Invoking Aziuth

October 24, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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I lifted my eyes for only a moment. His form was unspeakable. An insidious darkness, a void opened to reality. My body lost all its strength, I fell to the floor, loosing my bladder.

“Speak, slave.” The demon’s voice was sharp, metallic.
I strained to lift my head again, to behold the horrifying shape of Aziuth. My flesh wanted flee the utter awfulness of the moment. My voice failed me.

The demon made a deep, almost purring noise. Like a satisfied lion about to eviscerate his prey.

“O great Aziuth, dread prince of spoiled flesh and broken slaves. Favor me now. Favor me with one request.”

I’ve always admired the Devil. Not so much for all the genocide and misery he’s instigated, but because Satan is the original freethinker. It says somewhere in the Bible that Lucifer was once one of God’s highest and most beautiful of angels, but one day he decided he’d had enough of serving God and was ready to start taking care of himself. I like that.

I’ve tried to live out that attitude in my own life. I’ve blazed my own path and searched out my own knowledge. It’s led to some unexpected turns…

Children with No Hearts

In the summer of 2013 I ran across a curious news story out Rosenberg, Ohio, a small town in the southeast end of the state. In the course of 3 days, four teenage boys were found dead in two separate incidents. The first pair was found dead in a cemetery. The second in the sanctuary of a Methodist church. Both times there was no sign of struggle, distress, or cause of death. Later autopsies, however, revealed missing hearts in each victim. The story ran for about a day before disappearing. As a connoisseur of the bizarre and grotesque stories, I was intrigued, but with so little to go on, I thought little of it.

When later that October, three new cases were reported, my interest was peaked. The stories were from across the country: Raleigh, North Carolina; Davenport, Arizona; and New Salem, California, totaling seven victims that Fall. In each incident, the victims were teenagers, found in cemeteries or churches, no signs of foul play, but each was missing their heart. Again, the stories ran for about a day or two before being removed.

A little extra digging into the cases (side note: you’d be surprised at how little cyber security most police departments utilize), added some details to cases: First, peculiar items were found at each crime scene. At the first two candles and a broken mirror were found. The third, about a pint of spilled feline blood and rose petals. The final two: a broken mirror, five smooth black stones, and broken bird and hamster cages (respectively). Second, the teenagers had reputation for being “weird” and/or “into witchcraft.” Third, there was no sign of cutting or removal of the hearts. It was as though they simply had never been there. Fourth, police were utterly baffled as to the identity of the assailant, means, or motive. Authorities, of course, deduced the victims were doing something occult-related but were stumped otherwise.

After my research, the situation became plain to me. These imbeciles had tried to invoke a spirit—and failed.

Infernal Conversation

They weren’t the first to have the notion. Honestly, any half-wit with a Ouija board, or even Scrabble tiles, can make contact with spirits. I’m pretty sure there’s a Wikipedia article about it. It’s not that hard.
What these morons were attempting was something much more daring and perilous: they were attempting to summon a demon for conversation.

In all my years of exploring the occult, I’ve never intentionally tried to contact a demon. Why? Demons are prickly by nature (to say the least). They are pitiless, deceptive, and unwaveringly sadistic. They are almost unendingly brilliant and unfathomably powerful. They also hate being bothered or bored.

As the kids with missing hearts found out, pissing off a demon can have dire consequences.

That’s not to say demons don’t like to talk. That’s their weakness. Like their Father Below, dark spirits have enormous egos and they love to show off. A well-performed invocation ritual can stir a demon’s pride enough to share all sorts of chthonian secrets.

Can you imagine what could be learned by speaking with a being who has existed for eons? Who watched while the Almighty Himself wove time and matter into existence with a word? What puzzles of Reality could be solved for the first time! Or the honor of standing with the great occultic masters who themselves had personal demonic encounters and lived to tell of it?

As I considered these things, my chest ached. I wondered if I could succeed where others had failed. Could I stand with the masters? Could I learn the ancient and marvelous secrets others have longed for? I’ve always had an insatiable hunger for knowledge and I felt that appetite whetted.

Exploring the Sulphurous Order

Initiating a tête-à-tête with one of the Fallen requires intense planning, skill, and not a little luck. If I didn’t want to end up like those lackwits with the missing hearts, I’d first need to see where they’d gone wrong. It didn’t take long.

The fact that seven people from across the country suddenly decided to attempt an invoking ritual with disastrous results indicated to me that they didn’t get this out of a book. They’d been on the internet.

I found the link with relative ease. The ritual described was meant to call Aziuth, a demon who allegedly specialized in riddles. The ritual itself was a little awkward but essentially right, I knew. All the elements were there: an act of service to get the spirit’s attention, a gift to honor it, proper words of invitation to speak to it. The description of the encounter itself though was something else though.

According to the guide, if successfully performed, the mortal interlocutor could ask one question to which the demon was bound to answer honestly. In return, the malevolent spirit was allowed to ask one riddle which must be solved. Failure to correctly solve the riddle would have devastating consequences, but these could be warded off by using a mirror to trick the demon.

No wonder those kids died.

For the next two weeks, I spent each night after work feverishly reading and studying late into the night. My own research into Aziuth revealed he was worshipped for a short while by the early Hittites and Chaldeans as a minor deity. He was known for exchanging knowledge and solving riddles in exchange for the hearts of slaves sacrificed to him. He remains one of the only dark spirits thought to tell the truth 100% of the time, apparently seeing lying to a human as debasing himself. Aziuth worship continued throughout history but only among obscure cults with fetishes for knowledge of the Other.

According to die dunkel Metaphysik, Aziuth’s primary motivation is gaining slaves for himself in the spiritual realm, “Unlike others in the Sulphurous Order who exchange favors with mortals for the sake of influence and power in the human realm, Aziuth only wants souls.”

Maleficent beings often attempt to collect followers, but in the case of Aziuth, he has no desire to gain living, human followers. Instead, he collects slaves for the spiritual realm. To what specific end, I don’t care to speculate. À travers le voile d’or confirms the same, observing, “Aziuth appears to condescend to answer human questions only in hopes of ensnaring souls. Above all, Aziuth craves more servants to absorb.”

Practically, this meant that Aziuth would be one of the most dangerous spirits to try to invoke. Unlike other devils, he likely wouldn’t be looking to write a contract, answer questions for the sake of showing off, or try to convince me to assist him to more nefarious ends. Aziuth would be hungry to add me immediately to his menagerie of eternally anguished slaves.

The key to escape would be the question. I needed something that would allow me to glimpse the Other without forfeiting my soul.

Filling the Bucket

At this point either cowardice or sanity should have broken in to give me pause. What was I doing? Risking my eternal soul to what end? What question could be worth such danger?

But it never happened. In my feverish state of mind, I could only see the glory of triumphing over the demon. I set to work on my preparations which I knew would require at least another month. To begin I would need an empty paint bucket.

As I mentioned before, contacting spirits is truly not difficult. Ghosts and other lesser spectral beings tend to be accessible – even chatty. This is why some have glimpsed the other side by just casually experimenting with even mere playing cards.

Demons, on the other hand, have a much higher opinion of themselves, and are thus much harder to provoke to conversation. This is where the Invoking Ritual comes into play.

(Granted, occasionally a person will speak with an infernal spirit through a Ouija board, but I don’t recommend it. Such spirits have a tendency to be even more unpredictably violent and compulsively cruel than even your average Fallen. These are the kinds of spirits who won’t hesitate to take that first contact as an invitation to enter your home/life and start tearing things apart just for kicks. Even Satan’s army has a few thrill-seeking psychotics.)

At its heart, the Invoking Ritual is an invitation to a spirit to appear to you. Depending on the level of or specific demon you’re calling, the ritual itself can be long, complex, and costly (in more than one way). A poorly done Invocation will usually mean that nothing happens. Sometimes though, a ham-fisted attempt will be interpreted as an insult to the demon. In Aziuth’s case, he might collect my heart before I could even ask my question.

First, an act of service must be performed. Usually the act of service is meant to be a sign or foretaste of later favors to be offered. Almost inevitably, the act of service involves the desecration of a holy or sacred place. This is why all of the 2013 deaths took place in graveyards and churches. The older or more significant the location, the better.

Sometimes the act of desecration is not only about swimming naked in your local baptistery or Holy Font or turning all the crosses upside down. For those higher up in the Sulphurous Order, they require an act of personal desecration. I won’t get into what that means other than to say, they want to see you mar the imago Dei found in your own soul…or another person’s.

For my own act of service, I chose Philip Road Baptist Church. A small, countrified house of worship with no security system beyond the deadbolt on the front door. The church has stood for almost 70 years, and if the attendance board at the front of the sanctuary is right, they boast almost 120 on Sunday morning. It took me almost two weeks to find it.

I’d really have rather performed the ritual in a Catholic church, if for no other reason than the sense of tradition and ritual is stronger (have you ever been to a Catholic wedding? How about spill some of the communion wine?!) Unfortunately, Our Lady of Fatima is much more distrustful and had invested in ADT security.

For the act of service itself, I was able to buy a liter of fresh pig blood from a local butcher. I told him I was making blood sausage and pudding.

“You don’t look the chef-type,” said the coarse old man.
“Yeah, I’m branching out a bit. Would fifty do?”
I had to pay him a hundred bucks for it and he made me wait a week and half for it. He eyeballed me the entire time like he was memorizing my face for later, probably “just in case.”

After the act of service, a gift is usually expected. This was the part I dreaded most. For my gift, I found a hyper Lab-mix awaiting execution at the pound. His name was Edgar. The worker warned me it was considered a “problem dog.” Not sure what to say, I mumbled a response and left to shop for kibble.

Having all of this in place, I spent the next three days putting the final touches on my preparations. I planned my route, purchased my extra candles, and other odds and ends.

I scoured the old texts for the right words of invocation. Again, invocations are more like an invitation than a summons. Summoning a spirit suggests you have a measure of control over it. When it comes to infernal powers, you have zero ability to compel or coerce. Thus, the words of the invocation are a special plea for their favor; an appeal for them to demonstrate their power. Demons aren’t looking for the poetry of Milton or Tennyson, but they do respond to a well-turned phrase.

Toward the end of my preparation, I began a six day fast. Spirits are attuned to our physical states (probably as a means of better manipulating us). By fasting before the ritual, I hoped that Aziuth would see how committed and desperate to speak with him.

As a further step to prove my utter meekness, I filled the paint bucket during my days of fasting, just in case Aziuth demanded a final proof my humility.

A Rusted Edge

The month of preparation had passed in a blur. My hunger to know had turned into an obsessive quest, especially toward the end. I stopped returning missed calls and answering emails. Unpaid bills piled up by front door. I exhausted all my sick time and started using vacation days at work. The concerned calls from friends and odd looks from neighbors didn’t faze me. When the utility company turned off the power, I simply started working by candlelight.

Wednesday, the night before I planned to perform the Invoking, I had a terrifying moment of clarity. I was standing in my tool shed, looking at the various garden tools searching for my metal grinder so I could sharpen my hunting knife. Eddie was in the yard chasing his own tail. An old garden spade caught my eye for some reason. In particular the dull, rusted edge.

Between all the obsessive reading and planning and thinking and the endless damn fasting, I’d forgotten to sleep. At that point, I think I’d been awake for almost 40 hours. I stood staring at that rusted edge for nearly five minutes, completely blank.

That’s when finally, my moment of clear-thinking arrived to my great horror. In all the obsessive reading and planning and thinking and the damn endless fasting, I’d forgotten to come up with a question. THE QUESTION!

I began to tremble. The shed blurred and spun. I heard myself laughing—or maybe sobbing.

A voice spoke from the darkness of my backyard.

“Paige County PD,” the voice announced, “Sir, are you all right?”
The world swam back into focus. My hand was throbbing. I cleared my throat, trying to gain composure.
“What? No. What, what’s going on?” I heard myself whine. I couldn’t control my voice. My hand throbbed insistently.
“Neighbors reported—” a beam of light, “Hey, what’s that in your hand?”
“Oh,” I looked down, saw the rusted spade fall from my hand with a gout of livid blood. The world faded again.

I lay devastated in the hospital bed. My injured left hand felt heavy and numb. Gripped by both rage and despair, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to scream or throw up. My fantasies of glory lay ruined in my tool shed. How could I have been so stupid! So short-sighted! Now I waited to hear what fresh humiliation was awaiting me.

Apparently in my terrible moment of lucidity, I started laughing (or crying, there are conflicting reports) so loudly I woke the neighbors and scared their kids. I had carried on like this in my dimly lit tool shed for about fifteen minutes before the responding officer arrived. During that intervening fifteen minutes I also apparently had grabbed hold of the rusty and surprisingly sharp edge of the hand spade I had earlier been studying and sliced open my hand. That’s how the officer found me, laughing (or sobbing) uncontrollably in my backyard, holding the bloody garden spade.

Two hours and ten stitches later, I came around. I spent the next two hours trying to convince the cop, the ER doc, and the attending physician from the psych floor that no, I wasn’t suicidal or having psychotic thoughts, I was just overworked, over-stressed, and sleep-deprived. They each listened with a mixture of polite indulgence and skepticism; their antennae specially attuned to detect BS.

While I knew I didn’t have any fear from a legal standpoint, I was afraid they would try to keep me on a 72-hour psych hold as a safety precaution. I wasn’t sure if I could suffer the indignity.

I lay quietly on the bed, replaying my answers to the doctor from the psych floor over and over again, preparing myself when a pretty, auburn-haired nurse came in.

“Hey there, how’re we feeling?”
“Not bad. Pride hurts a bit,” I tried to chuckle, but came up dry.
“Hm. Well, Dr. Francisco is writing your discharge papers, so you’re about go home.” She pulled the IV as she spoke. I tried not to wince as the sting as she withdrew the needle.
“Great. I’m ready to get home.”
“I bet. You need to rest. The doctor is writing you a prescription for some medicine to help you sleep. I hear you were awake for almost 40 hours? What is it that’s kept you up so long?” She asked as she busied herself preparing my departure.
“Oh, uh, I’ve just been trying to work on a problem. Kind of untangling a riddle.” I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over the bed.
“I’ve never really cared for riddles. I prefer things to just be straightforward. Be as they are,” she observed, “Well, here’s your bag of clothes if you want to change out of that gown. Someone will be back to walk you out once the papers are signed.”

I stumbled into my house exhausted, aching, and defeated. The idiot dog met me at the door, wagging his tail, happy to see me. Ignoring Edgar and shedding clothes along the way, I willed myself down the hallway and to my bedroom. I fell into the crumpled sheets expecting to sleep a few hours.

Edgar urged me awake Saturday morning: his cold wet nose pressing into my bare chest, his rough tongue dragging across my face. I shooed him away, but my aching bladder coaxed me out of bed. It would be another hour before I realized I had slept two whole days.
As I relieved myself I heard the pretty nurse’s voice echo in my mind. I almost pitied her.

I never really cared for puzzles.
Just another person who doesn’t like to think.
I prefer things to be just straightforward.
Just another sheep.
Be as they are.
I knew the solution to my problem.

Calling the Unspeakable

I felt like a man resurrected. Lazarus himself probably didn’t feel as alive as I. Feeling fresh and rested, I attacked the final preparations with a near-giddiness. By the afternoon, everything was organized and ready. Each step of the ritual meticulously planned and prepared. No more delays. No mistakes.

Edgar and I set out a little after midnight. I regretted losing the two previous days but hoped the demon would take special pleasure in seeing the desecrating ritual on the Sabbath.

Driving the church, I remembered a passage from the Dürr-i Meknûn, a 15th century Turkish text, which warns that when mortals encounter the Other, there is inevitable metamorphosis. I wondered what my own change would be like.

The dark sanctuary felt preternaturally still. A thunderous quiet. Dappled moonlight splashed across the wooden pews and glinted off the gold-leafed pages of the open Bible on the pulpit. There were no statues of saints or portraits of biblical figures in the church, but I felt the heavy gaze of many disapproving eyes.

I stripped my clothes, leaving them at the threshold between the sanctuary and the foyer of the small church. Aziuth would not suffer such pride.

After tying Edgar to a pew a few rows back from the front, I walked the aisle alone with my duffel bag of supplies. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to offer Edgar. My stitched hand throbbed.

To begin, I used the liter of pig’s blood to christen the two symbols of renewal: the baptistery and the pulpit, smearing them both with the dark and sticky liquid. Using my finger, I drew pagan symbols in the blood. The remainder I used to draw a large pentagram on the floor in front of the altar. Next I drew out five tall, black candles and placing them on the perimeter of the pentagram. Moving counter-clockwise, I lit each candle while muttering a blasphemy. My act of desecration.
I set back on my knees, naked and smeared in gore. I whispered the words of invitation to the unhallowed silence.
The quiet persisted.

I repeated the invitation, louder, begging the honor of putrid and awful presence of Aziuth.
The quiet persisted.

Stretching prone on the floor, I strained my voice repeating the invocation.
The quiet persisted.

Drawing myself up again, I reached for the hunting knife and let it glide in an arc across my chest. The wound wept scarlet. I screamed the words again.

In desperation, I reached for the paint bucket of excrement that I had filled during my week of fasting. Picking up the sloshing pail, about to pour it over myself as a final demonstration of humility, I heard a soft whine.

I turned my head slightly, I saw Edgar at the end of his leash, backing away, whining softly. I lowered the pail carefully and scanned the darkness. Nothing. Was it –

It was the odor that announced his arrival. The most awful, putrescent stink I’ve ever known. It smelled like the church was filled with thousands of bloated, sun-baked corpses. I dry-heaved at the stench, my stomach roiling and violently twisting in revolt.
The stitches of my injured hand burst.

I lifted my eyes for only a moment. His form was unspeakable. An insidious darkness, a void opened to reality.
Aziuth had come!

My body lost all its strength, I fell to the floor loosing my bladder.
“Speak, slave.” The demon’s voice was sharp, metallic.
I strained to lift my head again, to behold the horrifying shape of Aziuth. My flesh wanted flee the utter awfulness of the moment. My voice failed me.

The demon made a deep, almost purring noise. Like a satisfied lion about to eviscerate his prey.

“O great Aziuth, dread prince of spoiled flesh and broken slaves. Favor me now. Favor me with one request.”
“Speak.” He commanded, impatient.
“Show me your true form,” I managed before my forehead hit the ground again.

The awful purring stopped. The air grew hot and dense. I could feel the floor vibrating beneath me.

I heard a wet, choking noise. I lifted my head, my limbs suddenly feeling weightless. In front of me, I saw what looked like the moldering corpse of a malformed fetus. The torso was frightful: pale and rubbery, with a twisted and exposed spine. The limbs were shrunken, useless. The head was enormous and misshapen with an open cavity for a nose and long, jagged teeth. The Thing seemed to struggle to breathe and wallowed uselessly on the floor.

I got to my feet and looked in utter shock at the creature.
“Aziuth?” I said in dumbstruck.
It coughed in response.
I stood a moment. Was this a trap? Some deception? No, I realized, Aziuth does not deceive. He only gives naked truth.
“You’re pathetic,” I approached slowly, “I crapped more frightening things than you in that bucket over there.”

The monster’s pale body turned rosy, it tried to kick a withered leg.

“I could crush you right now, couldn’t I?” I put my foot on its enormous and nauseating head, “That’s what a worm like you deserves, isn’t it?”

Edgar suddenly appeared. Having chewed through his leash, he approached the monster, curious. He sniffed it, licked the rubbery form, and then lifted his leg.

A laugh burst from my lips. The great and terrible Aziuth had just been pissed on by a dog who was going to be his sacrifice.

“Are you really so pitiful, Aziuth?”
The tiny demon’s body shook with rage.

The Metamorphosis

I don’t remember what happened next beyond a deafening clap of thunder. When I woke, I was back in the hospital. The same pretty, auburn-haired nurse tending to me though I don’t know if she recognizes me. Aziuth aided my metamorphosis.

Two things to know about demons: First, before their Fall, demons were magnificently beautiful creatures. If we could see angels in their pure form, we’d probably mistake them for gods or goddesses. Demons, however, lost that when they lost Heaven. Thus, they often change their form when appearing to humans (all the better to deceive or overwhelm us). Second, like I said before, demons have huge egos. Martin Luther once said if you can’t drive the devil away with scripture, jeer him. Satan can’t stand to be made fun of.

That’s how I figured out how to defeat Aziuth. There would be no way I could outwit him on his own terms, asking and answering riddles. The only means of defeating him would be to force him to show me his true form and then humiliate him. The only thing I hadn’t taken into account was what Aziuth would do in retaliation.

My once slender frame is now bloated to about four-hundred pounds. My legs and right arm have shrunken to useless appendages. My mouth is stretched into a permanent and frightening half-grin and my right eye-socket has drifted down next to my nose.

Thankfully, despite all of this, I can still speak and my left hand can still write.

The doctors and police are baffled. No one knows how I could have ended up in this condition, or how I ended up in a small Baptist church, covered in blood with a dog.

Knowing comes with a cost. It’s steeper than I would have imagined, but I don’t regret it. I always admired the Devil, so it’s fitting that I probably look a bit like him.

Credit To – Anselm

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The Gatekeeper

October 10, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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If you’re reading this, you probably think that it is just another fake story. Well, it could be. But if you wish, you can take a risk. Follow my instructions. See what happens and maybe have your life become so much better. Or so much worse. It’s really up to you.

First, you must go to the mountains. It doesn’t matter where you live. Any set of mountains will work, as long as you can find a cave. Big or small, unknown or well-explored, vibrant or dead, it doesn’t matter as long as it extends further than the sun’s light at sunset. The darkness is important.
Sunset is an important time, when the bonds between worlds weaken as the Earth sinks into twilight. This band of weakness allows one to exploit the natural weak points in the fabric of space and time. I’ve learned this by experience, as have many others. Not many of them are still where they could even be contacted, however.

You must stand at the mouth of the cave as the world sinks into darkness. The timing here needn’t be perfect: as long as you begin at sunset, you will not encounter any complications. You must not have any technology or religious paraphernalia on you. The technology will stop you from beginning the process. Religious paraphernalia…well they simply don’t like it when you go in there with protection of that sort. It won’t help, so don’t even try.

When the time is right, take off your shoes. This is a sign of respect. They like that. Then close your eyes and begin to walk forward. Don’t worry about falling; they will keep you moving. If the cave you chose was short, you may notice that you don’t hit the end. If this happens, the floor will seem to level out regardless of the cave’s layout. You’ve been set on a path to the same place, and it is vital that you not open your eyes. If this doesn’t happen, don’t worry. If you had no technology and followed the previous instructions, the ritual is not for you. The fates have another destiny in mind for you, one that cannot be altered by a ritual such as this.

You might hear whispering around you, may feel cool digits trailing across your back and chest. It will be so cold that it burns when they touch your bare skin. Do not react. They are simply curious to see one of bound flesh crossing through their realm. Unless you offend them, they will not do any intentional harm. Stay silent, keep your eyes closed, and continue moving forward. The whispers will grow louder as you go, angry voices rising above their whispered words, almost recognizable as English. It is especially important here that you do not react. This voices’ owners do not belong there. They are the poor souls who lost themselves in this realm, straying from the path yet not offending the hosts before they were beyond harm. That is why you must continue in a straight line. Stepping off the path will sever your soul, binding it eternally to a realm of shadow where the denizens do not want you.

My own experience has shown that this walking seems to last for an eternity. But as long as you stay on path and ignore the distractions, you will be alright. When the smooth, level ground that you have been walking on suddenly becomes the sloped and gritty floor of a cave again, you can open your eyes. In front of you is a tunnel. The floor covered in grit. It will be lit by four sets of torches attached to the walls by wooden sconces. Crystals, even precious gemstones, will dot the walls every few feet. Feel free to touch them; they are not cursed, though you will not be able to separate them from the walls. At the end of the hall will be a door. Its appearance will vary, but it will always be out of place in the underground place you find yourself in.

While it will not explicitly harm you, I do not recommend turning around. You adventurous souls who might actually do this will find it hard to resist the temptation to follow the glow you will see. The path you arrived through will be gone, replaced by two branching pathways. The effects inside them will vary, but the glow will remain. If you do feel tempted to go down them, do so at your own risk. The torch-lit tunnel is the only exit once you have made it this far, and it is not going to be there when you come back. And, if you see a shadow across the wall in either tunnel, run. For the love of God, turn tail and flee to the door. Unlike the natives of the twilight realm, these creatures are entirely intent on bringing harm to you. Only he can protect you.

The he whom I speak of will become apparent as you pass the third set of torches. A seemingly-human male will just pop into existence against the door, hands clasped in front of him like an attendant at a hotel. It will be like he was always there. When you pass the fourth, he will see you and smile. Not one of those ‘I wonder what your insides will look like sprayed across the wall’ kind of smiles, but a genuine ‘Ah, it’s good to see you’ smile.

He will note your missing shoes with a polite nod, and offer his hand for you to shake. If he has a glove on, feel free to do so. If not, don’t. Touching his skin will have you take his place. This only happens when you have offended him in some way, such as by speaking before he is ready. He won’t take offense to you not shaking his hand even if he is wearing a glove.

He will greet you with a few simple words. The phrase he uses will vary depending on your nationality, though it will always be polite. It bears no significance on what follows. He will ask two questions, one will be simple. “Where do you wish to go?”

Think long and hard on your answer. Because, if you do not offend him through lies or simply being impolite, that is where you will be when the door is opened. Specify the time frame as well, for that will make a difference. No matter what you have in mind, he will not do what you suggest unless you are specific. It’s a monkey’s paw effect, really. If you aren’t specific, you may end up in a bad situation. Such as being deposited in that spot, during the Jurassic or Cretaceous periods. Or after all life on Earth has died.

You could specify an area in a fictional universe, or a different real world. You will be taken there, such is the power and benefit of this ritual. But remember: you will not be changed in the transit. Suddenly showing up on an alien planet with no record of ever existing tends to be bad for your health.

The second question will be the most dangerous part of this ritual. He will ask a question, a personal one. Your answer must be the truth. Do not be hasty; the question may seem simple, but it is not. You might think you know the answer, but make sure. Odds are it might be on something that you have lied to yourself about for years, or that you only half remember. If you answer correctly, he will happily deposit you in the position of your choice. If you lie, whether intentionally or not, he will happily open the door for you still.

Unfortunately, this time the destination will be much less pleasant. This gatekeeper has access to places so much worse than you can imagine. And if you lie to him…well, he can put you in any fictional world that he so desires. I’m sure you people are creative, so must I really spell out the result for you?

Credit To – Ozymandeos

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A Sailor Without Two Coins

October 9, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Many a sailor, no matter how brave and fearless, knows well how unpredictable and deadly the sea can be. Before every setting of the sails, a prayer goes throughout the crew, praying to God for the safety of their voyage. A wise man knows that prayers are not always answered and many a man has traveled to the briny depths of the sea, never to be seen again. Some men say though, they have managed to cheat death in those moments with a ritual that may not be worth living for later.

The ritual is fairly simple, but not one that one wants to use unless they are in mortal peril and know it. Providing that they are not sinking fast enough in the water to choke their words, a man must repeat the words, “Devil take my soul across the Styx, God has abandoned me,” three times at the top of his lungs. If he truly puts himself and his soul into it, the Ferryman shall come, no matter how much the waves rage and toss. His ship shall not be turned, nor shall he capsize. The man shall feel his wrist grabbed and be pulled into the boat. From there, he will not feel the waves rocking him. He will feel no hunger, no thirst, only the breath in his lungs and the wind blow softly across his wet face.
It is important that the man does not look up into his eyes. This is because calling him out is a trick. You see, the Ferryman will not take a soul across the Styx without payment. He will hear him speak, asking for payment. When he asks, he must proclaim that he is without payment and needs to go get it from home. The Ferryman will then begin to row to the sailor’s home shore.

He cannot look at him at all the entire way. If it takes three days and three nights, it will not matter. This is because if the Ferryman looks into your eyes, he will know you are lying and return you to the waters to drown.

When you finally reach the shore, the sailor must thank him and tell him he will return shortly. The sailor can never return to the sea after this. The Ferryman will never come to the shore to collect, only be there by the water, awaiting his payment. If a sailor ever does set foot on a boat again, he and all the men on it shall perish in a violent and destructive manner.

Be warned though. One cannot outrun the Ferryman forever. I know a man who is in his last years and fears closing his eyes at night, lest he pass from this world and his soul meet the Ferryman once more. He feels the grip around his wrist tighter and tighter at night with each dream when he finally falls into sleep, and sees a monstrous face looking at him enraged.

No one truly cheats the Ferryman. He is simply far more patient than most realize.

Credit To – AMD

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The Gift of Sight

October 8, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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Did you know that you can always see your nose, but your brain chooses to ignore it? The point is your brain can make you blind to certain aspects of reality. There is a way to see the things your brain ignores. Though, be warned, what has been seen cannot be unseen.

First, you will need a computer; tablets work just as well. After you find yourself a suitable device, you will need a location. It doesn’t have to be a special place, but medium sized houses or apartments work the best. The next thing you will have to do is close every single door in the location. This is why large abandoned buildings don’t work well. When at your chosen location, you must make sure you are completely alone.

Once you enter the chosen location, you can’t leave or you’ll have to start over at a different location. When you’re sure you’re alone and every door is closed, you can perform the next step. You have to wait. No matter what time you entered, you will have to wait exactly twenty four hours and then wait until two thirty in the morning. You don’t have to begin at two thirty, but the ritual will not work anytime before two thirty and after four forty five.

When you feel the time is right, choose a room to start the ritual. Go in and close the door behind you. Sit directly in the center of the room and make sure the door is directly behind your back. Finally, turn on your device. At this point, stopping the ritual will be impossible. There are some things you shouldn’t do:


As soon as your device is finished loading up, it will automatically go into your web browser and open up a website. The website is always random and is never the same for any two people. The website will only display a play button. You do not have to do anything because the video will play itself. The video does not have a length.

Images and words will appear. The words will not make any sense to you and will seem like gibberish. The images depend on you. Some people see violent depictions of war, some people see places they’ve never visited, some people see distant planets. No matter the subject of the first few images you see, the tone of the images will eventually take on a…darker tone.

No matter how disturbing the images become, you must not look away. Even as you hear the doors in the location opening and slamming shut. Even as you hear the door behind you opening, do not turn your gaze from your device. Act ignorant to your surroundings. Such ignorance will be the only barrier between you and the horrors you have allowed to reside with you.

After an undetermined amount of time, the images and words will stop and a live video feed will play. The video will show your location. The camera will approach the front door and enter. You will hear the front door open and close. Keep watching the feed. The camera will go throughout the building and every door the camera stops at will open.

As the camera makes its way to the room you are currently in, the hair on the back of your neck will stand up. Once again, the door behind you will open and you will feel a strong chill. Your hands will shake as the video shows your back. The video flash to a demonic caricature of your face.

At this point, your eyes will involuntarily shut and you will become immobilized. Footsteps will be heard approaching you. They will stop when they’re directly behind you. After a agonizing minute, you will feel a cold, bony, hand on your shoulder. You will hear a low, rumbling voice speak to you. It will say: “What do you desire most?”

This is a trick question and anything you say will cause you to be disemboweled and force fed your entrails. The only way to get out of this alive is to answer the question with this statement: “I want my eyes to be open.” If you have been sincere in your attempt at the ritual, your body will be under your control again and you will be able to open your eyes.

When you open your eyes, you will be in your bedroom. You won’t be able to remember the location where you performed the ritual, but that doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter will be clear to you when you look out a window; You will now be able see all that you weren’t able to before performing the ritual.

Every horror story you read or hear or see…all of them are somewhat based on truth. Although, the reality is much, much, more frightening. You will now be able to see it all. The stuff of nightmares. Creatures that your brain has been ignoring will be ever so clear. They are the things that go bump in the night. You will be able to tell who else can see. But this is a gift and a curse. They know you can see them now. They feed off your fear…and their hunger is never satisfied.

Credit To – UNIversial666

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Blood and Oil

October 7, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Note: The following is a sequel to the creepypasta entitled “Breach”. The author recommends reading “Breach” first, as it is followed chronologically by the events described in “Blood and Oil.” Thank you!

In the last hour of her life, as she ran blindly through the forest that surrounded her, Amanda Conners wondered what she’d done to deserve such an awful fate.

She hadn’t been a perfect girl, god only knew. She’d been a rebellious spirit from her youth, growing ever more independent and angry with age. Amanda had fought her parents over almost every rule they’d laid down when she lived with them in Ann Arbor. It rarely mattered to her if they made sense or not. It was simply in her nature to fight, to squall with every ounce of energy her tiny frame could produce.

Her last words to them in person before moving to Southdale had been in anger. Amanda felt bad about that. They’d reconciled on the phone, but the guilt that lay uneasily on her heart when she thought about her meek father and hand-wringing mother just wouldn’t go away. She had hoped to apologize to them in person when she returned home after the coming fall semester. Maybe then they’d understand why she had to leave. Maybe then she would have found the courage to tell them how desperately she needed to live her own life.

Moving to Southdale, a small unincorporated township just outside Spring Valley, had been frightening for her. It was the first time she’d ever been alone, and despite having a job from a young age she found the idea of working for an employer she’d never met to be a little scary. Still, Angie’s Diner had been the only place hiring for miles, and it was only fifteen minutes away from the beautiful old country home that was renting at such an attractive price. Everything had seemed so perfect. She’d felt like the Universe was inviting her to jump out into the world and make her mark.

What Amanda didn’t know was that the Universe is a cold, cruel mistress. Like a spider it had snared her, tricking her into thinking that she would have a future like she’d always imagined. The howling of the mob that pursued her through the thick undergrowth was proof enough of that. Muffled by the leather masks they wore, that sound was the death scream of all her hopes and dreams.

Weeping in panic, she floundered blind through the dark woods, hands outstretched in front of her.”Somebody help me!” She screamed, senseless in her terror, tears and mascara running down her face in dark rivers. “Please, somebody help me!”

The dreams had started as soon as she’d arrived. She was always running in them, her bare feet tearing on a dark gravel road in the middle of a field. Amanda’s muscles ached as she pumped her arms, willing herself forward, her lungs burning. Her heart felt like it was about to explode in her chest. She was covered in blood and oil, completely naked. Every ounce of her was in agony, a pain so sharp it made her gasp.

There were others in the field around her, each of them also in flight. They were dying, one by one, falling to pieces in the flickering light that seemed to follow her no matter how much she ran into the darkness. A thick, choking fog was roiling up from behind them. The fog brought death with it, a massive, hulking shape that tore into them with harsh, barking snarls. They were screaming as they died, one by one, until it was only Amanda left, running down that endless road.

The giant in the smoke was coming for her. There was nothing she could do to stop it. It would catch her, and it would kill her.

She woke weeping every time, clutching her arms around herself like a mother cradling a child. Amanda didn’t understand the dreams. They were nonsense to her. She’d never seen a road like that in her life. She’d never seen such a field, with tall grass seeming to stretch on for an eternity.

In order to forget the terror that came to her every night, Amanda dedicated herself to her job. Angie’s Diner was the only restaurant in Southdale, and that meant she was worked to the bone every day she was there. The farmers and construction workers that stopped by were extremely courteous, quite different from the customers in the city where she’d grown up. Amanda quickly got used to being called “honey” and “sugar,” understanding that the men who called her that meant nothing by it. She appreciated it, and the generous tips they always left her. Despite the horror that came at night, during the day Amanda felt as though she was accepted and appreciated by the town she now called home.

She felt especially appreciated by Byrd. She couldn’t bring herself to call him Jack now, after all he’d done, but she remembered how she’d felt when he’d first waltzed into the diner. He was older than her, maybe by five or six years, but had such a boyish face that it had taken her some time to realize it. He’d moved with an easy grace and confidence that men her own age lacked, and it had been that which first attracted her so much to him.

He’d asked her out the second time he visited Angie’s. She’d blushed and said yes. He took her to the movie theater in Spring Valley, and on the way introduced her to several varieties of country music she’d never heard before. He laughed when she told him she’d never listened to Charlie Daniels or Willie Nelson. It wasn’t an unkind laugh. He wasn’t an unkind person, she didn’t think, even though he was one of the masked men shrieking in the woods behind her.

They’d started going out on a regular basis. Every day after work he’d pick her up and take her out somewhere new. Picnics down by the river, an afternoon in the park, a matinee, it didn’t matter. Byrd couldn’t get enough of her, and it felt so good to be wanted. He was her first serious boyfriend, and after only a month she was wondering if this was what love felt like.

He took her to meet his parents. They lived on a small farm at the very outskirts of the township, next to a great cornfield on the edge of a thickly overgrown forest. His father was tall and whippet thin; his mother, short and squat. They had been standing outside the house as they drove up in Byrd’s brand new pick up truck, eagerly waiting.

They were so excited to see her, it was like they couldn’t contain themselves. Mr. Byrd had embraced her, and then Mrs. Byrd, squeezing Amanda so tight it nearly drove the air from her lungs. The old woman was practically bouncing with joy.“Bless you child,” she kept saying, over and over. “We’re so happy to meet you. You can call me Mama Byrd, everyone around here does.”

She’d put her hand up to cup Amanda’s pale cheek, her rough palm grazing one of the scars on her face. They were still visible despite the heavy makeup she wore, and usually she felt extremely self concious about them. Here, though, Amanda felt only acceptance. When dinner was over they headed back to Byrd’s apartment. She’d fallen asleep in his arms as they watched TV. She woke the next morning, covered in a blanket, to the smell of him making breakfast for her.

Amanda paused for a moment to get her bearings, the torn wedding dress she wore trailing behind her. She spun frantically in place, trying to catch a glimpse of a break in the trees. They were swaying in time with the too-close beating of the drums, the black smoke rising from the fire in the clearing billowing high into the night sky. Beads of sweat ran down her neck and filthy arms. She heard the hooting and yelling get louder and started running again, heedless of where she was going.

Byrd had understood her desire to not be intimate. After a full month of him not asking she figured he’d soon start feeling frustrated. They’d done nothing but kiss. Amanda had never done anything but kiss, and she finally told him that abruptly after one of their dates. While she’d rejected most of her parents teachings, she planned on following through with her commitment to stay a virgin until she was married.

She’d expected Jack to be upset, or to argue with her just a little. Instead he just smiled, his sharp white teeth glinting in the light of the campfire.“God has some special plans for you,” he said. “I’m never going to force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

The squealing had started not long after that. She’d heard it coming from the field outside her house one night, initially thinking nothing of it. Amanda had seen feral pigs in the area, and knew that the boars would leave her alone as long as she stayed out of their way.

It became slightly more disconcerting when it started coming from her basement. She’d heard it as she read on the couch, a low snuffling followed by a high pitched whine. After a moment’s deliberation she’d called Byrd, and they’d investigated together. She said she saw hoofprints in the dusty cellar, but he’d laughed, kicked at them with the toe of his boot, and said she was imagining things.

Something heavy struck her from behind. She gasped, toppling forward, barely managing to catch herself. Amanda got back up, not daring to look back. It didn’t matter. Powerful hands gripped her waist. She bucked wildly, lashing out with small fists.

“We love you!” She smelled cheap aftershave and whisky as the man wrapped his arms around her. His leather masked pushed into her hips as they struggled. “Scars and all!”

Amanda’s free hand grasped at a rock on the ground. She swung it overhead, cracking it solidly on her attacker’s nose. He released her, moaning in pain, his pig-snout mask askew on his face as she clambered to her feet.

“He has such great plans for you,” he blubbered, reaching up to her as she turned and fled. “He loves you so much.”

Amanda ignored him and kept going as fast as she could. The forest seemed to be thinning out. That was a good sign. A second later she burst from the woodline, running headlong into the massive cornfield behind the Byrd’s house. She pushed her way blindly through the stalks, holding her dress up with one hand, hearing it tear again and again and not caring one bit.

Only a few short hours ago (though by now it seemed an eternity) Byrd had told her he had an extremely special night planned out. He’d swept her off her feet, taking her to the only Italian restaurant for twenty miles. He’d brought her back to his apartment after that, and played her a song on his guitar that he’d wrote specially for her. He told her that he loved her, in English, Spanish, French and even Japanese.

He’d also drugged the single glass of wine he’d offered her. Amanda passed out almost immediately after taking a few sips. She thought she remembered hearing Mama Byrd voicing approval, and had a vague sensation of soft lace being pulled over her face, but she’d been unable to regain consciousness.

Amanda finally awoke in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by dozens of people wearing robes the color of her flaming red hair and strange masks with upturned snouts. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw them falling down and wailing before a strange statue in front of a great bonfire, lifting their hands toward it and screaming for its blessing.

She was lying on a bed of cushions on the forest floor. They’d neglected to bind her in any fashion, not expecting the drugs to wear off as quickly as they had. As soon as she could she rose woozily to her feet and staggered away into the woods. After only a few minutes they had noticed she was gone and given pursuit, crashing through the forest behind her.

After another fevered minute of running she broke free of the cornfield. Her elation was short lived as she saw Mama Byrd and five other townspeople standing before her, between Amanda and the Byrd’s farm. The others all wore their masks, but Mama Byrd’s was pulled up onto her forehead. The doughy old woman had a pleading look on her face as she stepped forward, palms held placatingly toward Amanda.

“Please, sugar,” she said. “Please, we don’t mean you no harm. I know this must seem crazy-”

“Stay away from me!” Amanda shrieked, tripping over her dress and falling backwards to the ground.

“Nobody is tryin’ to hurt you,” the old woman said soothingly. “We wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’. You’re so precious to us, to him. All we’re trying to do is introduce you two, that’s all!”

Amanda struggled to her feet, screaming for help that she knew wasn’t coming.

“We waited so long for you,” Mama Byrd continued. “So, so long. Watching the signs, prayin’, hopin’ that the day would come when you’d arrive. And you did! You did. You were an outcast, just like he said you’d be, and you were beautiful and strong despite your scars, just like he said you’d be. You’re perfect, darlin.’ Absolutely perfect.”

They wouldn’t stop advancing. Amanda turned to run back into the cornfield and slammed headfirst into one of her pursuers. She went down again, seeing stars, the impact making her ears ring.

“Dammit Tony, you hurt the girl!” She heard Mama Byrd yell. “You better pray she’s alright!”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the masked man, stooping over her and gently pulling her hands behind her back. She remembered his voice; she’d heard it every day in the diner. “I certainly meant you no harm.” Amanda felt cold metal circle her wrists, and heard a metallic click. “Are these on too tight, ma’am? I can loosen them a little if you’d like.”

She was too tired and too stunned to fight back. The big man lifted her gently, putting her over his shoulder, making sure her dress didn’t hike up and compromise her modesty. “No,” she wept quietly as they headed back into the forest “No, no, please. Let me go.”

None of them said anything as they walked slowly back to the clearing. When they reached it Amanda saw that those who had stayed behind had erected a small platform in front of the statue with a wooden beam rising from its center. It was there they gently put her on her feet, linking her handcuffs over her head to a wire restraint on the pole.

“Do you need water?” A familiar voice asked from next to the platform. Groggily she turned her head to see Jack standing there, his mask pulled up. “More wine?” He looked sad, as if he might suddenly burst into tears. “More wine might make all this easier.”

“Why are you doing this to me, Jack?” She croaked, her throat dry as tinder. “I thought you loved me. You said you loved me.”

“I do love you,” her betrayer said, having the nerve to actually start weeping. “I love you because he loves you, and I am his child. You are so perfect and precious. You will bring so much good into a world that needs it so desperately.”

“What are you talking about?” She whispered.

“We are all god’s children,” Jack said, his eyes burning with the conviction of a true believer. “The whole world. But we’ve strayed. We’ve strayed so far away, Amanda. The time is coming for a new flood, a different kind of deluge that will wash away the wicked and save the righteous. The sons and daughters of god will walk the earth again, as righteous judges of the entire planet.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Can’t you see?” He replied, his face shining, voice cracking. “You’re his bride. You’re going to be their mother.”

A sudden pounding of drums cut off the rest of his words. Amanda looked up to see the few remaining cultists emerge from the woodline. They began surrounding the statue and the bonfire, swaying back in forth in time with the music. They were chanting, bellowing words that made Amanda’s ears hurt.

For the first time she really looked at the statue, barely able to comprehend its bizarre shape. It was humanoid, but only roughly so. It was fifteen feet tall, standing on a pair of legs that appeared to be made of thick lead pipes. Its torso was a rapidly burning wicker cage, stuffed with dozens of eyeless dolls, dirty plates and melting silverware. Hundreds of cables and wires made up its arms, ending in massive shovel blades and rake heads for hands. It had no head, only a sharp three-pronged barb at the very top.

The drums increased in tempo, the townspeople that circled the idol beginning to sway faster and faster. A small break in the circle appealed as four robed figures came forward, carrying a litter on their shoulders. The drummers wailed, and the fire behind the idol suddenly grew hotter, making Amanda’s skin prickle.

The bearers reached the statue and lifted something from the litter. Amanda couldn’t see what it was. With their backs to her they climbed a small ladder going up the side of the edifice and raised whatever it was high. The cultists cried as one as they set it down on the spike, pushing down hard and twisting it into place.

Byrd was still weeping as the litter bearers climbed down. “Look,” he told Amanda, her mouth open in horror. “The face of God.”

It was a pig’s head, a massive, tusked boar that looked to have been killed quite recently. Crow feathers had been painstakingly sewn into it, giving it a mane of jet black feathers. Its wide maw was open, its teeth ripped out and replaced with rusted rail road spikes. A crown of barbed wire and rodent carcasses sat upon its head. The crest of the crown, forming a symbol that made Amanda’s eyes hurt to look at, was adorned with seven human skulls, their mouths wired open in a perpetual scream.

A hush fell over the clearing. The cultists fell to their knees, their hands silently lifting towards the statue. Byrd slipped away from her side, quickly taking his place among the rank of worshippers. One of the litter bearers stepped forward, standing directly before the great effigy.

“We call upon thee oh lord,” he shouted, his voice unmistakably that of Byrd’s father. “We call upon thee to enter our sinful world and make straight our paths! We offer you the blood of nonbelievers, and the blood of our conviction! “ He gestured with one hand behind him, towards where Amanda was bound. “Behold your pure Bride. We pray that we find favor in thy sight, even as she has. Walk amongst us, oh lord! Bless us with the thunder of your footsteps!”

There was a high-pitched wail that seemed to come from all around them. Amanda screamed as a bolt of lightning tore from the sky, crashing down into the idol. Byrd’s father was thrown to the ground, the light so bright it left all of them blinking. Amanda saw stars, the heat from the lightning strike so intense she felt as if her face was blistering.

She passed out for a moment. When she opened her eyes, blinking away the afterimage of the lightning strike, she saw something impossible happening to the idol. The lightning strike had set it completely ablaze. The fire climbed higher and higher over it, twisting around it like a snake. Amanda watched as it shuddered, creaking in a phantom wind that blew out of nowhere.

The fire reached the idol’s head, and the eyes of the pig blinked. The entire structure shuddered as a squealing roar tore out of its mouth, the crown of its head rattling wildly. The eyes blinked again, rolling around in their sockets. Its stout legs snapped backward, turning into the disjointed hind quarters of a ruminant. The wires around the arm seemed to tense and bulge as black, burned flesh covered the skeletal wires. Its massive claws grew longer and more slender, ending in stiletto-sharp points that curled and flexed.

It stepped out of the fire, shaking bits of debris off its hulking form with another roar. Its feet were massive hooves that left smoldering prints in the dead grass; prints that looked all too familiar to Amanda. Another bolt of lightning split the sky, the thunderclap drowning out the fevered praise of the cultists. They prostrated themselves on the ground, babbling mindless prophecies and rending their clothes. They cut themselves with knives and hooks, falling upon one another in violent ecstasy.

“Behold the Pig!” Byrd screamed, suddenly rushing forward to stand beside his father. “Behold the Pig that takes away the sins of the-”

His words were cut short as it reached down and grasped him in a massive eight-fingered hand. He didn’t have time to react before it lifted him to its mouth, opening its maw with a screech of tortured metal and snapping sutures. It slammed its rotted teeth down around his hips, shaking its head back and forth, ripping him in half in an instant. It shoved the rest of Amanda’s boyfriend down her throat and swallowed hungrily.

The Pig stalked towards Amanda as Byrd’s father cut his own throat at its feet. It moved with an unsteady gait, occasionally dragging one of its legs as if not quite used to gravity. She wept at its approach, desperately trying to wake herself from the nightmare. It towered over her, blotting out the night sky. The seven skulls in the crest of its crown were screaming, rattling out words forced upon them by a savage power not seen on earth since the days of the bubonic plague.

The skulls told her of her destiny, of the future that was approaching. She saw it all in her mind’s eye: what the Pig intended for her, the horrific union of mortal and god, the months of torturous gestation as monsters grew within her body and soul. Amanda saw the fruits of her womb, a dozen blasphemous half-deities that devoured Human cities in the form of plague and genocide. Millions would die. Humanity would burn in the fires of a new dark age, never knowing that the savagery inflicted upon it came at the hands of a demon-god’s children.

It stepped towards her limp form, its claws reaching down to roughly grip her arms. It delicately severed her handcuffs, lifting it slowly up towards her. As she stared at it, unable to move, unable to even utter a plea for mercy, the skulls leered down and told her the identity of her tormentor.

In that moment, as its name thundered inside her mind, several things happened to her all at once.

There was a flash of light so bright it made the lightning pale in comparison. It was enough to be noticed by air traffic controllers nearly a hundred miles away, and caused temporary blackouts in all surrounding cities. The Pig was at the epicenter of it. It dropped Amanda to the ground, squealing as it backed away, raising its hands to its singed face.

The woman who was Amanda Conners died in a heartbeat, the name of the monster triggering a thousand hidden memories deep in the very darkest recesses of her mind. Her mother and father, her high school years, everything about her life before Southdale, was wiped away like the flimsy falsehood it was. She remembered the truth. She remembered

sitting with her arms crossed in the briefing room, staring at the holographic image of the target. “PE I-X-889 will be far too canny for any other approach,” she said, brushing a strand of blood-red hair out of her face. “Any attempt at psychic infiltration will likely be noticed immediately. It’s waited nearly seven centuries to attempt a return to reality. If it has any idea at all that this is a trap, it’ll turn tail and run back into the aether and likely try and come up on the other side of the planet. We’re lucky it chose a crossing in North America at all; if it runs we’ll never have another shot at it.”

Dolos sighed, running spindly fingers through graying hair. “So conventional means of infiltration are out of the question. That doesn’t change the fact that we need to lure this thing into reality to take a shot at it. What are you proposing?”

“Simple. Use me as bait.” She let it sink in for a moment before continuing. “Lock away my memories. Create a completely new history, a life story that will make me exactly what we know this thing is looking for in a mate. Make me weak and vulnerable and damaged. Even if this thing scours my mind, it’ll only find the fake memories we’ve planted there. A standard hypnotic trigger will suffice to bring down the barriers we put in place once the time comes for action.”

“It’d have to be a very specific trigger,” Dolos said thoughtfully. “If you remember too soon, it’ll sense your awareness and your cover will be blown.”

“We know from the PE’s we’ve interrogated that this thing is arrogant,” she said. “We’ve heard it screaming its name in the aether ever since it came into the shallows six months ago. It’s been a long time since 889 walked the earth, and I’m certain it will want to make its presence known to its bride. Make its name my trigger. As soon as I hear it, I’ll be ready.”

The woman that had been Amanda Conners a moment before levitated in the air, borne on the burning winds of damnation. Her eyes glowed an electric blue, hellish red light issuing from her open mouth. She howled into the aether, calling out to a presence that waited patiently for her hundreds of miles away. It answered her call, thundering out her name as it raced towards her via translocation. The cultists echoed its cry, gripped by the terrifying power she unleashed, wailing in agony as they tore themselves to pieces in psychic shock.


A hole in reality opened up behind her, a vortex into worlds only ever seen by prophets and madmen. The Pig took another step back, its ancient mind racing feverishly to understand what was happening. Never before had it encountered such resistance. Never before had it seen its sacrifices rise up with such anger and power.

Something massive came stomping out of the aether; a jet black construct five meters tall, its breastplate opened like a set of titanium petals. Tortured ghosts trailed from it in long, frozen tendrils, lesser spirits that had been caught in the wake of the behemoth. It stooped low, its massive arms reaching down to gracefully catch the tiny woman before it up into its chest.

Bellona stood, a smoky-eyed goddess of war in armor that shone in the brilliant light of the fire. Needles punctured the skin of her back in a hundred places, slamming into her spine and brain stem. Her body spasmed, the arms and legs of the armor reflecting her every motion. The Aegis was glad to see her; she could sense it in every relay, every system scan, every tactical readout that flooded her brain.

The dispersal cannon on her left shoulder hummed into life, the missile rack on her right immediately locking onto the target. Dozens of laser-guided munition systems highlighted the Pig in every energy spectrum known to exist, paving the way for the high-energy laser batteries stacked onto her wrists. She clenched her fists, allowing meter-long blades made of silver and cold-forged tungsten to snap from their sheaths between her knuckles.

Bellona sensed the Pig’s confusion. With a single thought she seared an image into its inhuman mind. She showed it a burning sword, raised in defiance of all gods old and new, blazing eternally against a darkness whose time had finally come to end.

The long night is over. Dawn approaches, and I am its herald.

The Pig seemed to finally understand what was happening to it. It took a step forward, its skulls chanting blasphemous prayers to beings even more loathsome than it. Bellona grinned, baring her teeth. The trap was sprung. The enemy was before her. The Aegis’ thirst for blood and war mingled with her own, sending out murderous pulses of psychic energy that set the trees on fire.

“Alright, you bastard. You wanted me,” she snarled, her visor slamming shut. “Come and get me.”

Walking through the blackened remains of the forest, John Hauser slowly made his way to the center of the clearing. His heavy black boots sent small ripples through the pools of blood still covering the ground. The charred remains of the trees were covered in the stuff, sticking to his hands as he pushed his way forward.

The cleaners were hard at work, each of them outfitted in bulky biohazard suits built to protect their mortal frames. While the bodies of the cultists had all been removed by the time he had arrived, he could still see the fire close by where the lingering remains of PE I-X-889 continued to burn. It would take several hours of continually purging and salting the fields to erase the beast’s presence.

This was one of the most important jobs of the cleaners; to completely remove any lingering trace of supernatural taint from a region. To do otherwise meant running the risk of the location becoming a confluence for supernatural activity. Hauser remembered many dark days in the early years of his organization when they had learned that the hard way.

Lies and half-truths were already being spun up about what caused the disaster. In an era of uncertainty, Hauser’s superiors had quickly decided that terrorism would be best to blame for the death of fifty-five members of a three-hundred person town. Already corpses with Middle-Eastern features were being flash cloned and deposited in strategic locations at ground zero. A few citizens in the town proper had heard the violent battle between Bellona and the Pig, but none had come to investigate. There’d be no reason for them to disbelieve the story that several of their fellow townspeople had been rounded up and then blown to pieces by a group of highly-trained Islamic suicide bombers (quite probably hailing from Pakistan, as Hauser’s men would suggest through a variety of carefully hidden clues)

Hauser wasn’t worried about the press or the government taking too close a look. Individuals loyal to his organization had already begun exerting their influence. Homeland Security would think that the FBI had things well in hand, while the FBI would receive word that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms would be taking control based on the terrorists utilizing weapons purchased in the States. There would be power struggles with the local police and sheriff’s office. All organizations would receive word that biohazard teams from the CDC had gone to the site in order to quarantine for a possible anthrax threat, but upon further investigation it would be discovered that the CDC had never sent such a release to anyone, and that it had been mere hearsay working its way through the various departments. It’d be extremely embarrasing for all involved, and more importantly, would give Hauser’s team a full twenty four hours to complete their work. By the time someone actually got on the scene, they’d all be long gone.

As he finally reached the edge of the clearing, he saw the massive frame of Bellona’s Aegis standing protectively over the girl. The suit was almost completely out of power, but he could sense a lingering consciousness in the Veil hovering near it. The construct was prepared to protect the tiny figure sitting at its feet, staring into the fire as she meditated. Not for the first time Hauser was highly impressed with the latest prototype. The men and women in engineering had done an excellent job.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she said, still gazing at the witchfire that consumed the Pig’s corpse. “I sensed your arrival as you translocated.”

“I’d hoped to arrive in enough time to prevent such damage from occurring,” he smiled, repeating the words she’d once spoken to him as he fished a cigarette out of the pack. “Would you like one?”

Bellona didn’t answer. Hauser shrugged and lit up, the acrid tang of the smoke a welcome relief from the smell of charred flesh and corruption.

“I had dreams, you know,” she said. “Dreams of being a little child, running naked down a gravel road. Something was chasing me, murdering my kin as it went. I was covered in blood and oil, and I have no idea why.”

“The Pig was linked to your mind as soon as you arrived here,” Hauser said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you were accessing some residual memories of another target.”

Bellona shook her head. “No. These weren’t residual memories, or hallucinations brought on by psychic trauma. These were my own memories. Memories of a time before I was an agent.”

“That’s impossible.” Hauser sat down next to her, beneath the Aegis. He seemed almost comically oversized compared to Bellona. “Our memories of our previous lives are completely purged away. None of us remember anything before the indoctrination.”

“So they say.” She turned slowly to look at him. The light of the fire cast strange shadows over him; shadows that looked like that of a hulking beast that chased young girls down dark gravel roads. “I had a life for a moment, Agent Hauser. I had a family that I believed to be real. I had a relationship that was real, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.”

“You played the part incredibly well,” he conceded. “It was the single greatest feat of infiltration I have ever seen.”

“And now I am returned to this world where I am Bellona, not Amanda.I do not know how old I am. I do not know if I am capable of love. I do not know if she was who I might have been had…” She turned back to the fire. “Had you never come for me, years ago.”

Hauser was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You are as capable of love as I am, Bellona. While you’ve sacrificed much in becoming an agent, you haven’t given up the core of humanity that makes you who you are. None of us have.” His gaze followed hers into the fire. “Jovlin taught me that,” he said softly. “And it remains the most important lesson I have learned in nearly eighty years of service.”

Bellona did not answer. After a few more puffs on his cigarette Hauser rose to his feet. “The cleaners will provide you with transport back. The Director will be in touch with you as soon as you’ve cleared medical.”

“Do you want to know how I killed it, Hauser?”

He glanced down at her, and suddenly Bellona looked very much like the nineteen year old he knew her to be. The scars on her pale face were a livid red, and in a few places there were deep gouges that would only add to the rictus mask she wore. She looked completely exhausted, her voice heavy with a weariness that belonged only to the damned.

“I already know,” he said, his voice equally tired as he turned away. “You showed it the truth.”

Credit To – IlluminatiExposed, JohnGrammsIlluminarium!

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The Beginnings of a Truly Haunted House

September 23, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I was alone. I was always alone. Though I could feel eyes watching my every move, I was more alone than I had ever been. The walls were cold cement. I had a pretty good feeling that I was in a basement because there were no windows. It was just me, the mirrors, and the TV. That television had no buttons, no way for me to control it. It came on and shut off against whatever will I had. It showed me horrors: torture, illness, death beyond my wildest imaginings. It showed me peace with nature and happy people. It showed me mundane things like moths, porch lights, and windowsills. Sometimes it just went to that awful fuzz that one gets when the TV loses signal.

The mirrors were worse. In them, for days, maybe a week though it felt like much, much longer, I could see myself wasting away. I was dying from thirst, hunger, and unsanitary conditions. I had to relieve myself in the corner. The white bed sheets were stained with my grime. I could always see myself, but what I couldn’t see was a door. I didn’t know how I got in there. I didn’t know why. It was driving me crazy. I screamed. I broke the bedframe of the bed. I tried to break a mirror but only bloodied my hand.

One day, when I could barely move as I stared at myself in the bed, the TV came on. A man in a Giraffe Halloween mask said, “You’re free”. It was like the clip was stuck on repeat though. He chanted it over and over, but there was no way out. There wasn’t anything I could do to make him stop or to escape. When I broke down in tears, one of the mirrors pulled away, like a sliding glass door, and there was the man. I tried to get up, but I was too weak.

He grabbed me under the arms and hauled me up. He was strong. I asked him why he was doing this but he didn’t answer. I begged him to answer. I begged him to let me go. I begged him to stop. Instead he took me to a bathroom just outside the room. He washed me. He fed me. He gave me water. After closing up the room I was in, he set me in a chair, facing the doorway. I could see in the room. It was a two-way mirror after all. He flipped a switch somewhere behind me, and all suddenly the mirrors in the room weren’t mirrors at all. They were windows.

Across from me, there was an empty room. It had a bathroom and a chair, just like the one I was in. As the man grabbed my arms, I looked into the room to my right. There was a man there with his head bowed. His hair was long and hung in his face. He was so thin, I could count his ribs. Across from him, in the room to my left, there was a younger guy. He was less thin, but still ghastly. He was looking right back at me with hopeless blue eyes. He was tied to his chair too. We all were, in identical rooms.

“What is this?” I asked in absolute horror. “Why are you doing this?”

At least, he answered me. He said, “I’m raising a demon. That room, the one you left, that is the one you’ll die in. Not tonight, but soon. When I get the last man, when he has weakened and thought of death in that room of his own accord, when he has been free of it a week, when I bring you all together, taking your freedom away in that room, I will summon him with your demise. Enjoy your brief freedom, Danny.”

With that, he left. I yelled and screamed for him to come back. I demanded to know how he knew my name, but he never answered. He just left me there. The next time I saw him, he came in through the empty room, and cleaned the room he planned to kill us in. He cleaned every mess I made and even repaired the bedframe. I saw him a few times after that. He would come in, take me into the bathroom, still bound. He would wash me without a word. He would feed me. He would let me drink water. After which, I was right back where I started. I saw him do the same with the other men in the other rooms. The man with the long hair barely even lifted his head anymore. The other man barely ever looked at me.

One day, when I was sitting there, thinking about my fate, the man walked into the empty room across from mine. He turned around and dragged a body in after him. It wasn’t long until he took a new man into the room with the bed. He laid him on the sheets and left. The mirrors returned as he flipped a switch on the wall of the empty room, and dread truly set in. I had to watch as some other man wasted away. I couldn’t hear him, as he screamed, cried, and watched whatever was on the TV. The Giraffe man came in every now and then to go through the routine of bathing, feeding, and watering me. I’m sure he did the same with the others. Eventually, the other man was trapped in bed as I had been. He seemed to be in a daze as the TV flickered on.

He was collected as I had been. He was taken out of the room and with the door wide open, I could see the Giraffe man caring for him as he cared for the three of us already in his basement. When he was in the chair, the Giraffe man flipped the switch. This time, the long haired man was looking at the man in the chair. The other man had his head hanging low. I felt as frantic as the look on the guy’s face when he saw us all.

Eventually, the Giraffe man closed the door and left. When he came back, he cleaned the room again. He continued to silently keep me alive, along with the others, for who knows how long. It must’ve been a week at least. That’s how long he said he would keep us anyway. He walked into the room where he kept the man with the long hair. He opened the door and left. He went to the room with the man that was there before me, and opened the door. He came into my room, and opened the door. Lastly, he went to the new guy’s room, and opened the door.

He walked to the center of the room, and told us cheerfully, “It’s finally time.”

He dragged us by our chairs into the room, one by one. Three of us pleaded with him, the man with the long hair was silent. The Giraffe Man ignored us. Instead he hummed a merry tune, until we were all gathered around the middle. After which, he loudly called out, “I release you!”

I don’t think he was talking to any of us. The lights in the room flickered wildly. He started chanting something I didn’t understand. The long-haired man moaned in horror. The new guy and I were pleading and yelling. The other man was anxiously looking around the room. The Giraffe man slid a silver dagger out from under his shirt. The blade was so polished that it glinted and flashed in the lights as they jolted on and off.

He went to the long haired man and the lights flashed. In an instant, the man was gurgling up blood from a slice across his neck. Giraffe man went to the guy that was there before me, and did the same to him. I knew it was my turn. I screamed and screamed, but no one was there to save me. I was dead before I really knew it. In fact, I don’t even remember dying. I remember the blood-soaked blade at my neck, and darkness.

When I ‘woke up’, I was here. In that same room, with those three men for company. We’re good friends now, but we’re still trapped. Our entire existence is trapped. We’re stuck here, waiting, until someone destroys the house or rids it from the demon within. We rarely see the demon though. He likes to roam the rest of the house. He looks a lot like the Giraffe man. Part of me wonders if he died with us. Another part of me wonders if he’s just upstairs. The basement hasn’t changed, but the only time I’ve seen him is when the demon comes howling through our room in his guise.

Credit To – Nixie B. Vilda

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