The Mask Boy

August 15, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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The Mask Boy
By: Isaac Cook

My hastily-packed belongings rattled in the trunk as I pulled into the driveway of the small, forest-embraced two storey building which I was now to call home. Getting out of my car, I walked towards the front door, all the while pushing away uneasy feelings–as the disrepair of the entire place was quite overwhelming. Entering, I noticed that the place looked rather dull. Not in an empty house way, but in a lifeless, abandoned way. A staircase stood in front of me, accompanied by a carpet that looked not far from the colour of cat vomit. Throughout the small hallways and rooms, I found forgotten furniture in what I presumed to be the living room, with a large window facing the front of the house, and finding a dusty old table set in the kitchen. I made my way back to the staircase that led up into darkness.

Ascending the staircase, I felt as though it could collapse if I put too much weight on it. I came to a short hallway with 2 doors. After a short amount of wondering, I discovered that one was a small closet, and the other was what I presumed to be a bedroom. Claiming it as mine, I unpacked my things. After a couple trips back out to the car and hauling my mattress and bed frame up the stairs, I stood quietly and absorbed the situation, as this was my first home.

This silence was quickly interrupted by a low-pitched scraping sound, coming from downstairs.

It was the subtlest of sounds but it didn’t matter, It still put me on edge. I peeked out from my bedroom door and looked right and left before slowly moving out from its false security, and down the stairs. Each step creaked and cracked as I made my way down, harshly working against my current predicament. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, I prepared myself for the worst.

I entered the soon to be kitchen where a table and chairs sat, except for one chair that was pulled up against the wall under an air vent. Slowly moving towards it, I investigated. The dust on the floor had left a trail where the chair had slid. Surrounding the chair were small oval-shaped prints in the light dust. I tried to follow them to their source, but my previous movement around the house had scratched any chance of that. Moving back to the chair, I decided to inspect the vent. I stood on the chair, peering into the air vent before realizing it was too dark too see anything. Pulling out my phone, I used the dull light of the screen to cut through the blackness. What I thought to be eyes that glowed in the darkness like embers were staring back at me. Just as I realized what I was looking at, I stumbled backwards off the chair, falling onto the kitchen floor. For brief seconds, I thought the sound of scampering echoed in the walls.

Pushing myself up and off the ground, I quickly glanced back up to the vent. Even if there were still something there, I couldn’t see it. What the hell was that? I thought. Standing up, I brushed off the dust and shock of the situation. I slid my phone into my pocket and proceeded to search through the wooden cabinets the kitchen.

Moldy cans of food that looked ripped open, rusted mousetraps and a wooden spoon. Any hope of finding something to take down whatever was in my new home was lost. After a long day of traveling and unpacking; It was late and I was exhausted to the point that I didn’t even care about whatever it was.

Lying down to bed with a cup of tea, I hoped to calm my nerves after the unsettling events of the day. I shut off my bedside lamp and held the tea close, as the aura of heat was soothing. I heard a scraping and a thump from downstairs that made me jump up to a sitting position. Just from instinct, I knew that this was not the house settling.

I sat there draped in blankets, swallowed in the darkness of the night, and waited. For a while I heard faint rustles and thumps coming from throughout the house. I turned on my bedside lamp to illuminate the room and remove at least some of my rising terrors. Just as I was about to lie back down, the bedroom door’s handle started to turn. I wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the painful screeching it made. The screeching went on for what felt an eternity as I sat there, paralyzed with fear, until I heard the metallic click of the mechanism at its limit. Why didn’t I run? To be honest, I’d suffered from night terrors before, and wondered if this was one of them. As the door began to slowly drift open with a low squeal, I spastically shut off my bedroom lamp, dropping my tea mug onto the floor in the process, and huddled under the covers. The low squealing only stopped for a couple seconds following the commotion of my cowering. It continued until I heard the thud of the door knob hitting the wall. I could hear whatever — or whoever had opened the door slowly start to walk closer to my bed. Every footstep made a torturous creaking noise. Creak, creak, creak, creeeeak. It stopped right beside the bed. Images of a crazed serial killer, ready to plunge a knife into the hump of covers that was me flashed through my head. With a slow, torturous motion, I heard and felt it crawl under my bed. Through the thin mattress I could hear it breathing — raspy and low. I lay awake in terror as what felt like hours passed by.

I must have fallen asleep from pure exhaustion at some point, because I opened my eyes and sunlight gleamed through the door to the hallway. Quickly remembering the events of last night, I was once again engulfed in fear. Was it still under my bed?, I thought. With a spark of bravery or foolishness, I moved towards the edge of my bed. I saw a large stain from what I quickly realized was my tea from last night, but no mug. Disregarding this, I moved toward the unknown, slowly lowering my upside-down head over the bed’s edge. Quickly dropping it to the level where I could see beneath, I saw; nothing. Absolutely nothing. Was it a dream? No, it couldn’t have been a dream, my tea was all over the floor and I quite clearly remembered the long hours that I had spent terrified, sitting on my bed.

Determined to figure out what had happened last night, I slid my phone out from my pants pocket — I hadn’t bothered to change into anything comfortable last night– and looked once again under the bed, using the phone’s light, this time. My efforts were quickly halted as a horrible stench invaded my nostrils, making me gag. After getting myself together, I held my breath and pinched my nose to inspect the source of the horrible stench.

A large rat, ripped to pieces. Whatever came into my room last night was definitely real, and large enough to rip a rat to shreds. That scared me more than anything.

I cautiously cleaned up the mangled corpse and tossed it out to the the forest behind the house. Trying to push the current situation’s strangeness out of my mind, I cleaned myself up and got ready to do some errands in town.

The entire day I had conflicted feelings about the house;
I should be there and figure out what was going on, and if it’s something serious!
No, I should sell the house right now and leave while I’m alive!
It’s nothing, I shouldn’t be worried.

After all my errands were done, I made my way home. Seeing movement in the large front window of the living room, I slammed on the brakes, for what I saw made my stomach churn. A short figure stood in the centre of the window. Quickly pulling into the driveway and jumping out of the car, I ran inside. I was going to catch whatever this thing was.

Bursting through the door, I found myself face to face with it. Through a mask made of wood, covered in strange swirls of brown, green and red–ominous glowing eyes met mine. No taller than a small boy, It stood looking almost as stunned as I was. It wore a small burlap sack tied with a rope to make a makeshift backpack, and a tattered cloth around it’s waist. “H-hey little guy, w-where’d you come from?”, I asked, sweat dripping down my forehead. It emitted a quiet, high pitched giggle as it raised its hand, motioning for me to follow it. Even though I questioned the entire situation, I followed. The boy led me to the kitchen where he opened one of the low wooden cabinets. Crawling in, he slid out the wooden back of the cabinet to reveal a dark crawl space.

Watching as he crawled deep into the darkness, I hesitated. What in the bloody hell was I about to do? This thought was interrupted by the boy’s hand piercing through the darkness, holding my phone. I felt around my pockets and realized that I had left it on my bedside table before rushing out this morning. Watching me come to this realization, he emitted a high pitched giggle as he clicked the power button to cast a dull light throughout the crawl space, revealing his small figure once more. Was this a tactic to force me to follow him? Was he that smart?

I ducked my head as I crawled through the cobweb infested passage, overcome by a mix of curiosity and terror as we shuffled through the crawlspace. Beyond the boy’s figure in front of me–I could see that around the corner; there was light. Turning that corner, the passage opened up into a room no larger than a car, with another tunnel shrouded in darkness leading off to the left. Masks covered the walls, made from scraps of what looked like a combination of plant life and garbage, all bearing their own unique designs. Piles of miscellaneous items were scattered about the room. Examining the “creative works of art” that he had placed all along the walls, I extended my arm to touch one, hoping to gain a better understanding of what they were made of. Just I was about to, a shriek rang through the air. Before I could react, my arm was bleeding.

I looked toward the boy, as he stood there bearing what looked like an old makeshift knife. His eyes were thin and dark, and even through his mask I could tell that he was enraged. “Ah, fuck! If you didn’t want me to touch them, why didn’t you just say so!?”, I screamed at him, holding my arm and slowly backing away. Throwing my phone at me, he raised the hand with the bloody knife, pointing the its tip toward the tunnel that had led us into this hell. Without hesitation, I turned on my phone’s dull guidance and entered the darkness of the crawlspace. As I moved through the tunnel, there was a great deal of commotion behind me. Loud bangs and low-pitched groans that sounded almost like sobbing. This only quickened my pace. Exiting the nightmare into my kitchen, I grabbed my keys without a second thought, and left for the nearest hospital. The cut was too deep and that knife was too dirty for me to be able to treat it myself.


Three hours later, with a bandaged arm and the emergency room doctor’s numerous moronic questions about “self harm” playing through my mind, I slowly drove up to the nightmare I called home. Once more, the boy was in the front window, shrouded in darkness, but definitely there. Just as I saw him, he fled back into the shadows of the house. I drove the car up the short driveway and sat there for a moment. Letting out a long sigh — I opened the car door and walked towards the front steps.

As I entered, I couldn’t shake a sense of dread, knowing that the boy was still here. Searching the living room and kitchen for him, I found nothing. Although he was more than likely curled away in his crawlspace nightmare, I urged myself to search upstairs. Not particularly enjoying the thought of the closet, I decided to check my bedroom first. Lightly grasping the brass handle, I swung open the door in one swift motion. A mask lay on my bed. The design looked as though a toddler had tried to draw my face. I moved towards it and picked it up; It was surprisingly sturdy. Was this some sort of present from the boy? I had no idea. Holding it face-down in my hands I noticed what seemed to be vines fastened loosely to the back of the mask for securing it to the wearer’s head.

My investigation was interrupted by a creak of the floor behind me. I quickly twisted my neck around, revealing the boy, peeking through the doorway. Not knowing whether he was going to attack me for touching one of his masks again, I stood there, frozen. After some moments of us staring at each other, he pointed to the mask, and then to my head. Not seeing the harm in it, I lifted the mask up and slid it over my face. He let out his ever-so-childish giggle, and scampered off down the stairs. Peering through the two eye holes, I felt strangely accepted. At this point, the day had come and gone more quickly than I had realized. The air grew cool, and the life of the sky turned to a deep black. Setting the mask on my bedside table, closing my door, and getting under the covers, I drifted into sleep.

I awoke sometime in the night to the boy standing over me. His eyes glowed in the darkness with a mischievous glare that made me uneasy. I could once again hear his quiet, raspy breath under the mask he wore. Contrary to last night, I decided make my presence known.

As I slowly sat up, his eyes followed me. Turning on my bedside lamp to get a better understanding of the situation exposed his small form. Gesturing for me to follow, he slowly turned around and made his way down the stairs. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, grabbed my phone, and shambled out into the darkness. Guided by the moonlight, I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where my little friend was standing. Opening his passageway once more, we crawled in. Back in the same nightmare art museum, I made sure not to touch any of the masks, and for a moment, we simply stood and glared at each other. This moment was broken by a low giggle he let out before crouching down and crawling into the unexplored tunnel. I followed him, even though every instinct in my body told me to get the hell out of there.

My phone lit up another room, up ahead. I approached the opening as cautiously as I could. A coppery scent crept into the stale air of the crawl space. A freshly mangled rat lay in the corner of the small room. The boy looked to me almost as though awaiting some approval for his actions, which I did not feel, but I assured him that he’d done a good job, but that I was going back to sleep. He nodded, complying with my wishes. I headed out of the crawlspace and stumbled through the dark, back up to my still warm bed.

Every night for a week straight, he woke me in the middle of the night to show me his most recent kill, which was either a rat or squirrel. He’d stand beside me — breathing over me, until I got up and “approved” of his kill. Anything to keep whatever the hell he was happy.

It had been a long day of trying to clean up the house and doing the occasional errand, and I was ready for bed. I lay in my nest of covers and slowly drifted to sleep. As expected, the schedule repeated on this night; I awoke to his off-putting presence. At this point it wasn’t even surprising or disturbing. I entered the crawl space, all the while trying to not collapse with exhaustion. As we reached his collection of masks, I noticed that my tea mug sat carefully on the floor; steaming hot with my personal preference of green tea. Something to impress me? Paying no large amount attention to this, we kept moving on to the usual spot, where something tore my exhaustion away from me.

A smell so putrid that it made my throat burn surrounded me. I persisted, and came into the small crawl space. What the dim light of my phone revealed made me freeze. It was a human body, artistically surrounded by the rotting rodents of the past week, wearing a mask, and littered with stab wounds. Its stomach had been sliced open, revealing the large intestine. It lay motionless as we stood. The boy let out that ever so familiar giggle — but this time, it sent pure terror through my thoughts.

“Jesus Christ! You can’t do this; the rats and squirrels were one thing but this- this is fucking crazy!” I shouted. He blankly stared back up at me. Gesturing for me to leave, he crouched down over the body, and started to quietly cry. I left without remorse for him.


Opening my eyes the next morning, I heard the now-familiar sound: a low, long scrape coming from the downstairs kitchen, rumbling through the house. I sat up, feeling ever so groggy. As the events of the previous night set my thoughts racing, I realized that I had slept into the afternoon. Slowly moving down the staircase, I could see the paper-boy dropping off the weekly news. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I opened the front door. Rushed by the cool morning air, I snagged the paper and moved back inside. Flipping through the numerous pages of politics, sports and local news; my eyes settled upon something that truly disturbed me. A piece of paper bearing the image of a man laid stapled to the paper. It read “Gerry Hall was reported missing in the early hours of this morning, after his wife witnessed “A dark figure rip him out of bed and drag him into the night”. If anyone knows the whereabouts of Gerry or was witness to any suspicious actions, please call…”.

Anxiety overtook my body. Clear images of the boy breaking into an innocent couple’s bedroom as they lay sleeping, snatching one of them from their slumber, flashed through my mind. What if someone saw where he took the body? I wouldn’t be suspected for this, but I certainly would be if the authorities found a body in the crawlspaces of my home–and all I had to defend myself with was a story of a masked, murderous boy living in my floors and walls.

Crumpling the missing persons report into my pocket, I moved towards the kitchen. The passage to the crawlspace slid open effortlessly. Feeling the musty air of my home’s innards, I felt my way through the dust, emerging out of the darkness, into the light and familiar sight of the boy’s masks. My mind was taken over by an urge to confirm my fears. My phone cast its trademark dull light across the walls as I went deeper into the boy’s home. The musty air mixed with the familiar scent of death as I neared the room of killings.

A figure crouched over the body. Noticing the light approaching, it turned around. To no surprise — it was the boy. Holding a knife in one hand and the innards of last night’s kill in the other, he tilted his head in confusion, as I must’ve looked like a maniac. I flashed a nervous smile at him, and continued to the body. Carefully pulling the mask off of the man, I compared his face to that of the man on the paper. Other than what I can only describe as terror and death on his face, the two were identical. The boy shot an annoyed glare at me, presumably because I had removed the mask from the lifeless doppelganger of the man on the page. Sliding it back onto the man, the boy returned to his task–which by sitting and watching for a few brief moments, I realised involved carefully taking apart the body peice by peice. The gruesome sight of this led me to flee back up to the light-bathed kitchen, mentally scarred by the display.

I spent most of the day sitting in the living room, contemplating what to do.


Night had almost engulfed the sky by the time I had gotten up from my mental session. Realizing that the only thing I had decided was that I was now going to call the boy, The Mask Boy, I moved upstairs to lie down early. I prayed to any higher being in the Universe that the mask boy wouldn’t awake me that night. Turning away these thoughts, I shut my eyes. I remained in this state for what felt like hours, until I heard a gentle creak outside my door. A feeling of dread swept over me as I rolled over and sat up to face it. As the door knob thudded against the wall, the mask boy appeared. Without needing his usual gestures for me to follow, I got up and walked with him down the stairs.

We silently entered the passage of darkness. Even from afar I could feel the rot of death, dancing in the back of my throat. Moving through his collection and closer to the source of the scent, I couldn’t help but feel as though I knew what was ahead. I watched the dark figure of the boy in front of me, until we stopped. Turning on the light of my phone, my fears were confirmed. Two more bodies lay next to the last: a man and a woman, both with shocked expressions. He looked up to me for approval. Giving him the pleasure of a slight nod, I exited the tomb. As I moved into the tunnel that would lead to my kitchen, his familiar giggle echoed from the depths of the crawlspace. My mind was so disturbed and worried for what the future might entail, I was surprised when I found myself standing over my bed. I collapsed into a world of nightmares.

Waking up the next day, I decided to leave the house. Making my way down the stairs, I noticed that the smell of rot and death was lightly drifting in the air. This bothered me, but not out of concern for anyone other than me noticing–because after all, I wasn’t planning to have company any time soon. Exiting the nightmare I called my home, I slid into my car and drove off.


At the end of the day, I found myself at a local bar. Usually I was quite social in these situations, but I felt not the slightest need to interact with anyone. Conversations echoed around me, hearty laughs battled my eardrums, and a fight even broke out at one point. All this as I sat; witness to the loneliness of my own thoughts.

Without the attention of a single person, I exited the bar silently.

The sun was just disappearing, and I felt the need to be back in the house. Even though it did hold my nightmares, it was strangely comforting. The haze of the drinks and night overwhelmed me as I drove through the darkened streets. Pulling up to the house, I was slightly disturbed to realize that the mask boy was not in the window as per usual. An uneasy feeling overtook me as I rested my hand on the front door of my home. I twisted and pulled, and the stench of rotting death swarmed me, stinging my eyes, burning my nostrils, and flaring in my throat.

Moving inward and up the stairs, I thought I faintly heard the mask boy’s giggle echo from behind the walls around me. This sort of behavior was odd for him, as he was usually very social and upfront with me. Reaching the top of the stairs, I turned and entered the dark door frame of my bedroom, collapsing into the bed.


Greeted by the bright sun of midday through trees overhead, I opened my eyes and realized that I was lying in a forest. I quickly sat up, instantly ridden with confusion and terror as I saw a dead body beside me, covered in stab wounds — bathing in a pool of blood. Noticing that my vision was slightly narrowed, I held my hands to my face in shock. A mask. A bloody makeshift knife lay in my left hand. Standing up and looking down, I saw that I wore nothing more than a cloth. My self-investigation was quickly interrupted as voices came from my right. Three hikers trotted along a dirt path–before bearing witness to what I’d done. Frantically looking around, I could see my home through the dense trees. I got up and ran faster than I ever have in my life, discarding the mask and knife onto the forest floor as I ran.

Reaching my home, I burst through the door and ran up the stairs. Knowing that I had to leave town, I began to pack my valuables. Running back down with a box full my things, I made it to the front door before noticing something through the living room window. The hikers were standing on the road in front of my home, all holding phones up to their heads. I panicked. I raced to the kitchen and practically dove into the mask boy’s passage, leaving my box of belongings behind. Ignoring the intensity of the stench, I hastily crawled through the dark, narrow space. I came into his room of masks, only to find him not there. Shuffling across the floor and into the second tunnel, the horrible smell attacked my senses like acid as I moved farther into the crawlspace.

Coming close to the source, I turned on my phone to illuminate the sea of darkness that lay in front of me: three bodies, decoratively surrounded by mangled rodents–but the mask boy was absent. I quickly turned around and fled the nightmarish tunnels.

Reaching the kitchen, I stood, frantically trying to think of a way out. I ran around the house looking for something, anything to aid me. As I passed by the living room window, I saw several police cruisers parked on the road outside. Officers were speaking with the hikers, anxiously glaring at my home and the forest surrounding it.

I had to leave- now.

Realizing that my only options were to stay here and go to prison for the rest of my life or run, I smashed open a window. Cutting myself on shattered glass, I lept through and ran into the forest.


I sat in a motel room just outside of town as an old TV flickered in front of me. “Police have confirmed the deaths of four missing locals: Gerry Hall, Jane & Phil Turner, and Charlie Smith. Gerry Hall and the Turner couple were found beneath a home outside of town in a crawlspace, while Charlie Smith was found in close vicinity to the home. Police say that the murders were very gruesome and that they have suspicions as to who is responsible.”

They know exactly who is responsible; there was enough evidence there that a fucking child could’ve pointed the finger at me. The house was listed under my name for Christ’s sake. They’re coming for me. I fled from that horrible place four days ago, and every night since, I’ve awakened to find him standing over me, gesturing for me to follow.

So far, I haven’t.

Credit To – Isaac Cook

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Room Number 17

August 11, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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This story is based off of real events that happened to me and my family while on our second vacation to Scotland. Names might be changed to keep our privacy and some details might be wrong, but for the rest, everything is what happened. Oh, and we all survived ;)

My parents dragged me towards the pillar where the tour guide would meet us. It was the second day of our two-week vacation to Scotland and right now we were in the capital city of Edinburgh. Our hotel had given us a few tips and things to visit over night and eventually, the three of us decided that we would go to the ‘Mercat Ghost Tour’ in the Edinburgh Dungeons. “Exciting for the entire family!” was what the hotel owner had said. In all honesty, I wasn’t such a fan of ghost stories. I didn’t like horror at all, actually. It was definitely not my favorite, nor could I take jumpscares. So I wasn’t that happy. My heart was pounding quite fast and if I were to see even the slightest scary thing, like a spider, I’d probably jump in my fathers’ arms to hide. No shame, I’m a scaredy-cat.

It had gotten pretty late, and we were waiting at a small café with a nice view on the Mercat pillar. Eventually, the tour guide arrived together with a German family of four. The tour guide introduced himself and we started walking through the city. Edinburgh was beautiful. It was a pretty old city with a big history. The guide stopped every now and then at a building and taught / told us an interesting story, before continuing on walking. The German family took pictures of everything while me and mom listened carefully. Dad was taking pictures as well. We walked around the plaza, called “the Edinburgh Mile” and after walking for a while we reached a small street, nearly hidden from the public. It was barely visible and we stopped to look around a bit. We were surrounded by houses and flats, three-high each. The tour guide opened his bag and searched for the key to the building he’d take us in. After a while he found it. He opened the door and gestured us to enter.

The guide grabbed a lantern and started walking down some stairs. We followed him down the cellar-like stairs and the door closed shut behind us. Shivers ran down my spine as it was getting colder as the night grew older. Also because we went lower and lower underground. I looked over my shoulder at the door and nearly bumped in my father because we came to a sudden stop. The guide turned around and creepily looked at us. The dungeons appeared to be discovered quite recently. They had been closed off and forgotten due to the criminal world seeking refuge and dealing in the underground. The government wanted none of it and thus they closed it. Years passed and the dungeons got forgotten. At least, until recently, when someone found them by accident at the construction site of some building. Mercat took the opportunity to make it into the ghost tour it was now. There were prop bodies and lights hidden throughout the dungeon and if you listened carefully you could hear scary music playing in the distance. The guide focused his attention on us and started telling stories. I wasn’t completely there though, I was distracted. I felt cold and somehow… unsafe. I wanted to get out, even though there was nothing to worry about. I sought comfort in my mothers’ arms and tried to listen to the guide. But there was something… or someone… ominous around. I didn’t feel secure, it was as if we were being watched from behind. We continued and got even deeper inside the dungeons as the guide took us to a closed off section of the dungeons. It had been found by the workers of Mercat while cleaning out and preparing the dungeons for their tours. Apparently it was the safe-route from the Edinburgh Castle to the outside world. The route had been forgotten and hidden for ages until they found it. Story goes that two of the castle’s guards accidently blew up the tunnel by firing the cannon which indicated one o’clock at one A.M. instead of P.M. after having one or two beers too much. it fell of the wall and boom! Anyway, the tunnel was now closed off for visitors.

“Have I told you the story of Room 17?” Asked the tour guide. We all shook our heads, indicating he indeed hadn’t.
“Very well.” The guard put down the lantern on a rock and started his story. Again shivers ran down my spine, followed by a feeling of dread. I felt scared, anxious. But not unsafe. Not anymore.

“A long time ago, there was this hotel. Everybody forgot it’s name, location and city. But it’s around the city of Saint Andrews. The story goes the hotel had a haunted room, number 17. Of course, the room hadn’t always been haunted. It started in the 16th century. On a late autumn night, a young lady appeared at the hotel. She seemed cold and looked for a room to stay the night. The hotel owner had one free room, number 17. The girl thanked him and immediately went upstairs to sleep for the night. The next morning, the girl wasn’t awake for breakfast. She hadn’t come down for lunch either. Even though every guest needs their privacy, the hotel owner was getting worried that something had happened to the girl. The man walked up the stairs and knocked on the room door. He waited for an answer, but it stayed awfully quiet. He knocked on the door again, this time a bit louder. Still no answer. The man was getting very worried about the mysterious female now, so he decided to grab the spare room key and unlock the door. He walked down the stairs again, but as he went down to grab the key, he heard eerie whispers in his ear. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, something about a man clothed in all black. This scared the old man. He grabbed the key to room no. 17 and held it tight in his sweaty hands. He ran back up the stairs and knocked on the door one more time. No answer. He unlocked the door and turned the doorknob to the right. He carefully pushed open the door and called ‘miss? Excuse me, are you there?’ He took a quick peek around the half opened door but couldn’t see the bed yet. He now opened the door fully and walked in. On the bed, covered in a red pool of blood, the corpse of the mysterious female had been left for dead, murdered in cold blood. On the ceiling of the room was written “HELP” in the women’s blood. The old man gasped in fear and called for the town guards. To this day nobody knows who murdered the girl. The hotel owner couldn’t handle the feeling of guilt and closed the hotel for good. It wasn’t until 50 years later when a young family bought the empty house. There were way too many rooms for them, so they decided it would be a good idea to make it into a hotel. So they did. But as the husband of the family inspected every single room, he found one room with a strange, scary atmosphere. He didn’t feel safe at all in the room. He could swear he heard whispers in the room, telling him about a man clothed in black and murder. He shivered and shut the door. He numbered it room 17 and decided to never rent the room. The family earned good money off of the room, but never ever let anyone rent room 17.

The family got rich off of their hotel and the fantastic service. But never ever did they rent room 17. It turned spring, to summer, autumn, and winter again. But the winter was harsh and cold. Chances of surviving without food or a roof above your head were near to null. Every room in the hotel was full, except for room number 17.
The weather outside was harsh, it was snowing and the wind was sharp. It was close to midnight and the family’s husband was sitting in the bar drinking his final beer before closing the hotel door. Suddenly he could hear a weak knocking on the door. He grabbed a torch and opened the door. He looked straight into the eyes of a young woman and her child. They seemed very tired and cold. They were soaking wet of the snow and freezing. If he didn’t let them in, they would surely freeze to death. The husband had pledged to never let anyone stay in room 17, but decided it was better to let them stay than letting them freeze to death.
He let the woman in who thanked him dearly. He handed her the key to room 17 and shut the door. The woman and daughter went up the stairs and stayed the night in room 17. The husband went to his room and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. His heart was pounding in fear, yet he didn’t know why. An hour passed and the man still couldn’t fall asleep when suddenly he heard a loud screech. It sounded like it was from a woman. He lit a candle and ran up the stairs. Every hotel guest had awoken from their slumber by the loud scream and everyone was looking out of their room doors to see what had happened. Everyone, but room 17. The hotel owner was shaking from head to toe as he opened the door to room 17. He walked inside and saw the woman sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed on the ceiling in fear. She was completely terrified and paralyzed in fear. The daughter was lying dead on the floor. The husband knew that he had made a mistake. Rumor spread across the country like wildfire and soon, the entire nation knew about the hotel and the haunted room. The husband was never renting the room, ever again. Not even when it was freezing outside. He pledged it against his wife, his son, his grandmother and everybody else. Never.

Anyway, years passed and the hotel grew famous worldwide for its haunted room. Word reached the Vatican and a monk wanted to hear nothing of it. He thought it was all the biggest humbug and he was going to prove it with his own life. The monk travelled all the way to Scotland, to the hotel, just to prove it was all a hoax. The monk sought contact with the hotel owner and after discussing for a long while, the hotel owner decided to let the monk stay for one night, and one night only.

The monk took his belongings inside the room and the owner gave him two bells. One huge bell, which he could ring if he was in trouble. ‘DONNGGG’ It would sound. And a small bell, for if he needed something to eat or drink. ‘ding!’ it would sound.
Night fell over the city and the family’s husband stayed awake for the night, scared of what might happen to the monk. For hours he waited, but nothing happened. The hotel owner’s eyes grew heavy and he nearly fell asleep. Maybe he even did, until he got awoken by the sound of a bell.
‘ding!’ ‘ding!’ ‘ding!’ It was the small bell, being ringed over and over again. it got quicker and quicker, so the husband slowly made his way up the stairs. suddenly, the big bell rang. ‘DONGGGG!’ it sounded through the entire hotel. The husband now ran up the stairs and opened the room as quickly as he could. In the middle of the room, the monk was sitting in a chair, his eyes fixated on the ceiling in fear. In his hands, the small bell. In the corner of the room, the big bell. Way too far for him to have been able to ring it.
The hotel owners were now certain of the room being haunted, by the mysterious woman who had been murdered there ages ago. The hotel closed, the room numbers disappeared. Nobody knows what and where it is nowadays. have a good night.”

The tour guide let us out of the dungeon and we walked to the hotel together, still in shock of the finishing story as told by the guide. It was quite an amazing experience, yet we wouldn’t want to do it again. Way to scary, especially so late at night. We arrived at our hotel and stayed the night. The day after, we drove from Edinburgh to Crail.

Crail was a small fishing village located near Isle of May, famous for its huge population of puffins. We arrived at the hotel where we would stay the night. After walking around for the entire day, we made our way to the hotel and met up with the hotel owner. The year before, we’d been there as well and the man still remembered us. He was very nice and kind, and loved whiskey. Just like every real scot. He told us stories about when he was younger. The owner took us to our room, which he had reserved especially for us. It was a big room with a nice view on the sea. Strangely enough, it had no number on the door. I suddenly got a flashback of the year before, when we stayed here as well. We were having breakfast and got in a conversation with a man and women who had stayed the night in a room with ‘no number’. They’d had some weird experiences in the room. The woman woke up in the middle of the night because she felt something next to her, but her husband was gone. The bed was empty. Somehow, the husband had gone walking in his sleep and found his way to the stairs next to the bathroom. That’s at least what they told.

Anyway, the owner gave us the key and walked back downstairs with us. After more stories and folklore, he went to bed and we were left alone. It was getting midnight and the three of us decided to play a card game, called “last card plus”
My father had always been the more skeptical of us three when it came to ghosts. He didn’t really believe in them. As we played the game, he started telling jokes about the tour yesterday. Neither mom nor I liked it, since we did believe in ghosts. But whatever. We finished the first of seven rounds. Mom won, dad and I had to count the score of our leftover cards. I had 6 points and mom wrote it down. I looked at dad who had a weird grin on his face. He showed me his cards and I looked at the score of the cards together. Seventeen.
Mom and I glanced at eachother and laughed nervously. But the second round ended with dad having seventeen points. Again. His smile disappeared. At the third round, his smile was completely gone and at the end we counted our leftover points again. Dad’s face had turned white now. Seventeen points, three times in a row. And at that moment the lights went out.

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Lazy Saturday Night

August 11, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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Here I lay, all snuggled up in bed, warm and satisfied under the soft silk covers, watching some stupid documentary on TV I’d never heard of. I’d turn it over, but the gallon tub of cookie dough ice cream wouldn’t let me use my hands for anything other than shovelling the frozen treat into my mouth. Nights like these are rare, it isn’t often that everyone’s out of the house but me, so I make sure to savour them, in fact, I wasn’t expecting anyone back till the morning. That’s what made the sound of the door opening downstairs so alarming.

Panic hits me like a steam train, I silently leap out from under the covers, spilling the ice cream all over the pristine white carpet on the floor, and creak open the wardrobe next to the bed. I hear footsteps, heavy and indiscreet, like they want me to know they’re here. I pant, and pick up the spoon I had just been using to enjoy a relaxing night. The footsteps get louder, I force myself into the miniscule space remaining in the wardrobe, and close the door, just as the stranger opens the bedroom door, not sparing any seconds for silence.
I peer through the gap, his face looks familiar, but I can’t place my finger on where I know him from. He spots the spilled ice cream, and darts his head across the wide expanse of the bedroom.
“Hello?” he calls, not sounding vicious, but I’ve made that mistake before. Never, under any circumstances, assume friendliness from a voice.

He looks under the bed. Oh crap, he’s looking for someone. I hold back a whimper, and start bending the bowl of the spoon back and forth, hoping to snap it off and create some way of defending myself. It snaps, but it creates a metallic click, the man turns his head around, and makes his way to the wardrobe, I’m shaking now. Please don’t open it, please don’t open it, please don’t open it!
The door swings open, and he sees me, we scream simultaneously in fear and surprise. Without hesitation, I leap onto the man, and start digging into whatever stretch of flesh I can with the sharp edge of the spoon handle, he screeches in clear pain, but I won’t stop, I hammer the handle deep into his chest and neck, over and over, till he becomes motionless. I’ve killed him.

I cry in disgust, and sprint downstairs and away from the house, I charge down the road until I feel like I’m far enough away. I sit down for a moment, and exhale heavily before regaining my composure. Pulling out my phone, I open Twitter and search #party, hopefully this time, I’ll find a household that isn’t lying when they say they’ll be out all night.

Credit To – Mycool of The Fear Collective

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The Birds Are Singing

August 10, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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I don’t like telling this story and most people don’t believe it when I do. It brings back too many painful memories, memories that I’ve been running away from since I was a ten year old boy. I’d been called a devil, a murderer, a child just desperate for attention. I’m forty now and I’m sure people still question my sanity. I even question my sanity. It’s been thirty years, but I will never forget what happened in that house, I will never forget what I heard, what I saw. I saw things and heard things that no living person should see. Things that would leave a scar that can never heal and things that would leave you questioning your sanity. I will warn you, this story, this true story is NOT for the faint of heart.

It was in Ohio, 1985, when we moved into the house. My mother was looking for a fresh start after my father’s abusive acts became too much for her to bear. He never touched me or my sister, Hannah, in any harmful way, but he and my mother would go at it almost every night. My mother would be left with a black eye and a swollen lip. I pretended like I didn’t know what was going on. I regret that now.

When we first arrived at the house, I could tell that it was really old. The windows were dusty, the paint was weathered and peeling off, and the grass stood almost as tall as I did. It looked abandoned, as if we were the first people to live there in decades. There was also an old swing set in the back and behind that, was a pond that held dirty water with a greenish color. The fence would creak as you open it, as did the stairs.

The first two months were silent, nothing was really out of the ordinary, but I noticed something that seemed strange to me. I was in the house looking through the window to make sure that Hannah was okay being alone in the backyard. She was on the swing set, but, oddly the swing next to her was moving back and forth, as if someone was there with her. But there was no one there, nobody but Hannah. I figured it was probably the wind. I went out there, because I didn’t want her out there alone. I was very protective of my sister. When I sent her inside, I stayed out there for about a minute and I thought maybe I was imagining things because I saw someone in the hallway window. They looked down right at me, I couldn’t really see their face. Maybe it was Hannah. Maybe it wasn’t.

It wasn’t really until the next night when things got frightening. Hannah’s screaming echoed through the house in the middle of the night. My mother and I woke up and quickly ran to her. It sounded as if someone were attacking her, but we didn’t see anyone. She was just screaming on the top of her lungs, pointing up at the ceiling.

“She’s trying to drown me!” She screamed more than once. We didn’t see anything but she saw something that night, something was there.

After that night, things started getting…weird. I’ve heard footsteps echoing through the house and I know this is going to sound weird but I’ve heard someone singing. It sounded like a young girl and I know it wasn’t Hannah because it sounded nothing like her. I was laying in my bed when I heard it. It must have been around midnight because everyone else was asleep. She sung it over and over again.

The birds are singing, singing, singing
Go to bed, go to bed
I’ll see you in the morning, morning, morning
Now rest your head, rest your head

It got louder and louder. It sounded as if they were coming toward me. They were getting closer and closer until eventually, they were right at my door. I heard water dripping. It sounds strange but I know what I heard. The singing stopped suddenly and all I could hear was the water dripping. Then everything became silent. The doorknob started turning just slightly. I hid under my covers and eventually whoever it was or whatever it was had left.

That wasn’t the only time I had a weird experience like that late at night. I’ve also heard whispers, most of the time I heard them coming from the basement. I never understood what the whisperer was saying, but one night I heard them loud and clear. I was asleep, I heard footsteps in my room. It felt like someone was watching me, like someone was sitting right at the edge of my bed. I lay there with my eyes closed, hoping it’d go away. Then it whispered.

“Who are you?”

I didn’t reply, I didn’t want to make a habit out of talking to things I couldn’t see. It sounded like a woman. I guess it left afterwards because I didn’t hear anything else. I was horrified by what was going on in the house. I tried to explain it to my mother, but she never believed me. She claimed I was dreaming and I almost believed that maybe I was dreaming. My mother seemed distant. She wasn’t the same person anymore.

I was worried about Hannah as well. She must have been traumatized by what she saw that night. I loved my sister, we did a lot together, but she became distant as well. One day as I walked passed her room, I heard her singing.

The birds are singing, singing, singing
Go to bed, go to bed
I’ll see you in the morning, morning, morning
Now rest your head, rest your head

I walked in her room, and she stopped singing. She was sitting on the floor, drawing as usual.

“Where did you learn that song from Hannah? I asked her.

“I learned it from my friend,” she replied, pointing towards the corner of the room.

I looked around the room, but I didn’t see anyone or anything. I noticed her drawing and it was really strange. She drew herself sitting on the swing and next to her, was another girl.

“Who is that girl you drew?” I asked her.

“That’s my friend, her name is Maddie.” I figured she had an imaginary friend. She was six years old, so that was normal, but that didn’t explain the song.

“Is she the one who taught you the song?”

She shook her head yes. “Her mother used to sing it to her every night,” she told me. “And she still does sometimes.”

“Well where is she now?” I asked her. She dropped her crayon and stood up off the floor.

“She’s behind you.”

It was then that I felt a cool breeze rush through my body. I turned around slowly just to see myself through the mirror that hung against the wall. That’s when I saw her. She was only there for less than two seconds, standing to the right of me and drenched in water. She looked young, around 6, the same age as Hannah. I wasn’t as scared as I should have been. I asked Hannah if she was the girl who was on the ceiling that one night. She said no and that the one who was on the ceiling was Maddie’s mother. She said that her mother was evil and that she would kill us if we told anybody about her. The same way she killed Maddie. I wasn’t scared until then. I wanted to tell my mother, but I’m sure she wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I just wanted to protect my sister, so I said no word about it to anyone. I didn’t really think that a ghost could do any physical harm, but I was ten at the time. I didn’t know much about ghosts. The only thing I knew about them was that they were people who were once living.

Later that day, I was walking pass the basement when I heard the laughter of a young girl. It sounded like Hannah so I walked down the stairs. She was sitting alone in the middle of the basement. “You shouldn’t be down here by yourself Hannah,” I said to her.

“I’m not by myself,” she said. She had one of those old jewelry boxes with the ballerina that would twirl and play music when you open it.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked her.

“Maddie wanted to show me her jewelry box.” I looked around. I didn’t see anybody, not that I wanted to. I felt very uneasy, like somebody was watching me. Somebody was there.

“We have to go now!” I yelled. “We need to get upstairs!” I just didn’t want to be down that basement.

“Shhhhhh,” she whispered. “You’re gonna wake her mother.”

“Get up Hannah!” I yelled. I heard a noise, it came from the other room of the basement.

Hannah started crying, I could see the fear in her eyes. She stood up on her feet, dropping the jewelry box. “Danny…” she cried, pointing behind me. “She’s behind you.”

My heart popped out of my chest. I remember shaking and my heart beating at a rapid pace as I slowly turned around. I froze in fear for a few seconds. She was there. She had long black hair and was wearing a black gown, her face was pale and her eyes were pitch black. It was like looking in the eyes of death itself. I grabbed Hannah and we ran upstairs to our mother. I wasn’t sure if she believed us, she told us to stay out of the basement and that was it. The face still haunts me to this day.

The Birds Are Singing

Hours after that frightening experience, I lay awake in my bed as I couldn’t sleep. It was past midnight so everyone else was asleep. I heard music coming from outside my room. I got out of bed, thinking that maybe it was Hannah. I peaked out my door, but I didn’t see anyone. I walked down the hallway and on the floor, in front of Hannah’s room was the jewelry box from the basement. I watched as the ballerina twirled around and around and around. Everything was like in slow motion, I became lightheaded. The air was cold and heavy. Somebody was watching me. I heard somebody singing, singing that same song. It was a young girl this time, it was a woman. The singing was coming from Hannah’s room. I opened her door, the singing stopped and I didn’t see anyone. Hannah was fast asleep. I asked her about it the next day, but she had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

Weeks after that incident was when everything took a turn for the worse. Just like before, she was screaming, screaming on the top of her lungs in the middle of the night. We ran to her, my mother and I.

“She’s trying to drown me!” She screamed. “She’s trying to drown me!”

“Who?” My mother asked. “Who are you talking about?” Hannah stopped screaming and stood from her bed. She was shaking, her face was pale and her voice became weak. Her eyes were wide as she stood there, almost like she was frozen, like she couldn’t move.

“She’s behind the door,” she whispered suddenly, pointing at the door with a horrifying look in her eyes.


The door slammed shut and I found myself alone, outside in the hallway. They were screaming. My mother and my sister were screaming and there was nothing I could do. I tried to open the door, but it was stuck. LET ME IN! LET ME IN! I yelled, I kicked and I punched because that was all that I could do. They were screaming as loud as they could until suddenly…the screaming stopped.

“Mom! Hannah!” I screamed out. No answer. They were dead, my mother and sister were dead. That was all I could think.

The birds are singing, singing, singing
Go to bed, go to bed
I’ll see you in the morning, morning, morning
Now rest your head, rest your head

It sounded like my mother. I heard the door unlock from the other side. I opened it slowly to find my mother sitting at the side of the bed, singing to Hannah who was fast asleep. She then stood up, I saw the emptiness in her eyes as she walked by me, as if I weren’t even there. I was beyond confused. It just didn’t make any sense.

I woke up the next morning to a loud noise coming from the kitchen. I ran downstairs to see my mother making breakfast, soaking wet and singing that damn song.

“Why are you wet mother?” I asked. She said nothing. “Where’s Hannah?”

“Who are you?” She whispered.

“It’s me mother. I’m your son.” She looked at me, staring into my eyes as if she were stealing my soul. She smiled, a crooked evil smile I never saw before.

“I don’t have a son,” she said. “Now run along, Maddie isn’t available.”

She walked down the basement and closed the door. After less than a minute, I heard a loud noise that echoed from the basement. I ran upstairs to Hannah’s room, searching everywhere for her. She wasn’t in there. I walked out into the hall and that’s when I saw her walk down the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought she was dead. I chased after her, she led me outside, but I lost her as I shuffled through the tall grass. I ran to the backyard, thinking she might be playing on the swing set. I didn’t see her, but the swings were both swinging rapidly. I heard laughter, it sounded like two young girls, one of them actually sounded like Hannah but I couldn’t see anyone. I walked behind the swing set and that’s when I saw her. She was floating lifeless, faced down in the pond. I heard her voice as it echoed with the wind…she was singing.

The birds are singing, singing, singing
Go to bed, go to bed
I’ll see you in the morning, morning, morning
Now rest your head, rest your head

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A Moment of Horror

August 3, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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The following is a description of one exact point in time.

It is exactly 1:04:23.215 A.M.

On the second story of a quaint little home in suburbia is a hallway. The hallway begins at the top of the staircase and ends with a door. The oak of the portal and entry are stained smooth, comfortably conversing with the ashen paint surrounding its gateway. Inside aforesaid door is a master bedroom, occupied by a bed, occupied by a happily married couple. The ruby light of the alarm clock glows minimally in the corner, atop a matching oak nightstand. On the wall opposite the door hangs a window: blinds down, curtain pulled. The fan on the floor is turned to ON; an action engrained deeply from their previous city apartment, but now routine even in the quiet environs. The man and his wife are facing the same way: away from the tiresome glare of the clock. The man’s hand rests on his wife’s belly, which has a small bump.

Near the end of the hallway, the door closest to the master bedroom is wide open. The walls are half-painted baby-blue. A crib is mostly assembled in the middle of the room, atop a sheet of plastic that extends to all four walls. The radiance of the full moon breasts the thinly white blinds, illuminates the room, and pours gently into the hallway.

The next, and last, door in the hall is slightly ajar. Peeking through the crack lies an open bed, the covers hurriedly thrown across it, exposing the emptiness of it. Inside the room, at the foot of the bed, is a toy box. A few of the toy box’s occupants lie on the floor. On the wall opposite the bed is a closet, the door of which is open. The beams of the moon cast onto that wall, but could not penetrate the darkness of the open closet. Between the hanging shirts stood a shadowy figure no taller than four feet. Its eyes were fixated on the door to the hall.

Outside of this room, on the other side of the hallway, is the staircase. On the stair, facing the bottom, is a young boy. His face is contorted into panic; his eyes frozen in fear; his mouth slightly open. His right hand firmly gripped the wooden railing and his bare feet are pressed against the hard stair.

On the first floor of the house, around the corner from the bottom of the stairs, was the kitchen. The stainless steel appliances minimally reflected the moon; the angle of which only cast small amounts of light at the foot of each ground floor window. Between the island of many drawers and the stovetop stood a dark figure. Its presence could only be visible by the contrasted glimmer of sharp utensils and appliances surrounding it. The time on the microwave’s clock reads 00:00.

Connected to the kitchen is the family room. There is one large, cushioned recliner in the corner and a love seat across the wall, in the middle. In the middle of the family room is a coffee table. An empty coaster and several different brands of magazines lie on its surface. The window behind the love seat cast a dim light onto the TV on the opposite wall of the room, which reflected back onto the glass of the coffee table. Sitting on the loveseat is another shadowed figure.

On the far side of the family room is the entryway. The door to the outside is dead bolted. At the entrance is a welcome mat. The word ‘WELCOME’ is slightly obscured by three different pairs of shoes. On the wall to the left of the entrance is a coat closet; closed and locked without a key. The inside of the closet is completely empty; no warm garments to be found. However, on the floor of the closet is some loose oak flooring.

Underneath the unfastened floorboards is an open cellar. The air is thick. The ground is bare and cold. There are several wooden support beams that lead to the floor of the house. Across ceiling of the room are more wooden beams. Across one of these beams, in the center of the cellar, are three knots of old rope. The knots are tight and the beams on which they are fastened to show signs of wear and scratch near the fibrous ties. The ropes extends downwards to the floor, hooping around the necks of decomposed bodies. Hanging there: a man, a woman, a child – the previous owners.

Credit To – Jordan Louie

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August 1, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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First it was the gays. Then the Muslims. Then the terrorists. Then the gay terrorist Muslims. I don’t know. It’s hard to keep track of who you’re meant to be hating when you’re a straight, white male.

I put that as my Facebook status once. Thirty four likes. I felt like kind of a big deal. In a world so over-saturated with attention addicts, I don’t see the issue with indulging in the odd hit of pure, uncut validation once in a while. It’s a good rush.

There was a time when I thought the whole idea of social networking was juvenile. I saw every tweet, blog entry and status update as a child hanging from the monkey bars shouting at their mother for not looking. I’m not above that. No one is above that.

“Grow up!” – What does that even mean? At what age are you meant to stop enjoying positive reinforcements? Is “growing up” synonymous with being a jaded cynic? Forget that. Validate me. I’m going to be dead one day. Tell me that my observations are witty and relevant. Retweet me. Reblog me.

I walk through crowds, tangent and clothed, yet invisible and unimportant. Just like the rest of you. Some of you ‘peacock’ to get a second glance. A real life Facebook like.

“Let’s all peacock and blend in together, right?” – Seven retweets, twenty six likes.

No one will remember your name. They will all remember mine.

I catch the five fifteen train home and rarely get a seat.

“The train ride home is the only time it is socially acceptable to grind on strangers.” – Five retweets, seventeen Facebook likes.

I return home from work at around five forty five every weekday, lock the front door, finish the last of my commutable cappuccino and place the cup in the recycling bin. I remove my tie and drape it over the coat hanger on my living room door. I undo the top button of my eight ninety nine shirt and breathe a sigh of relief that the working day is done. I pull my Iphone from my pocket and scroll absently for around five minutes and then I head to the basement.

It’s quite a nice basement. It’s spacious and insulated. The floor is laminated and kept clean and the walls are decorated with art prints and watercolour canvases. I paint some of them. Check out my Instagram when all of this is over, maybe you’ll like them. The smell isn’t great down there sometimes but that’s a means to an end. I can deal with the smell. Soundproofing. That’s the important part.

After entering my basement, I turn right and head to the far wall. There will always be two objects of interest that I approach. One of them will usually be moving, the other one silent. With my Iphone still in hand, I open the camera and hold it landscape, tapping the screen to gain focus. I take several shots just to make sure that I get a good one and then I lock the screen again.

The one that moves usually begs me to let them go. They bargain and they plead. Sometimes they come on to me. I gesture to the silent and still one tied up next to them. I pull out the swollen, black tongue and turn the gaunt, lifeless face towards them and remind them what they are. All that they are.

“It doesn’t matter how many followers you have on twitter when you’re tied to a radiator in my basement.” – Twelve retweets. I wish I could see their faces when they find out.

I make the live one watch as I fill the small bathtub in the corner with lye. I make them watch as I untie the dead one and drag them over to the tub and slide them in. I then leave the two of them together overnight. By the morning, all that’s left is a brownish, black sludge and a few brittle bones. It’s always too much for the live one to stomach. I tell them again, it’s all that they are. Sex, gender, race, religion, whatever. They all look the same after a night in my tub.

I have been documenting the whole thing from the start. Just a few more and my blog can go live. I don’t know what to call it yet. Social macabre? Maybe? I don’t know, I’m going to be critical of whatever name I choose. Either way, once I share it, the internet is going to explode. I’ll be viral. A social media pandemic infecting the feeds and personal profiles of people all over the world. They’ll forget the names of my art pieces but they will remember my name.

I might even get my own hashtag.

Credit To – Radarshine

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