes. Eventually, you will see the decrepit old passenger train come trundling to a stop in front of you.

A train attendant will open the door for you. This train unusually employs both white and black workers, but regardless of his skin colour he will wear an extremely worn and filthy train staff uniform. He will stare at you with decidedly vacant eyes for a moment, and you will very likely feel a sudden, acute sense of discomfort. You would be right to feel this way – the stare is intense, yet there is no-one behind those dull eyes. The man will then say one word:
“Return.”
The tone will sound odd – as a statement, yet there will be the faintest hint of a query in the sound of it. This is because the man’s speech is meant to be a query. In the past, this man and his fellow staff would, upon stopping and opening the doors for them, ask unfortunate travellers of the South African countryside,
“Single, or return?”

If you were to answer the attendant with “return,” you would be taken on the train and ferried a fair distance along the countryside before being brutally beaten by the train staff and thrown off. This is the same for any others who would have been encountered by this train. Any other answer will simply result in him repeating his question until you give one of the expected answers. The other expected answer you can give is, of course, “single,” however, fortunately for you, the train and its staff no longer have the means to carry out their programmed response to this answer. This is why that part of their dialogue has been removed from their usual protocol. If you answer with this, the attendant will simply stare at you and do nothing until you give another response.

This is where the control rod you have comes in. Without saying a word, produce it and hand it to the attendant. His face will not have any reaction to this, but I can assure you that if he had even the remotest capacity for emotion, he would be profoundly relieved to see it. He will silently take the rod and then step off the train to walk briskly over to the conductor’s car. When he does this, simply climb aboard the train and close the door; nobody will hinder you now, and the attendant will not return to this car. It is a standard passenger car, with rows of wooden seats along the walls, everything thickly coated in dust and worn by centuries of age and neglect. The doors to the other cars, as well as the windows, are boarded up. You must spend the whole journey here, but worry not. It is a short trip, and there is nothing you need to see outside the windows anyway. Sit and wait, you will soon feel the train start to move.

The journey will be short, however, it is unlike any other you have ever taken – the train crosses more than just land, indeed, it crosses more than space, but let’s not dwell on that for now. You will not feel anything during the transition, nor will you feel anything when the train arrives at the destination, however, it is extremely important that you do not open the door until you are absolutely certain that the train has arrived – the transition is lethal to unprotected human life. To tell if the train has arrived, first wait ten minutes – this is the longest it will take to enter the transition – then periodically tap the boarded up window with your finger. A hollow knocking sound will indicate that you have arrived, whereas if your finger produces a dull thud, as if you are tapping against a completely solid object, you have not arrived yet. Disembark as soon as you are sure the train has reached its destination.

As you step off the train you will find yourself on a barren, rocky plain, surrounded by a thick mist. Probably the first thing you’ll notice the large number of rotting human bones scattered across the area. The Witch, in its activities in Earth, made a large number of servants. It also made a large number of enemies. The bones that profane the grounds here belong to both camps. The battle that made such a necropolis of this place is also the reason for the abrupt disappearance of the witch trains and new reports of them. A short distance away, not obscured by the mist, you will see a dilapidated church of white stone. Staying close to the edge of the fog but being very careful not to lose sight of the church, make your way there.

This part is important – you must keep a close eye on the church, for you will soon see a small crowd emerge from it and start approaching the train. These are more of Her servants. As soon as you see them, immediately run into the fog as far as you dare but do NOT lose sight of the church – this place is not a natural part of our world, and consequently the geometry of the land is abnormal. If you proceed in what may seem like a straight line too far into the fog, reversing your direction will not bring you back, and in this way it is far too easy to become hopelessly lost there, so do not lose sight of the church! Wait in the fog as the servants go past. They all wear the same, worn out train staff uniforms, and they all wear the same, utterly vacant expressions on their faces. Don’t let this fool you though; if they catch you trespassing on Her land they will tear you apart with a fanaticism and strength no human could match. Once they reach the train, they will stay there – this is the first time it has been here in over a century. Proceed to the church at this point, but stay close to the fog just in case.

Approach the white church and take note of the damage. The walls are adorned in scorch marks and bullet holes. More of the skeletons of the Witch’s servants and enemies surround the church and are scattered amongst the floors and aisles of the nave inside, as you will see through the blasted front doors. You won’t end up like these skeletons at this point; all of the Witch’s servants in this place have gone to the train and will stay there. The people who attacked this place made sure to destroy the Witch’s means of re-entering our world, such as the train and the control rod for activating the transition, so Her servants will be hard at work investigating the train you have brought here. But don’t worry, if you do this correctly, you should be able to return back with the train and control rod before the Witch can make use of them once more.

Enter the church and proceed through the nave to the doors behind the altar. Muster up your courage and determination here, and perhaps prepare something like a rag to cover your face with. The reports I have on this church do not indicate a good ventilation of the next hallway. When you are ready, enter.

The dim light of the hallway will illuminate the carpet of half-decayed corpses across the floor. On the walls you will see the sources of these dim lights; small globes wired into the distended mouths of rows of mutilated heads attached to bizarre machinery set into the walls. Unlike the previous areas, most of these bodies belong to Her enemies, not servants, ambushed and slaughtered here when they tried to make their way to confront the Witch Herself. Walk as quickly as you can through this hall while being careful not to trip, there is certainly no need to take your time here. You may notice that a few of the light globes are dark. Consider the bearers of those lights extremely lucky, for the truth is that these light globes are powered by the electrical signals in the brains of these heads, kept alive by the arcane machinery that supports them. Try not to dwell too much on their fates, you should save your mental fortitude for the trials ahead, And don’t attempt to turn any more of these lights off – the Witch is coming very soon, and if you do not escape, many more people in our world, including you, will end up like this.

My information on this place is based on the accounts of the few who attacked it over a century ago and managed to escape. Thus, I can’t give details on what you will find beyond this forsaken hallway, but I know that among the things here you should find a library, a door of the same luminous silver of the train’s control rod, with a crucifix set into it, and a pool of blood. Avoid the door for now, and the pool of blood at all costs. Instead enter the library. Most of the books here are worthless, except for one set, which should be the centrepiece of the library. Though these ancient books are penned in Hebrew, their place is marked by a sign in English reading “The Annals of the Connexion of the Thrones of God,” or simply “The Annals of the Connexion.” In layman’s terms, this odd phrase refers, essentially, to telepathy. These are what you are looking for.

Before the end of your journey you, one way or another, will be able to read Hebrew, and many other languages. However, it is advisable that you use your discretion in reading these books should you ever so choose. Aside from instruction on the creation and control of the servants that the Witch uses, these books talk about the precise nature and origins of the Connexion of the Thrones of God, the universe, of God and the other deities of the universe. It also details the origin of our species, and what we are to these beings. These things are explained in as much detail as the human mind, or the mind of any other being of this dimension, is capable of conceiving, and it is reported that an alarming majority of those who have read these texts were unable to reconcile themselves with the bleak truth of our existence, and would suffer insanity or depression at the least, often committing suicide. Carefully consider your life and outlook before you seek the knowledge in these texts.

The other copies of these books were destroyed a long time ago by the Witch, as well as others like her, along with most of the people in the world who naturally had the telepathic Connexion. These people made up a large part of the Witch’s enemies who attacked her here. Take these books and leave now – it will not be long before the Witch emerges from Her slumber, yet there is one more sacrifice you must make to facilitate your escape. Find the room with the silver, crucifix-set door, and steel yourself, for this will not be pleasant. Open the door.

The room is pitch black, but you can clearly see the machinery surrounding the chained, furiously screaming man inside, all of it in the same silver of the non-illuminating glow. Try to find something to hold onto as this man, cut off for so long, forces his mind upon you. Your head will feel as if it is being squashed like a balloon to the bursting point as the last man with the Connexion transfers it to you. It will feel like years, but it will only take seconds before it is done. The man will thankfully die from the strain, making him one less person left behind on your conscience. You will want to take time to process all this, as the knowledge and outright changes to your brain will be unimaginable, but you don’t have a moment, you must run now. If you pass the pool of blood on your way out, you will notice that it is bubbling. The Witch is emerging. Run to the hallway, and prepare yourself for the hardest part.

This hallway was created for the Connected when they attacked this place. All the people now set into the walls have been subjected to unthinkable horrors before being forced inside their minds by destruction of all five of their senses. But with the Connexion you will, upon entering the hallway, feel all of their ghastly thoughts inside your mind. This is why the Witch did this – to weaken the Connected at this hallway with the tormented thoughts of these people so as to defeat them more easily. As hard as it will be, you must focus yourself on running through this hallway. Once you are out, you will be fine, but you must get out quickly.

Get to the train, where Her servants will still be. As long as She is not nearby, you can now use the Connexion to force your will upon them, preventing them from attacking you, but not for long. Quickly enter the conductor’s car on the train, and use your will on the control rod in the same way to make your escape from this place.

If you successfully escape, what you do with your newfound talents and books is entirely up to you. As mentioned before, you now have the capability to read the Hebrew language of the Annals, and other languages. There are many people who will offer incredible sums of money for the Annals of the Connexion, as well as unthinkable gifts, many of which will sicken you with their degradations. Many more people will hunt you for the Annals, as well as for simply what you now are. Most likely, you are not able to predict what you will do, as you will surely be a completely different person at the end of this journey, so at the very least you should hope that you can adapt to your new life quickly enough before it can overwhelm you.

Credit To: corpulent

Supposedly there are 7 gateways to hell scattered across the Earth. These infernal entrypoints can, it is said transport you to the Underworld itself at certain times of the year, or if particular conditions are met. Why am I telling you this? Because I have a distinct feeling that I may have stumbled across one of such places little more than a month ago.

It was around 9pm and as I often do I was walking along the rural path which connects between the centre of my town and the outlying residential areas, when I noticed something quite mysterious. The sky was darker than usual it seemed to me,but more concerning was a strange light piercing through the trees which ran parallel to the path. I stopped and looked hard towards the ethereal glow which whilst relatively dim was clearly visible.

After a short time my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to search for the source of the light. Trudging through ever thickening grass and foliage a strange feeling of panic flooded over me, the most bizarre feeling as though something truly horrific was about to occur. I stood still and caught my breath, and then- reasoning that it was merely a panic attack I continued in the direction of this captivating luminous glow.

No more than two minutes had passed before I came upon the origin of the beacon. What I saw there my mortal mind can never erase, and I feel duty bound to forwarn you never to allow your pangs of curiosity to lead you into such a ghastly situation. If something appears amiss and malevolent in some way give it a wide birth lest you suffer my fate.

I say this happened little more than a month ago of course, but I no longer keep track of time. I simply count the number of times I awake in this pure whitee room to the sound of my own blood curdling scream, before I am heavily sedated by the orderlies once more.

Credit To: Lozzaboi

Rumor had called this section in the vast city where I found my dwelling Old Hope, and it was often said that dreams of industrializing and modernizing the untamed Western coast had been rooted here by humble Americans. Those of the past had toiled under the hot sun shedding blood and tears to erect the small town that, with age and determination cultivated into an ever expanding city. There was, in the mindsets of these fabled bright eyed pioneers nowhere else where the ideals of hope could exist. If they could have foreseen current times, however, they would have never ventured here from their homes.

Absurd was the idea of this place having any connection the words like old and hope. Old implied that this section should be worthy of class, wisdom, culture, and elegance. Such things were only shadowy impressions left by condemned buildings past their grandeur. Hope, if such a word ever existed here, had been violated brutally and left to die alone in the gutter. Old Hope itself was but a symbol of an embalmed corpse left on display for mockery.

I had not come here by volition but by necessity. Lacking the proper experience to be thought of as professional in lines of employment, I had been numerously and cold heartily rejected from over fifty jobs I had applied for. Salvation came from this decaying Old Hope as I had been hired as a bus boy for a modest bar in the evenings, whilst my afternoons were spent as a stock boy for a local market. The pay was meager, but sufficient enough that I soon gathered surplus. Soon I was able to acquire a $400 apartment in Old Hope, surmising it simpler than journeying by bus.

Grateful though I was for work after such disheartening rejections, the atmosphere surrounding daily life there was vile and repugnant. I likened it to a cancer that not only wore on the buildings by weathering and dilapidation but marked itself on its very residence. Their faces conveyed the doldrums of never changing repetition, eyes without expression, living but dead. Those, who were not native to this section of the city like me, always seemed hesitant of interaction as if keeping silent was an unwritten law of Old Hope.

Solitude colored my nights in my humble apartment as floor I lived on lay vacant, although I was told Room 17, the one across from mine, was in-use. I had never seen anyone besides my landlord and his family enter or exit the apartment. Sleep came easily enough; despite the howls of dogs and the low roaring whistle of nearby cargo trains.

In the back of my mind, there was a constant and nagging sensation that seemed to warn me that something was nightmarishly twisted about the very streets I walked daily. It was an intangible phantom waiting to pounce at every corner.

It was dread.

Accumulating, slowly and hauntingly, with each passing day.

No matter the time or hour.

I spent what freedom I had away from Old Hope. Horizons became limitless for me in such small hours, for I could go to places far from that rusting pit, where people where alive and talked freely without showing fear. Despair always crept back upon me, as the buses did not run past six on the weekends and the walk back to what I called ‘home’ from the closest stop was not shot.

Hence, my sense of normality was always crippled by that dark truth. I did not fear Old Hope at dark, for I loathed it in all aspects equally. Night brought no peace to it just as day did. Even looking upon a starlight sky became a phantasmal horror, for it seemed as flickering stars were giving their dying breaths. The moon, when it shined down upon the long forgotten spires that lined the skylight conveyed the ghoulish crypt of a rotting kingdom.

All of this was but a prelude to the true, tangible fear that caused me to recollect and write. The hour is of no importance; only that the day had been hot and overbearing. I was working in the market, stocking a few packs of cigarettes and matches behind the counter. At first, I thought it was only an illusion conjured up by my mind after dealing with daily paranoia and overwork. Glancing again out of curiosity with more attention and at greater length, my eyes widened in fear, my mouth drying, sweating beating down my brow as I began to tremble in shock.

It was an old man in a very dirty brown suit with a crooked pattered tie that was loose around his neck like a twisted noose. Atop his head nestled a tan cowboy hat whose tassels whereas tattered as his suit. He wore thick rimmed glasses that would look more akin to an older woman than a man. Worst of all, his face was badly battered in burns and scabbing that looked to be rotting away.
I stifled a scream but it stuck to my throat and sunk back down into my lungs. The man grinned wide, showing a moth full of yellow teeth and crawling maggots. I felt my stomach churn in pain watching this cadaver of death parade itself.

I knew this person…

I had loved this person…

It was my own grandfather who had not died a year ago!

Holding my sides and gasping for air, I snapped into panic when a hand placed itself on my shoulder. It was my co-worker Terrence who looked concerned at my gestures and crazed stare I had given to the window. The apparition gone, I sighed deeply telling him I was just feeling unwell; that the heat was getting to me and I should get some rest. Being a kind friend, he agreed to let me off early so I could go relax.
Peaceful sleep did not come for me that night nor has it since. For always in my dreams was the disfigured form of my grandfather, swarmed by files as he breath his miasmal vapors of the tomb, leaving me in a frenzy of sweat and tears when I awoke. Daylight brought only more visions of the specter: first outside the market, then the corners of allies, to the dim lit bar’s parking lot, and even beyond Old Hope where there had been peace to me.

Always was it just out of focus in my sight, haunting me eternally.

Then brought the visitation that ended it all.

Up to this point, I had never seen it in my apartment complex, albeit it loomed in the neighboring street near the train tracks. It was early in the morning when it occurred. I had been resting dreamlessly before being awaked by the sharp slam of the front door to the complex.

Always being a deep sleeper, I had found it odd that I could be roused by such a trivial noise. I had almost drifted back to sleep before hearing loud footsteps on the stairs that echoed in my room. Odder still was the fact they sounded not only heavy but wet, as if they were strutting through mud in rubber boots. Tension soon mounted as a lay still in my bed, for the noise was drawing closer and closer into my very floor before stopping just outside my door.

Out of a morbid fascination, I slowly crawled up from my bed and to the door on mouse -ike movements, drawing what courage I could to stare through the peephole. To this day, I regret ever getting out of my bed and curse myself all the more for even coming to Old Hope. For what I saw cannot be described fully to any other human being.

For, indeed, it was the specter that had followed me always.

But it was different now.

Its head lay at the back of a broken neck that stretched to snake-like portions. It limbs where that of a beetle, and they frequently convulsed in fits of unnatural fury. Its body was bloated to such an unreal size that I wondered how it fit into such a small hallways. Worst of all came when I saw it head, for its eyes were those of a fly, while the head remained a melting skull spewing tar like liquid in its wake.
It stayed there but for an instance before liquefying in a whitish illuminated slime, slithering its way under the door into Room 17. This transfiguration was too much for human senses and bewildered by what I had seen, my body gave way to fainting. I found myself on the floor at sunrise, determined with all my energy to see what lay behind the door Room 17.

I pounded loudly on landlord’s door and it was apparent from his glassy-eyed look that he was rather surprised by this unexpected visitation so early in the morning. Not one to mince words, I simply told him it was urgent that I see Room 17. Giving me a puzzling look, I simply repeated myself without changing my tone. Sighing, he accepted my request and we soon found ourselves standing outside the door.

Nothing of the previous night had lingered in the hallway. There were no signs of the strange black liquid or sickly white pus. I assured myself that the answers to all of this lay behind the door, no matter how outlandish or wicked; I assured myself. Soon the key was placed into the lock, the knob was turned; and all was laid bare before us.

How could I possibly describe what was there? Nothing could have prepared me for it, even my grimmest imagination.

There was nothing unordinary about the room.

By contrast, it was a perfectly normal to me.

For everything in that room belong to me.

There where surrealist paintings of insects and otherworldly nightmares that Terrene had given me. There were unwashed hung suits that I had worn several times out exploring, the one closest to the door a tattered brown suit on a coatrack. There were the pictures of my family and grandfather I had kept since childhood. Most of all, there lay in stacks next to my antique typewriter stories of horror I had mused in bleak, sleepless hours.

I had forgotten this room was my study…

That I had the key in my wallet…

That I had invented my hauntings purely by daydreaming and not taking my medication…

All of my fear and paranoia was a lie…

There remained one last detail to this that makes me doubt if it was all just a hallucination brought on by my masochistic negligence.

While I have long gone on with my life, it remains.

Wondering what I really experienced.

For I had truly not been in my study since forgetting to take my pills, freshly printed words lined a page inserted into the typewriter.

Though I had heard them before; only now do I think deeply on them, for it read:

“The truth is always an abyss.”

Credit To: 1000Masks