Playing with the Devil (A Hitori Kakurenbo Short Film)

December 28, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Figuring out what to do with your little sister’s new Christmas doll? Look no further…

Presenting “Playing with the Devil” short film based on true accounts from Hitori Kakurnbo. While home alone, three sisters conduct a Japanese ritual of Hitori Kakurenbo or “One Man Tag” with their beloved doll. Terror ensues as the girls realize that one should never play a game with the Devil.

Playing with the Devil (Award Winning Short Horror Film based on Japanese Ritual Hitori Kakurenbo)

This is a video pasta. If the embedded video is not loading for you, please click the link above to go directly to the video’s YouTube page and try watching it there.

Credit To – facebook.com/mr.bixby

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The Holder of Many

December 14, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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It all started as a story. A single piece of text that people enjoyed to read. It was a way of passing the time with jolts of fear and suspense. Wondering if it were real or not. People would read them, contemplate them, then laugh with friends about them.

I was one of those. One of the lucky ones, blessed with ignorance.

Then I made a suggestion. That I should start hunting The Objects. My friends laughed at me, saying that they were just stories. I was just as doubtful as them, but something was nagging at me to continue. This much is all that I remember from my former life. My blissfully unaware life. They say that ignorance is bliss, and until I took on this task, I thought that those were the words of those who were content to be ignorant. Now, however, I see that those are the words of those who are driven insane by knowledge.

I started my search with The Holder of Data. When I awoke the next morning, I found that my laptop, the one that I had used to try and find The Holder of Data, was gone. No trace of it could be found. I didn’t know what happened to it, and I wasn’t brave enough to search for it. In it’s place, there was another laptop. One that was pure black. The lettering on the keyboard was illegible to me, but somehow, I recognised the symbols. I can’t explain it much better than that. Everyone else who saw it thought that it was some strange language. A few said it was reminiscent to Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs. Others said that it was close to Arabic. No one could seem to pin them down to a region, so I gave up trying to figure it out. I could understand this language, or rather, I could translate it to English. That was good enough for me.

My second hunt was The Holder of Absence. That red ink is tempting. I want so badly to read the words that are scrawled across the paper, but I cannot bring myself to open the sheet and read it. I only looked through the thin lining of the material to confirm that it was, in fact, the Object that I was searching for. I then, regrettably, had another read it, but the moment their eyes looked at the lettering, a blood curdling scream rang through my ears, and they were gone, the paper that they held laying on the floor where they stood. I tried to leave it behind, to avoid the temptation to open it, but no matter what I done, it found its way back to my pocket.

Not even burning it worked. So eventually, I gave up throwing it away, and now live with the temptation of opening the accursed paper.

I next followed The Holder of Fortune. It wasn’t a hard task, per se. It was unnerving. I killed a man. A fellow Seeker, like me, who had become The Holder of Fortune. He failed his task, and left hints on how to find him, and how to claim his item. He begged for death, being unable to die or take his own life. So I gave him his wish. The Holder of Fortune is now dead, and I run the risk of becoming that Holder myself. I earned a coin with no worth for my troubles. Although something in my bones tells me it will one day be the most valuable object on the planet, or at least, to me, anyway.I will never let this out of my sight.

I searched long and hard, finding more and more Objects each month. Every time I found one, I felt a small tingle of joy welling up inside of me. But at the same time, a burning desire to collect them all. To gather them all together. The Shield from The Holder of Solitude has saved my hide more times than I could remember. The sword of the White King from The Holder of Peace has slain many of my foes. Many whom have tried to stop my progress. Holders, Seekers, and even Civilians who have gotten in my way.

I acquired many Objects. Guns, Swords, Clothing… Each one had it’s own unique Trial, and each one ripped another piece of my soul from my body. By the time I had collected one hundred and fifty two of the five hundred and thirty eight Objects, I was about ready to give up. To leave it all behind. Then, a new idea occurred to me. I shall write a piece, detailing a few of the objects that I have gathered, then leave them for other people to find. For other Seekers to find. I shall become a Holder.

I am The Holder of Many. I hold 152 of the 538 Objects and I am tired. I beg of you to find me and end my existence by forcing my to read the Red Ink on the Paper. I will resist, no doubt, but you must subdue me by any means necessary. Do not hesitate. Do not waver in your trial, for the reward will be great.

I only hope that you do not succumb to madness.

Admin Note: If you are not familiar with The Holders, one of the original Creepypasta series, I suggest familiarizing yourself here. I’m in a helpful mood today, so I’ve also compiled the Holders entries that were name-dropped in this story:

The Holder of Data
The Holder of Absence
The Holder of Fortune
The Holder of Solitude
The Holder of Peace

Enjoy!

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The Cinematographer

December 3, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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The paranormal was something that the three of us felt we were beyond. We all liked to think of ourselves as educated, and when we got into arguments we felt near invincible. But, when Martin insisted we fuck around with his fat older brother’s laptop full of occult pictures and docs (and when he promised to involve some of his best weed), the three of us decided to meet up in Jon’s basement, hallowed smoking ground.

After a couple bowls the three of us stared into the glow of the HP screen, clicking through folders labeled “Demons”, “Rituals-life”, “Rituals-strength”, “Hexes”, “Phasing”, “Lucid Dreaming”. Every folder was full of sketchy Polaroid pictures of pale figures with twisted triangular faces and fingers like twigs, long pieces of text containing foreign languages and symbols, and intricate diagrams for sigils and sacrifices. It was some mind-bending shit for stoned 17-year-olds. We found a project in a folder labeled “Summoning”; it contained tons of pictures and diagrams for calling things to this world- from hell, from other dimensions, from something that one image referred to as “the else”- and we picked one at random to mess around with and laugh through.

The diagram called for little prep. We needed only light some incense and say some incantations, all in some language that none of us had heard of. The entity that the diagram described lived in some place referred to as “over the wall” and tons of red text littered the picture. It all warned of dealing with the entity, of its numerous powers, and it included short accounts of the lives it had ruined (including a pretty sick one about a woman whose guts it had removed and played with, and a few more involving figures without eyes found wandering the scene of the summoning). The thing was a curious being, but impatient. it liked stalking us humans, watching, observing, before it grew more malicious, started taking us, experimenting on us, driving us to do things for it, seeing what made us squeal or cry or bleed.

We got everything set up and Jon volunteered to read off of the screen. Let me tell you, watching Jon fumble through that booga-booga language was the highlight of the night. We laughed through the whole thing, Jon tripping over words and destroying some through his own chuckles. Even when Martin put up hands to settle us down, the snickers would get through and flare back into laughs. I decided to pull out my camera then. It had become tradition to film these basement sessions, and it seemed Jon was going for an Academy Award.

We sort of gave up with the laptop after the camera came out; we were getting bored and Jon ran out of words to read. Eventually we all started passing the camera around and speaking into it directly, kind of doing the That 70s Show round table thing. We’d say something “intelligent”, “revelatory”, or “funny” and then pass the camera on. It was a way of documenting some indispensible hilarity to look back on the next day.

The night passed quick. I remember turning on the TV, and at some point Martin and I packed up the laptop and walked back to his house so Jon could pass out on his couch, but events leaked in and out of memory after the night in question.

The next morning I woke up to find my phone full of unread texts and missed calls, all from Jon. The gist of the messages was “get your ass over here,” and the voice delivering the voicemails wasn’t that of the easy stoner I was used to dealing with. He spoke in unconnected, short clips, a lopsided train of thought: “found it downstairs…for fun, you know…supposed to…just thought I’d…I found it, in the camera…to see…you need to see…supposed to be fun. Just over here, get over here please.” Jon sounded completely stern, almost lifeless, something that set a million little alarm bells off in my head. I went to find Martin, who had also gotten a phone-full of messages, and we returned to Jon’s house.

We found him upstairs in the TV room. He’d hooked up my camera left over from last night and was watching the new stuff we’d recorded, pausing and fast-forwarding, stopping every now and then to watch. Martin and I crept into the room and took places quietly on the couch. We didn’t want to interrupt.

The footage played on about as I’d remembered it happening, and I watched as the Jon onscreen recited the incantations. Coming from his mouth they sounded entirely made up, yet rhythmic, like poems from some other country. In the video, we’d been cracking up, and the sound of chocked laughs and giggles bounced around the room, but watching it again made me feel weird, like I was seeing and hearing something I shouldn’t be, almost like snuff. I looked at Martin and then to Jon. Jon’s stone face, Martin’s mouth, slightly agape, and the feeling that I was watching something forbidden made me feel like it had been a mistake to record last night.

I finally asked Jon what was up, why he called us, why he seemed so somber, and he gave a cold answer, a knowing answer: “keep watching”. So we did.

The night on the tape played out, filing in memory gaps here and there as it played. It ran to the point where we started talking into the camera and passing it around. Jon looked as though he’d snap on either of us at any moment, so I didn’t dare ask what we were looking for. Finally, in the video, I passed off the camera and Jon hit pause.

“See? See? Well?” Jon alternated a stare, almost accusingly, between where Martin and I were watching and the TV screen itself. I glanced at Martin and he shook his head. On the screen we were all sitting together on Jon’s couch throwing up rock-n-roll devil horns with our hands, stoned out of our minds. I stared at the image for a few fruitless seconds, but then it hit me like a train. I saw what Jon called us over to see, and it made me feel nauseous. Jon said it before I could: “Who the fuck is holding the camera?”

Credit To – Jared Quaglieri

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Samaritan Road

November 24, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Samaritan Road by Spinsomniac

On the outskirts of some small nameless town in West Virginia lies a miles-long, straight strip of asphalt known as Samaritan Road. The road is nestled in it’s peaceful surroundings of trees and an endless landscape of forests on both sides of it.

The road itself would appear to be just your average country drive, except for the urban legend it holds. The back story to the legend does not actually exist; whether the reason is due to an uncreative author, a lack of historical information or just country folk too traumatized to verbalize whatever happened there. Whatever the case, what happens on that road to unsuspecting travelers is most certainly known by locals.
The urban legend goes like this.

If you drive down Samaritan Road past midnight, about half way down the road (at least a 5 mile drive,) you will start to feel a bit sick. The sickness itself starts off as a bit of a stomach ache which makes you wonder if you ate something wrong or something inside you didn’t settle right.
Let me warn you right now: Ride out this feeling of nausea by keeping your eyes on the road, ignoring the pain and driving all the way through Samaritan Road at all costs. This is important.

If you listen to my warning, you will be making the best choice of your life. If not… well, I guess it’s only fair for me to explain what will probably become of you.

If you are feeling the nausea and mentally harp on the pain long enough, the sickness itself will feed on your reaction and cause the pain to grow exponentially. You will feel as though you ate scalpels, pins, needles, scissors, knives, you name it. It WILL hurt like all hell. Eventually, one thought will float through your brain that will seal your fate.

“I need some fresh air.”

In your mind, for some reason or another, you will not feel as though this means you should just open a window for some air. You will feel as though you should pull over and step out of the car to let the fresh forest air nestle you from your car’s processed atmosphere. Hell, even if your window was open the whole time you were driving, you will feel as though the sickness itself has been caused by the you sitting in that somehow cursed car of yours.

This is what she wants you to think.

As you get out, you will notice how that first rush of fresh air into your lungs feels as though you are breathing for the first time. Such a breath of life being delivered to you. Not in your wildest dreams has the process of breathing seemed so naturally joyous. As you begin to enjoy the surroundings, you may look off into the trees to see if someone is out there.

Don’t worry. No one is out there in the trees. This I can promise you.

You may spend a minute or two gazing out into the forestscape or checking the bottom of your car to find the source of your past case of nausea. Was there some gas leakage that you subconsciously breathed in? A bumpiness in the road you forgot that rattled your intestines? No, that can’t be it.
As you finally gaze back towards the road, your heart will suddenly skip a beat. In the road will be the figure of a young woman in a white night gown and long black hair facing away from you. It’s common knowledge to the legend that she will always face away from you. You may call to her, but she will not respond. You may try to startle her to get her attention or even throw a rock at her but I guarantee that she will stay as still as a gargoyle.

You will make the choice to confront her. It is always how it works.

You may be saying to yourself, “Why? What if I decide to lock myself in my car.”

You won’t. Believe me. Samaritan Road brings out this sort of natural human feeling in you that you always have to help your fellow man. Such a place of legend actually uses your positive human instincts against you.

You will decide to go and confront the woman. But as you do, you will see the headlights of a large vehicle heading your way and moving at breakneck speed towards the woman. You may warn hear to get out of the road, but as before, she will ignore your words and actions. Don’t try to stop the vehicle either. If anyone even is driving it, I doubt they would listen to little old you.

At this point, you have two options. One will save your life and one will bring it to a horrific end.

Option 1: As the truck heads your way, run into the road a few feet in front of the girl and yell to the truck “Heed my innocence, sibling of existence.” If you did this right, the headlights will disappear and the vehicle will vanish. If not, I cannot say that the gods of large automobiles will be kind to you.
That is Option 1. The smart option.

Option 2: This is the stupid mistake many that do not know how Samaritan Road works tend to make. As the truck comes, you will run towards the young woman and attempt to push her out of the way. As you reach her, she will reveal herself by turning around. Her skin is white and wrinkled, resembling worn, aging leather. She has large, inhuman black eyes and rotting yellow teeth that look like chipped corn cobs. She has no nose, but only two slits that looked as though they were cut into the middle of her face. She will scream an ungodly scream that will seem to impale your eardrums and you sill be paralyzed in fear. As you do, she will hover to the side of the road to safety and allow the gigantic vehicle to run you over. You will die on impact as many before you have.

If you happen to make it out of the predicament in Option 1, the woman will be gone and you are free to leave. Your good deed on Samaritan Road has been accomplished. Get in your car and drive. For the love of God, just drive. Leave the cursed place and never look back. A million good deeds are not worth the pure hell surrounding the one you have just accomplished.

As you leave Samaritan Road, just make sure to keep yourself calm and don’t lose focus of your driving. It is customary as you leave the area to hear a young woman’s voice whisper to you in the darkness, “Thank you.”

Credit To – Spinsomniac

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Recipe

October 30, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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“Swallow something, canned, frozen,
Ungodly festering source.
Dragging and kicking and screaming for more,
That burns, burns, burns, burns.”

– Made Out Of Babies, “Cooker.”

“I’m not going to sleep well,” thought Olas to himself. He was sweating through his shirt to the point where peeling it off would take more effort than was worth the discomfort. He stumbled through the darkness of his warping apartment, arms alternating between leaning on the impossibly distorted walls for support and clutching his abdomen in pain. His skull felt like it was full of butterflies; his stomach filled with hornets. With every step towards his bedroom Olas became more and more delirious, until at last he fell face first into his mattress with only the vaguest of memory as to what had even occurred to make him feel so nauseous to begin with. Olas inhaled deeply, and in the vortex of his mind, the stupor got the best of him. A moment later, all thoughts faded.

It wasn’t the sound that woke him, but rather the smell. The scent of bile assaulting his olfactory nerves as the excess vomit climbed through his nasopharynx startled Olas awake before his own retching entered consciousness. He pushed himself to his knees, spitting gastric juices and wiping his sleeve across his mouth for maybe a full minute before he even noticed his new location. Olas blinked twice, not sure if he was hallucinating or if he was really even awake, but regardless, the sight was unsettling.

It looked almost if someone had attempted to decorate an abandoned subway maintenance tunnel with wallpaper and antique furniture, but never bothered to care about the issue of mold or termites. The tunnel seemed to continue like this infinitely in both directions, lit only by the periodic industrial bulbs and tacky lamps that blended with the steam leaking from a few of the copper pipes that lined the walls as far as the corridor would take them. Olas lifted himself to his feet cautiously and justifiably nervous given the circumstances. He began to walk, not sure as to where or what he was expecting to find. An exit perhaps? Or possibly a sign indicating what this strange place was supposed to be or where. “I’m still dreaming.” He told himself, only partially believing his own words.

Olas walked for what felt like an hour before he began to hear something besides the slow hiss of steam or the ambient hum of the lamps. A meaningless echo of something at first, becoming the distinct noise of a laugh, or what was ostensibly a laugh. Actually, more like two. One the soft giggle of a young woman, the other a deep metallic growl of a large animal. The sounds steadily increased in volume and clarity as Olas continued along his route until finally a door unexpectedly halted his progress. It was a wooden door, the kind found on the interior of a house and juxtaposed to the concrete exposed beneath the peeling wallpaper that had been a constant until now. At eye level, there was a sign that read “Café Eµclid”. The queasy feeling in Olas’s stomach returned, but he shrugged to himself before knocking. As soon as his knuckles connected to the wood, the giggles ceased.

The door creaked open, and Olas couldn’t stop himself from falling backwards in fright. The occupant was an odd sight to be sure, warranting a second glance from Olas. Standing on the precipice of the tunnel and the room behind, stood a small girl, no older than fourteen, with white-blonde hair and wearing a brown cardigan beneath a pine green apron. Unusual, but not inherently disturbing. What had caused Olas to stumble was the fact that this otherwise ordinary girl had eyes of pure black, wide and whiteless like two balls of polished obsidian. The second distinguishing feature was her number of limbs. There were eight in total; two legs, six arms. She smiled down on Olas, reaching out one of her numerous hands towards him.

“Hello there Nicholas!” She greeted in a two toned voice, a doubling effect of entirely separate individuals speaking in harmony. It became painfully clear to Olas that there was only one source for the noises heard earlier. “I’ve been expecting your company for quite a while. Please come in, we have much to prepare before the feast.”

Olas hesitated to respond, needing a moment to recite his mantra that this was all just a dream, a very lucid dream brought on by experimenting with far too many foreign ingredients, the thought of which brought some sense to his current situation. The memory returned suddenly of what had brought him to this nightmarish world. The “Novum Saporem” it was called, or more commonly “Strange Taste,” and to the few who have ever read its pages, it was the Necronomicon of cook books, containing ancient recipes of Egyptian barbeque, to special chemical notations seemingly written in the distant future, to preparation techniques for aquatic species unknown to Earth’s biosphere. Part alchemy, part el Celler de Can Roca, it was occultist cuisine at its finest. The ancient and mysterious grimoire itself was written in 2006 by Josh Wriggly, the mad fry cook of Dino’s Diner, during a state of hysterical vision brought on by huffing too much paint thinner. The resulting hallucination was of arcane glyphs ascending from a vat of chicken gravy.

Olas purchased it for seventy five cents at a Quaker book sale the previous Tuesday. The last recipe he had attempted translated from an alien language had called for a crystal of bismuth, a nine volt battery, a pentagram drawn in snake blood, and one liter of Dr. Pepper. The title of this particular cocktail translated to “A sleepless dream.”

“What are you waiting for silly?” The arachnoid girl asked Olas’s blank face lost in thought. Olas stood up on his own, rubbing his forehead in a futile attempt to relieve his throbbing headache.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” He asked, not sure what else to do.
“My apologies Nicholas, my name is Abigail Von Strudelherst, the demon guardian of esoteric foodstuffs and chief saucier of the Domain of Krivbeknih. You did summon me, did you not?”
“I guess so?” Olas didn’t know how else to respond, and figured it best to simply agree noncommittally until he knew for sure what was happening.
“Oh you guess so?” Abigail continued. “Nobody ionizes that much Dr. Pepper inside of the sigil of pagan nonsense by accident you know.”

Olas shrugged, and beginning to feel oddly relaxed in the demon’s presence, followed her into the atrium of yet an even larger chamber. The atrium itself resembled something between a hip downtown coffee house and a gothic cathedral; pillars of charcoal dark stone lined in gargoyle carvings and comfortable looking upholstery, as well as countless glass counters displaying exquisitely designed cakes and pastries. All of this was secondary however to the Escher esque geometries of the architecture itself, which oscillated with an emphasis on vertical development, the arches and stain glass windows set at angles too impossible to comprehend outside a realm of pure mind. The sheer force of cognitive vertigo elevated Olas to a state of irresoluble awe.

“This can’t all be in my head. Where am I really?” Olas asked in an involuntarily loud voice. Abigail turned to Olas with all six hands planted firmly on her hips and wearing an expression of discontentment. Her twin voices proceeded with an emphasis on the deeper variant.

“I know you’re not illiterate. The sign said Café Eµclid, so that’s where you are. If you mean temporally, then I suppose we’re somewhere outside of the central finite curvature of space. If you wanted an address, we’re just beneath the city of Dis.” The malevolence left her tone, shifting back to an equilibrium of sorts. She jumped excitedly. “We’re going to cook some food! It’ll be great, follow me!” One of her hands grabbed Olas’s right as she began to enthusiastically lead Olas through the labyrinth of tea shelves and altars. Together, they made their way to the double stainless steel doors, passing through into the kitchen of the immense structure.

For the most part, it was a kitchen, the kind found in most standard restaurants with a minimal degree of dimensional anomalies: There were racks of spices, meats, vegetables, and cookware. There were ovens and stoves, blenders and juicers and strainers and mixers, sacks of grains stacked high to the ceiling, sinks and pots and knives polished to a mirrors shine. Typical eatery goods, but also not lacking in the unusual items of interest, such as a device that may have been the product of a fever dream construction between a steam engine and a French press with the aesthetic influence of Nikola Tesla. Also some of the smoked meat appeared to be derived from primate. Olas barely had a moment to let it all sink in before Abigail clapped her hands in anticipation.

“Now, onto the formal introductions in the manner to which I am accustomed.” She began, handing Olas a spotless white toque. “Tradition dictates that the visitor prepares a meal for the host. I will observe your technique and return the gesture in kind.” She stated very matter-of-factly. “You are welcome to any and all resources available, and to a few which are not. Tick tock, I’ve grown quite famished since your… arrival.” She licked her lips and released a single hollow growl.

Olas worked at a hurried pace, tossing selected ingredients into a large brass cooking pot as they crossed his path. A head of cactus from the crisper, a brick of goat cheese, a dozen eggs, badger milk, a sack of flour, baking powder, olive oil, other oil, jalapeno peppers, tequila, bacon, a handful of live scorpions, and million other little things that caught his eye. Taking his supplies to a counter, he expertly began to mix a batter while scooping out the innards of the cactus before tossing it into a bowl of tequila. When the batter was good and thick, the next step was to heat the oil to a low boil while keeping time with which item needed chopping in what order. He started with the scorpions for the simple convenience of preventing them from crawling away, moving on to frying the bacon and peppers once the creature were fully immobilized. After perhaps an hour had passed, Olas wiped sweat from his brow and finally presented his culinary creation to the childish abomination.

“Wonderful,” She exclaimed, “I was beginning to grow impatient.” She inspected the meal briefly, sniffing the deep fried exterior before nodding approvingly. In one fluid motion, she devoured the fire stuffed cactus in a single jaw detaching bite, belching loudly immediately afterwards.

“My turn.”

Abigail raised her arms abruptly, crossing them over into imaginary lines, symbols of chaos and magic. Like the director of a psychotic orchestra in the midst of a lynch mob, she conjured flames and sharpened blades to fulfill her unreal wishes. The kitchen exploded in mad energies around Olas, who fell to the tiled floor in an attempt to avoid the flying hazards that spun wildly through the air. Abigail cackled in her joyous lunacy, turning her attention towards the strange piston device, the very same whose purpose, until now, remained obscured.

“Behold my omnipotence!” She screamed, hands waving in every direction as floating nonsense arranged her prep work.
“Behold my boiler!” The steam gauge assembly groaned as Abigail revved its diesel engine. Pistons blasted heat, compartments and hoppers filled with grains and fruits while tubes pumped miscellaneous fluids past grinding gears and meats that roasted over open flames produced a gyrating prism.
“Behold my flavors!” She demanded, as the finished product was dressed and plated for Olas. It had been a mere twenty seconds since she had started her absurd performance, and the dish served would, under any other circumstance, require a dozen men and at least three months of elaborate planning.

“Frittata?” Olas inquired, hesitant to ingest a single bite after having witnessed the process firsthand. He was fairly certain that ectoplasm may have been used as a dairy substitute.

“Portabella lobster frittata with two ounces of silver-baked caviar, garnished with Phobian whitegrass, seasoned with quadsodiumthantrite and served with a driveling of sauce béchamel, which I altered with addition of basil and ectoplasm as the thickening agent. Also I threw in some leeks just for the hell of it.” Her gaze insisted on her own masterpiece.

Olas took a bite and nearly died of existential ecstasy.
“It’s like there’s a party in mouth and everyone’s a cannibal! This is the greatest thing I have or will ever taste if I live for a hundred billion years!” Olas realized that he was talking instead of eating and almost punched himself for his own stupidity. Abigail waited silently as Olas made alternating sounds of chewing, sobbing, and laughing. A few minutes later, Abigail snapped her fingers, sending the dinning wares off to autonomously cleanse themselves.

“Now that the customary pleasantries have come to pass, we may continue with plans of this fine evening.” The kitchen lights where suddenly darkened, replaced violently with stove flames, throwing shadows across the tiled walls. The mood shifted as abruptly as the lighting. Olas’s face began to crack a look of concern despite the remaining taste in his mouth, but just barely. “You have arrived at a very opportune time young Nicholas. A once in a millennium event actually; The Feast of Beast it is called in your peanut brained language.” She giggled coyly, before noticing the expression of apprehension on Olas’s face.

“Oh don’t give me that look mister. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you opened that dusty old tome. Apocryphal knowledge comes at a price obviously.” A disturbingly wide grin stretched across the little girl’s face. “Plus a twenty percent tip, if you’re classy that is.”

“What does this feast involve?” Asked Olas, quite sure that he wouldn’t enjoy the answer. Abigail maintained her smile.

“Oh, just a bit of garlic, a few chopped carrots, a mortal sacrifice, and a scalloped zucchini or two. You can handle that right?” Olas’s eyes widened, backing away, slowly at first as the image sunk into his mind’s eye, then turning for a run. Before he could even reach the kitchen doors he was caught; ensnared in a roll of cheesecloth in a way befitting Abigail’s arachnidan appearance. He was dragged screaming in fear across the floor back towards the meat locker.

“Stop, please don’t do this!” He cried. “You can take it back, the book. I don’t need it anymore!”
Abigail just laughed in her dueling sinister voice. In her eyes, Olas was nothing more than a slab of meat to be tenderized.
“I will rend your fat human. And it will be delicious.” She stripped Olas of cheesecloth and clothing, throwing him onto a hook as though he were weightless. Olas panted through a clenched jaw as the cold steel pierced his thorax. His breath was dampened by the strain of a collapsed lung.
“Good, very good.” Abigail said, poking at Olas’s abdomen. “Organs fresh as these will cover tonight’s dinner rush.” Olas coughed blood onto her face. She happily licked it from her chin.
“I promise… I promise I won’t cook anymore. For anyone, just let me go.” He begged.
“Ha! I’ll be getting that either way stupid. Now shut up and accept your slaughter little lamb. You’re dying for art. Or gluttony. Whatever.”
Becoming uninterested in the young chef’s pleas, she focused her attention on a rack of utensils.

“Hmm, cleaver…or mallet? Or perhaps something pronged. Serrated? Souffle torch maybe? Rakshasa does enjoy a crispy skin.” She paused a moment in thought. “Ah, of course, the melon baller! How could I forget? Those eyes aren’t going to scoop themselves…and yet…you know what, let’s try them all!” Selecting a different tool for each hand, she returned to face Olas, eager to resume the butchering. Olas knew it was useless to bargain, but tried his best anyway.

“Please, I… I can help you.” He stammered.
“Help me? It took your species two hundred and fifty thousand years just to figure out how to boil water. You’re not even good enough to stir the soup.” A serrated knife embedded itself just below Olas’s diaphragm, twisted, then extracted as quickly as it had entered. Olas’s body convulsed in agony.
“Hey look at that, frittata!” Abigail grabbed a handful of the acid soaked omelet from Olas’s open stomach, shoving it by the fist load into her mouth, unfazed by blood or enzymes.
“Bu… but…” Olas was experiencing such obscene feelings of burning pain that speaking was almost entirely out of the question. No choice but to abandon all hope.
Abigail twirled the melon baller between her fingers.
“Don’t blink now, wouldn’t want those eyelashes getting everywhere.” With a twitch, the blades darted towards Olas’s soft flesh.

“BUT YOU ATE IT!” He screamed as the metal tools approached his face in his final, labored effort to save himself. A knife froze midair, no more than a centimeter from his trachea.
“Y… you ate it. I made it and you swallowed.”
Abigail blinked.
“Yes… and your point is what exactly?”
Olas caught what little breath he could.
“Did you like it?” He managed to ask, after a short respite.
Abigail furrowed her brow.
“Of course I liked it. I would have spat it out if I didn’t. In fact, it was probably the best tequila pepper bomb that I’ve had since Senor Diablo himself graced my kitchen with his cloven pezunas.” She paused once she realized the words she spoke. Olas had managed to prove himself useful, albeit in a small, easily disposable sort of way. She growled in resentment.
“Fine. I’ll grant you a favor. Make it count.”

Olas sighed painfully in relief, and made the obvious request to be returned home, back to a world he could be sure was not part of some elaborate nightmare or metaphysical plane of reality. He expressed his desire, and it was done. Abigail nodded in agreement, set aside the blades and torches, procuring a single onion it their place. She held it up to Olas’s nostrils.

“Peel the onion, and smell the ether. Layer by layer, to taste something deeper.” She chanted as she removed dry skin of pale violet. Olas’s eyes shuddered, his body numbed, and the meat locker faded to black.

Olas awoke in a gasp of terror, still sweating thick rolling beads that soaked his mattress. But it was his mattress, and his bedroom. He blinked once, twice, just be sure that everything was back to the way it should be. He checked his watch, and confirmed the hands by the first rays of dawn that passed through his window. Hardly believing it, Olas took his time standing to his feet, making his way to the bathroom to wash the sweat from his face.

Not knowing what to do after splashing cool water over his head and neck, Olas noticed how the pain in his stomach had been replaced with hunger. He walked to the kitchen.

The sight of cabinets and tile caused his heart to skip a beat, but after a moment of cautious inspection, Olas relaxed. There was no pentagram, or bismuth, or cheesecloth. There was no Novum Saporem: the only book to be found was a tattered copy of Yotam Ottolenghi’s “Plenty”. Nothing supernatural or horrible whatsoever. It was just a kitchen, a simple, familiar kitchen. Olas chuckled to himself in relief. Clearly it was all just a bad dream brought on by spoiled produce, nothing more. He could kick himself for letting it get to him so early in the day. Olas went along and opened his refrigerator to figure out what he should have for breakfast.

At first, Olas was confused. He was certain that he had stocked the shelves of his fridge the previous day, but it was almost entirely empty, save for a single…

His face froze, ice raced through his veins at the sight of a single, half peeled onion. To its side, a small florid note. “Welcome home.” It read. Olas realized his flaw, asking only to be returned back to his apartment, a request fulfilled to the letter. And to add insult to injury, she used the loophole to steal all of his groceries.

He didn’t even have time to scream before the hands grabbed him from behind.

Credit To – Stephan D. Harris

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The Lord of the Scarecrows

October 28, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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In this place, where tales of terror draw forth the most loathsome of emotions, stop for a moment, dear seeker, and reflect. Is there someone that you really and truly hate? Someone who has worsened your life by their influence? A person with whom you can never hope to get even?

Perhaps a former friend, turned to betrayal. An ex-lover, whose wanton heart left yours in pieces. Perchance an employer? A family member? A stranger who inflicted the barest of slights? Think hard, and if you come up with an answer, then know this:

You can have you revenge.

In an isolated field, in a place where civilization has worn thin into the whelming green of nature, you will find the thing you seek. It will not be an easy journey, and there is no guarantee you will emerge from this ordeal unscathed, but if you are truly serious about this hatred, if your heart burns with unslakeable vengeance, then, my child, arise one morning at dawn, and steel your will. You will need every once of determination you can draw from your reservoir of hate.

When you are sufficiently ready, go and procure a vehicle, one you won’t mind taking through rough and open country. Ensure that it is well fueled and well-maintained. You will not have the luxury of pit stops on this trip. Ideally, you should bring with you any vittles you feel you will need to sustain yourself, but if nothing else, bring with you a map or some form of location device. Becoming lost is an integral part of this process, and, presumably, you’ll want to find your way back.

After you have prepared, arise the next morning just before dawn. Enter your vehicle, and begin to drive. The general direction in which you travel is of little consequence, but you can greatly expedite this process by moving away from any urban or civic areas. The more rural your location, the closer you will be. As you drive, you must stay alert. Keep your eyes open for the signs that others do not see.

My child, you must follow the crows. Seek out the roads where they nest upon the powerlines. Turn down streets where you see them fly. You will likely become lost, and doubtless you will find yourself driving in circles, but take heart, as this is only bringing you closer to your goal.

Crows are intelligent creatures, you see. They are capable of recalling faces, using tools, and complex communication. When they see you following them, they will know what it is you seek. After a time, if you are patient, they will begin to lead you. If you happen to lose sight of them, or if, indeed, they do not appear for you at all, then the time is not yet right for your pilgrimage, and you must return home at once. You may attempt the trip again at a later date, so do not worry overmuch. True revenge knows the meaning of patience.

As the day wears on, and the crows lead you forward, you will doubtless begin to notice a shift in your surrounding area. You will find yourself in places you never knew existed, in towns ancient and forgotten, overgrown by the festering wilds. There will be no other cars at this point, no signs of life save for the crows guiding you. At this point, you have crossed over into Its domain. You are a trespasser here, and return to your world is impossible. You must persist now, whatever should come your way.

Very soon after your transition, the crows will begin to take you off the roads themselves. You will have to travel across open fields and treacherous terrain. If you were careful in your selection, your vehicle should be able to navigate most of these challenges, but eventually, there will come a point at which you can drive no further. At times, a rocky outcropping will impede your progress. At others, a roaring stream will prevent passage. Whatever form this impediment takes, you must thereafter proceed on foot.

Exit your vehicle quickly, but make not of its location. Bring nothing with you. You a pilgrim in a sacred space, the luxury of the material is no longer yours to possess. The crows will slow when they see you on foot, but they will, themselves, continue to progress. They are called here just the same as you, so be swift. No matter what, you must return to your vehicle before the sun sets. Night in this place is not hospitable to intruders, and the seething things that skitter and click in the dark places of this world are always hungry.

It may be a short distance, or it may be miles, but eventually, you will come across a thick glade of ancient trees. There will be no mistaking this location. Crows will fill the air, gathering from all directions and converging upon the blighted wood. As you pass through the trees, you will see a greater multitude of the dark fowl than you have ever seen before. They will line every branch, cover every root and patch of land. Yet in spite of their preternatural numbers, there will be a whelming quiet over the area, with the only sounds being the faint rustles of the wings of new arrivals, each eager to take its place in the arboreal auditorium.

As you reach the edge of the wood, you will find it open into a large, rectangular field, surrounded on all sides by the forest. The ground itself will be withered and barren, ringed by the blighted remains of plants that foolishly grew too close to this sanctuary. The air here will be cold and acrid, and you will likely begin to feel weak as the very ground you stand on repels the life burning impiously inside you.

It is here, in the center of this place, that you will find the Lord of Scarecrows. It will be erected on an iron cross, Its form made of hide and bone, stitched with sinew and decorated with the limbs and adornments of the local fauna. Amidst this twisting aberration, you will, however, be able to make out the distinct form of a human body, rising up in mock crucifixion, Its flesh all rotted out and dried. Over Its head, It will wear a hood made of stitched-together skin, and Its face will be completely obscured to you.

This is an ancient and sacred thing, an altar and effigy to a thing older than the ground upon which you stand. It will not do to dwell upon its nature, as this is something far beyond mortal comprehension, and to glimpse upon It would be to see into the very primordial ether of creation itself.

Steel your nerve, and approach, but be reverent. This is a church of greater magnitude than the grandest of basilica, and you will not wish to anger this idol. In Its right hand, you will see, clutched tight, a knife of blackest obsidian, wickedly sharp, with a handle carved from bone. In the other, It will bear a roll of coarse cloth. Take both, gently and humbly. It will yield them to you.

Kneel before it, and state that you wish to make an offering of a sinner, then, using the knife, make an incision somewhere upon your body. The bite of the blade will be sharp and swift, and you will bleed quite profusely. Be careful not to wound yourself fatally, lest all this effort be wasted. Gathering the blood pouring from your rent flesh, scrawl the name of your intended target upon the cloth. As you write, think upon the sins this person has committed. Every act of cruelty, ever bitterly unfair word or deed. It does not matter how trivial, all that matters now is the hate that burns in you.

It will likely surprise you with how much blood it takes to write the full name of your sacrifice, but you must persevere. When you have finished, roll the cloth tightly up, and, carefully, peel the hood up just far enough to reveal the skeletal mouth of the effigy. Insert the cloth between its parted teeth, then return the hood to its original position.

Now, slather the knife with your blood, so that the blade is completely coated. Once it drips with crimson life, plunge it into the heart of the idol, and speak these words: “My sacrifice is made.”

You are free to go, but make haste. Doubtless you will have little time left before the dying sun sets beyond the horizon. As you make your way back out through the forest, you will no longer hear the tranquil silence. The air will be filled with whispers, with the recitations of sins and wicked deeds. Do not linger here.

When you return to your vehicle, begin driving until you reach the road, then go as fast as you can toward the direction of the setting sun. The shadows of this place will begin to grow and shift, but if you have followed these directions perfectly, just as the sun sinks down, a blinding flash should consume the horizon, and when it fades, you should be back in the world of the living, your car idling on an empty, but otherwise normal street. Find your way back home, and rest. You have earned your reward.

Over the next year, the victim whose name you offered will begin to wither. All goodness and fortune will quit their lives, and every endeavor will bring to them only bitter tragedy. When, at last, they finally die, one year from the moment you completed the ritual, they will be broken thoroughly, in mind, body, and spirit. At last, your vengeance will be satisfied.

From that day forward, however, you will always be unsettled by the sight of crows, and the hushed whispers they bring beneath their ebony wings. You will feel as if they watch you, keeping track of every vice, of every sin and misstep, and not just of you, of everyone, of everything. Almost as if they existed only to observe, and to relay the wickedness of man to It that waits, with silent anticipation, to serve as its ultimate executioner.

Credit To – brahesTheorem

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