The Serene Cyclist

December 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I used to live in Cambridge a while back, which is a small city smack in the middle of England, best known for the university that is as large as the city itself. But I was there for work. I had a few friends around the city, and Cambridge being a very green city, it is the ‘Cambridge way’ to cycle around to most places. I would mostly visit my friends in the evenings, and we would all stay up till late, not socializing, or drinking, but playing games, musing philosophically and finding other means of continuing our existence. On the nights this continued for particularly long I would have to cycle back halfway across the city, often in cold. This was usually quite pleasant; Cambridge is quite a safe city, and I generally enjoy being out in the dark, alone, under the yellow of the night-lights. It was one of those nights, though, that I met what felt to me like the devil himself.
It was on another one of those long quiet lamp-lit roads on a particularly chilly February night. I was halfway home and slightly wary of it being 3 am. This was late even by my standards, and this put me somewhat on edge. My senses seemed to be more alert than usual and I was unconsciously keeping an eye on every single shadow on the street, trying to avoid as many alcohol fuelled incidents as I could. As I turned into a street that told me I was not very far from where my apartment was located I started to feel much more peaceful. It was halfway across the street biking at my leisure that I noticed a man in a dark jacket cycling around 20 feet in front of me. My senses suddenly sharpened again, due to the simple fact of him seeming to appear out of nowhere. Perhaps I had not been paying as much attention as I thought I was.

The man was cycling quite slowly, and even while barely pedalling I slowly started to draw near him. It also started to get quieter on the street. It took me a few moments to realize that I could not hear the man’s bike or the many mechanical clicking sounds my bike often made. The quiet was eerie. That should have warned me, but not heeding what now seems like a very obvious warning, I kept cycling closer to the man. I found his speed quite peculiar, even more so that his dark attire, and so as I drew nearly level I glanced at his body. I say his body because his face was not very human. It was made of what can only be described as a shadow, and with eyes that seemed like he very depths of hell itself. One look left me lifeless, motionless, speechless, riding down the slope right next to him, too scared to move, too scared to act. And worst of all, I was unable to take me eyes off his.

“This way is closed” he said, in a growling voice that made my hair stand on end. “This is way is closed. Go back.”

That was all he said, but those with those words the hold his eyes– its eyes had over me was broken. I managed to find some life in my hands and I braked as hard as I could, letting him get ahead of me. He continued to cycle ahead at his eerily slow place and then, as mysteriously as he had appeared in front of me, he was gone. He simply disappeared, unhurriedly, into the shadows at the end of the street. The rest of the way back home for me was a fight against my own body. My mind would not stop reeling from the horror it had just experienced, and my heart was in my throat, unwilling to go down. I could not think. I could not rationalize. I had no refuge. I could hear again. I could hear the wind in my ears, the clunking of my pedal as I cycled as fast as I could. and unfortunately for me, I could hear someone riding a bike a little behind me.

When I finally got home, I threw my bike and rushed into my first-floor apartment, refusing to look at what was surely there. I could still hear footsteps following me up the stairs but I refused to acknowledge them as I rushed into my room as fast as I could, and into the refuge of my bed.

I could still see shadows under my front door as I finally decided to go to bed. They refused to go away.

True story from 3:49 am, 25th of February, 2012.

(This is a part of a collection of real life horror stories and memoirs currently being collected and compiled by Salman Shahid Khan. For more, please visit and follow the writer’s blog here)

Credit To – Salman Shahid Khan

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Looking Inside

December 10, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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“’Ere, Bertie – help me pull her up onto the bank, will you?”

“Alright, then.” Bert said stoutly, though Thomas still caught the furrow in his brow as they both rolled up their navy trousers and waded out in their boots to drag her corpse ashore by the armpits.

She’d been a pretty young thing; skin was spongy and purple in places now that the bloat was starting to set in but her eyes were closed and she wasn’t rotten yet – maybe that was why young Bertie could muster up the nerve to get near.

Still, there was no way to ignore the tragedy of the thing – not even for hardened ol’ Thomas. What a waste of womanhood; her dress was thin and white, a nightgown soaked through to semi-transparency. In the twilight he could still make out the dark circles of her nipples capping her pert breasts beneath the cloth. Now that he had a closer look, he could see there were an awful lot of tears in the cotton. She mightn’t have been from the wealthiest family, but she would’ve been a right catch nevertheless.

“Perhaps she’s a scullery maid.” Thomas mused aloud.

“There’s not a village for three miles, never mind a toff’s house,” Bert pointed out, and he was right.

“Might just be some unfortunate that did away with herself in the night,” he mused again, “Must have wandered around for hours. Maybe she’s from the loony bin up on the point.

“Loony or not, what’d make her go an’ do a thing like that?” His partner’s voice was hushed, dropping his half of the load once she was ashore and hastily wiping his hands on his thighs.

“That,” Thomas said plaintively, paying a curt nod down to her stomach where a round, pregnant belly swelled up from beneath her sodden nightgown.

A moment of silence passed between the two bobbies as they stared out into the misty fog threading through the marshy ponds that dotted the moor. Bert nervously cleared his throat.

“’Ere! ‘Ere, Thomas. There’s something queer in her mouth.”

Thomas looked down, and there it was: something jet-black and sinewy, catching the light in strands like ink-stained rope. “So there is. Well go on, then; pull it out.”

Bert balked. Of course he would. Once again Thomas felt resigned to the duty to work some practicality into the lad. The beat wasn’t just nabbing street urchins and drunks off the road, not these days.

“Go on, Bertie.”

He watched the younger man squirm his lips, bending hesitantly at the waste as he reached out. For one fleeting moment it looked like his outstretched fingers would make contact with the debris, yet in the final second he snatched his hand back, cringing in upon himself.

“I can’t, Thomas. I think it’s a beetle,” he said pathetically, and Thomas saw red.

“Well then if it’s a bloody beetle, pull the sodding thing out and be done with it!” Thomas snapped.
His partner flinched, and Thomas felt a stab of regret at his outburst. It was no way to mould a man into something braver, he should know. His father had taught him that.

“’Ere Bert, listen,” he coaxed, this time trying his hardest to keep the angry wheeze out of his voice. “Just give it a go, eh? There’s a goodly tot of whiskey in it for you if you do. The stuff I keep locked up at the station; there’s still a third left.”

“A goodly tot,” Bertie parrotted, his tone hollow as he stared down at them both. For a fleeting moment he looked like he might reconsider, a hesitant tremor running down his hand like the tendons inside were violin strings. It stopped when his fist clenched.

Thomas sighed.

“I’m sorry, Thommy; it’s the insides. You know I can’t deal with the insides!” Bertie babbled, shrinking in on himself. Thomas waved him aside with a broad hand.

“I’ll do it, then,” he said dismissively, feeling like he was begrudging a child. Getting onto his knees in the dirt, he moved to pluck the thing out of her lips and was met with some resistance. “What in the blazing…” he muttered, prising her jaw open to get a better look. It was no bug, but indeed a rope; it went right past her teeth and down into the fleshy tunnel of her throat.

Full of resolve, he curled his fingers around the bristly protrusion as started to pull. There was no give at first, but once he pushed her head back and pulled at the same angle as her windpipe, it started to come free, bit by bit. There was a good five inches so far.

“Thomas,” Bert piped up, his voice urgent and worried, “Thomas, just leave it be!”

“Shut up,” Thomas said curtly, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He pinched his nose to fight the sour taste in his mouth as continued to pull the rope free. There was something on the end of it; he could see the bulge moving up in her throat and it was dragging the rank stench of her insides up with it.

Ignoring Bert’s whimper, he pulled harder, his teeth grit with suspense. Slowly, the wench gave birth at the wrong end to a smooth, slimy sphere. Beneath the dripping stomach bile, it seemed white, like porcelain.

That wasn’t even the end of it; there was more of the same black cord going right down her gullet. There was already another bulge in her throat, and Thomas was struck by the nauseous doubt if that pregnant belly was even a pregnant belly at all, or just a mass of beaded rope that someone had spent a great deal of time stuffing the whole, unknown length of down there, swelling her stomach.

Hadn’t it seemed to shift and shrink slightly when he pulled? He couldn’t remember now.

“Bloody hell, Bert,” Thomas gasped after a moment, his voice a lot quieter than he felt it ought to be, considering how hard his heart was racing. “Bring the wagon round, and fetch a lantern, too! This isn’t an ordinary killing, the Sergeant will want a proper look into this.”

His partner wasted no time, adjusting his helmet in a fidgety panick as he took the order and then scrambled back up the marshy bank to the cobbled road where they’d left the wagon and the horses tethered.

What kind of deranged psychopath would do this to a poor young girl? A proper serial killer, that’s what. He set her down again hastily, her head lolling to one side as the threaded string flopped onto the dirt like a filthy necklace. Thomas whipped the grubby little notepad and pencil out of his breastpocket and started jotting down notes about the discovery – his superiors would have his hide for not doing it from the start.

“Upon returning the body to the shore we noticed an obstruction – no, protrusion,” he muttered. There was a belchy burp by his knee and he stopped, looking back down at her face. He knew the dead ones could rattle like that, but brackish water had done more than just bubble up out of her belly.

Now the stomach bile was washed away, he could see an iris set into the orb. It was no mere sphere, but an eye, vividly emerald as though it were painted on. A string of glass eyes.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed softly, scribbling over his last sentence and starting again. This was a real pervert they were dealing with, the kind of cryptic killer that was way above their station. There’d be detectives and the whole circus on this case.

He paused, swearing he caught a sign of movement in his periphery.

The eye swivelled on the string in a lazy circle, then stopped and looked right at him. Thomas blinked.

Bertie had a harder time of getting the horses to come around than usual; they could always smell the fear in his sweat. Once he hand the wagon near enough and lined up to load the body into the back, he lit one of the oil lanterns as night time began to bloom in the sky. Thomas would be grateful for it to take his notes. He hurried back down the slope to the water’s edge.

“Thomas?” he called, holding the lantern out as he searched the bank. There was no answer to his call.

He was a cruel man to test him like this. He knew it didn’t make things any better. “T-Thomas,” he called louder, tongue tripping over his attempt to speak with gumption. Stepping closer to the bank, his boot hit something: the girl. With a shudder he stopped and looked down, and the lanternlight caught the fresh crimson on the grass.

It wasn’t the girl.

There was a bubbling sound in the water that cut through the night’s silence and Thomas gave a shout and fell back on his rump. The wetness through his slacks sent him into a greater state of panick and he thrashed like an animal to get back to his feet, whirling round to face out to the water in the direction of a feminine snicker that dripped through the darkness.

Lifting the lantern up high, he saw her there in the water up to her mottle collarbone, her blind eyes open and milky white. He could have sworn those purple lips smiled at him before that black, fibrous cord licked at them like a satisfied tongue and she slowly sank beneath the surface.

Thommy’s eyes were missing from their sockets, leaving nought but wet, red holes in his head. Bert thought he heard a trail of bubbles come up towards the bank.

Dropping the lantern, Bert scrambled up and away on all fours until his legs got enough traction to carry him like a man. He couldn’t cut a horse loose fast enough.

Credit To – Dean Wax

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December 6, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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“Mom…dad…is it over?”

It was pitch black and silent for a moment after…

“I don’t know, son.”

Then woman’s voiced quivered…

“Henry, how will we know?”

It was then Henry switched on the lantern. He was a blinded momentarily and when his sight came too he saw his wife and son huddled in front of him; tears rolling down their cheeks. He had wiped off his own tears earlier. Having illuminated the lantern, he proceeded to direct the light around the room. The surrounding area was small and lined with metal walls; itself, lined with lead thick enough to block out radiation from the outside. Boxes and shelves of canned food products hugged every corner. At the far end was a large water purifier. There was a single door in the shape of a vault. He wondered how long they had been waiting in the darkness.

“Henry, how will we know?”

Henry pointed the light back at his family with a dumbfounded look on his face and said nothing.


“I don’t know. I didn’t…I mean, I don’t have any way to tell if it’s safe out there. Where’s the radio?”

He found the radio behind him and channeled through the stations, hoping to pick up a signal. At first, there was only static…

“Mom, is it the end of the world?”

“No baby, we’re still alive.”

“I mean outside.”

“That’s what your father is trying to find out.”

“Shh!” Henry held out his hand, he was trying to listen. He thought he had heard something.

“Mom, that earthquake…was that from the bombs?”

“JONATHAN!” Henry hushed his son and held the radio to his ear. He had definitely heard something. Someone was singing. It was faint; hidden in the static. Jonathan opened his mouth, but his mother smothered him.

“There…” Henry jolted, “THERE! You hear it?”

They all drew closer and a faint singing emerged. The tune was familiar, though the words were still obscured.

Catherine made a confused face, “Happy…”

“What is it Catherine? Is that what they’re saying?”

“I think so. I think it’s the Happy Holiday song?”

Henry gave an odd expression, “You mean Bill Crosby ‘Happy Holidays’?”

“Bing Crosby. Yes, definitely.”

The static cleared and the song could be heard much more clearly; Bing Crosby’s “Happy Holiday” was playing.

Their son whimpered, “Does that mean nothing happen?”

“I’m not sure, son”

“but..but what about…what about the shaking earlier? The Earthquake.”

“Calm down, son. We don’t know.” Henry turned to Catherine and motioned to the vault door, “Honey? Should we?”

“I don’t know, Henry. We don’t know what this means. What if the signal was still running in the air before it … happened… and we’re just picking up residue?”

Henry lowered the volume, “That’s true. Also, it’s a strange thing to play after what happened; even if nothing happened. You’d think there’d be a national broadcast signal directing us what to do next.”

There, they waited; hoping for some sign from the outside world; a radio signal with instructions, some knock from the other side of their vault, reassuring them the outside world was okay. Anything. They waited for days, but there was nothing but the same song playing over and over; “Happy Holidays”. In a fit of desperation, they eventually decided to open the door, realizing whatever reality existed outside the room they would have to face it sooner or later. Henry had a shot gun just in case. If it were only radiation, he thought, then the fallout should have settled. He told his family to move to the back of the room behind the water purifier. When they did, he reached for the door. As he began to turn the wheel lock, “Happy Holiday” ended and there was a momentary silence.

“Henry?” Catherine yelped

Henry looked at her, then the door, and opened it. A bright light shot through the entrance and they all covered their eyes. It was too bright. When his eyes adjusted, Jonathan saw his father disappear into the light and began to walk towards it himself. His mother held him back, but he pulled her forward. “Happy Holidays” began to play again. Jonathan slipped out his mother’s hand and continued into the light. She ran for him and before they reached the door, a large shadow overcame them.

“Son, Catherine. Everything is alright.”

They were outside, just having emerged from underground. All around them was green grass, and trees, and their house. Everything looked in place. Up ahead, they could see the town. Nothing had been disturbed.

“Henry, HENRY! Everything is fine!” Catherine cried. She was overjoyed.

They had entered their house and noted the electricity still ran. Henry began to make some phone calls; Catherine turned on the television and Jonathan ran upstairs to his room. Henry held the phone to his ear while examining the interior of his house, checking for damages the eruption or earthquake, or whatever it was that happened earlier, might have caused. There were none that he could see.

Catherine turned to Henry, “Honey, anyone answering?”

“No, no one. They’re probably still hiding in shelter. What does the news say?”

“Nothing, none of the channels are working.” She was flipping through static.

Henry was still waiting on the phone when he said, “Maybe the stations are all down. Check the radio again. See if there’s a national broadcast or something.”

She did as he said and walked off. He had dialed a couple of different numbers, to no avail. He called the police. Called City Hall. Called the hospital. Called neighbors and friends and his boss. Nothing. “Honey, anything on the radio?”

He heard “Happy Holidays” getting closer and closer and his wife stood with a handheld radio. “Henry, this is all they’re playing.”

“What about the radio in our room? All the channels?”

“Yes, all the channels. I tried the other radios; they’re all playing the same thing. There are no other signals. They’re all only playing this. It’s looping over and over.”

Concern swelled in Henry’s throat. “Um…no one is answering. Honey, I think maybe the stations are all down. We might be among the first to emerge. I need to go town and see if anyone else is out and about. Hopefully the National Guard is around. I’m taking the truck, you stay here with Jonathan. Do not. DO NOT. Let anyone you don’t know in here, unless it’s the police or the Army.” He ran to his room and came out with his shotgun and pistol. He gave the shotgun to Catherine and stuck the pistol in his holster. “Baby, no one. I need to make sure it’s safe first. Stay with Jonathan.”

She nodded and locked the door after he left. She looked around and noticed she had not heard from Jonathan for some time.

“Johnny? Johnny?”

No response. She made her way to the stairs, into the second floor hallway. At the end of it her son’s room door was wide open. She walked to it, calling his name one last time. She entered his room. A scream of horror and a shotgun shot reverberated through the house, but Henry had already driven too far to hear it.


Henry was driving slowly through the neighborhood. He was deciding whether to meet his neighbors at their vault (or whatever area of precaution they took) or go straight to town hall, where the police station and Army recruiters’ office could be reached. He decided on the latter. He had to make sure everything was safe before pulling anyone else out. There wasn’t a single soul in sight. It unnerved him, despite understanding the circumstances. He turned on his radio, but it was all static with the exception of the one station looping “Happy Holiday”. He turned it off and he thought to himself, “Those goddamn Soviets”.

The town was empty. Nervous, he drove faster. He began to think about the impeding war. He thought about having to hide in the vault and the massive eruption earlier that surrounded them. What was it, he wondered? What caused that eruption? It felt like an earthquake. The buildings in town are still standing; it must not have been that strong. Maybe it was a natural earthquake. Maybe that’s what scared everybody enough to remain in their vaults. Maybe that’s why everything is so quiet. Was I the only one brave enough to venture out? He let out a nervous laugh. He thought of his family. He thought of the day before the sirens rang; how he had gathered his family in his sons room upstairs, huddled them together and promised them he would take of care. He remembered his shotgun in hand. He remember the tears on his wife fa…

Henry then slammed his brakes. The brakes let out a loud screech as the tires scraped across the pavement, then the truck shot its nose forward and then violently shot back. Henry bounced and swung violently on his seat, but in that whole time, he did not blink. A hundred feet ahead of the truck, Henry saw something beyond comprehension. He could not have uttered a word if he tried. There was no way to describe it. Terror beyond words. He immediately turned his truck around and sped off; hoping whatever they were hadn’t see him.

There was a single truck on the road, its tires screaming and swerving. It ran straight towards the Mercer’s residence; a small family of modest means. The man of the house, Henry Mercer, worked for the government in a classified capacity, and met his wife, Catherine, at one of the departments New Year’s Eve party, in Wilmington, Delaware. They conceived a child three months later and produced their son, Jonathan, on December 25, 1958. Two years earlier General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, Nikita Khrushchev, threatened western sovereignty. The threat of nuclear war cast a shadow across the American landscape and families prepared for the worst. When the sirens rang, everyone ran for shelter; the Mercers where never heard from again.


Henry nearly ran the truck into his house. He shot out the vehicle and slammed through the house entrance door. He began to call his wife and son, screaming their names. The house was filled with Bing Crosby’s “Happy Holiday”, playing on the radio and even through the static of the television. He took out his pistol and negotiated his way through the house; periodically looked out the window, hoping to God he wasn’t followed by whatever it was he saw. Seeing nobody downstairs, he made his way up. He found himself at the end of the second floor hallway where his son’s room door had been shut. A horrible smell emitted from behind.

“Johnny? Catherine?”

The door was locked.


No answer.


Henry stood back and made a start at the door, kicking the wood around the doorknob into a dent. The wood had broken. One more kick should do it. He stood back further this time and charge the door, kicked the same area, and the door busted open.


Earlier that day, Jonathan ran into the house. He could hear his parents discussing what had happened. He was walking up the stairs when he saw his father reach for the phone. He was in the hallway when he heard his mother carrying around a radio playing “Happy Holiday”. He liked that song. Then he froze in his steps. He thought he had seen someone running inside his room. He should of ran back downstairs and told his mother and father, but he continued forward; cautiously.


He approached the door and slowly peaked inside. Then he saw them and they saw him. They were shaped like humans, but that was as far as the similarity went. Everything else was completely inhuman. Jonathan was paralyzed in fear and could barely call for help above a whisper.

Soon afterwards, Catherine made her way inside the room. At first, her mind could not make sense of what she was looking at; then seeing Jonathan’s body lying at their feet, she screamed, aimed the shotgun, and shot.

Sometime later, Henry returned. He could be heard screaming downstairs. Then he made his way up and into the room. The door was initially closed and when he kicked it in, he fell into an empty room; just four walls and a floor and window. He was stunned in disbelief. Where had they gone? What happened to Jonathan’s room? He heard a noise outside and ran to the window. Looking out, he saw those indescribable horrors making their way into the house. They had followed him. He shut the broken door as well as he could and welded his pistol. Panic overtook him and he rushed to the furthest corner from the door. He could hear the doors and windows downstairs crashing open. Those things were inside the house. Their crawling and scratching could be heard between the walls and a horrific scream emitted from them. Henry could hear them making their way upstairs and at that moment, he kicked open the window and tried to escape, but the horrors, these beings beyond description, rushed into the room and smothered his screams. He didn’t even get a single shot out.


Ultimately, nuclear war was dissuaded and both superpowers reached an agreement. The Soviet Union later dissolved. Today, no such looming danger exists on that level. Neither do the Mercers exist anymore. There’s another family there now; The Mores. Frederick More had purchased the house from the government at a reasonably cheap price. It was a single story home, though a shallow alcove near the entrance was evident that a staircase once stood there. The roof was brand new. Outside, a large patch of grass was discolored. The ground sank when you watered it. Frederick asked the neighbors if anything was once buried there. They were hesitant; asking Frederick if his Realtor had explained to them the houses history. He shook his head, so they proceeded to tell him. Story was….and Frederick realized why the house sold for cheap… the previous owner committed a murder/suicide along with his family and they were found buried there with some cans of food and a radio.

Frederick reiterated for clarity sake “So, the previous owner killed his family and then himself. And they were found buried here?”

“That’s what they say.” His neighbor shrugged “It was just a giant hole burying that poor family and a couple of cans and a radio.”

“God, that’s horrible. I’d rather my family not know about this. I’d rather not know about this, but who buried them?”

Nobody knew, but it didn’t bother Frederick. It had happened decades ago; before the much of the town was destroyed in that earthquake and rebuilt. He returned home to his wife and son, poured himself some coffee, and turned on the radio. At first, there was only static…

Credit To – ghostmetalblack

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Vir Silvae

December 3, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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About 5 years ago I went on a vacation to Wrangell–St. Elias National Park in Alaska. The cool, fresh air, beautiful scenery, and vast expanses of wilderness seemed ideal for my vacation from a tedious desk job back home. I’d saved up for years to finance the trip. I wanted my stay to be perfect.

I left in late August to fly from my home in Alabama to Alaska. Everything was going great; my flight was smooth and I set out on my camping trip, alone, into the wilderness on September 1st. I hiked about 13 miles the first day and set up camp among a large area of Black Spruces. I started a small fire to cook some food around 6:00 pm. I still remember how I felt, overjoyed that I was away from my stressful life. I lay back on the ground, looked at the stars through the trees, and listened to the fire crackle. It was a while before I began to notice the quietness of the rest of the forest. No insects, no birds, no anything. All I could hear was my breathing and the fire, not even a breeze met the branches of the spruces. Later on, I’m not sure what time, I was woken up by a noise off in the distance. I’m not sure what it was, maybe a falling tree, but it was fairly loud. I didn’t hear it again within 5 minutes, so I went back to sleep thinking it had been part of a dream.

I woke up early in the morning just as the sun was coming up. I inhaled the fresh Alaskan air and got up to make some breakfast before packing up and continuing on my hike. By the end of the day, I had moved 9 miles from my original camping spot. It was a slower day, but I enjoyed taking my time and soaking in the scenery. I still hadn’t seen any signs of wildlife, however. I didn’t even see a bird flying above me or insects buzzing around. I didn’t dwell on it, though. I felt like I was in Heaven. At about 4:00 pm I saw the first sign of life in over a day, two hikers. They were coming the opposite direction of me, but they didn’t have any gear with them. We were miles from any civilization, so it was weird seeing anyone, let alone anyone with gear. They were moving at a fairly quick pace, and I ended up having to grab one of them as they went past to ask if they were okay because they didn’t even look at me. The guy I grabbed jumped and nearly started crying, then he looked at me and said, “Turn back. It’s still back there,” and then he jerked away with me, grabbed his friend (who had been staring straight ahead with a glossy look about him) and started walking away, still with a quick pace. I reasoned that the guys had been doing some powerful drug in the woods for fun and had started seeing things.

I set up camp and ate dinner pretty much the same way I had the night before, star gazing for a while before falling asleep. I woke up with a start several hours later to what I can only describe as a fog horn. It was low and very loud, and seemed fairly close as well. The noise echoed off of the trees, making it hard to tell where it had come from. I sat up, still sleepy, trying to wake up and figure out what was going on. I looked around, yawned, and was about to go back to sleep when I heard the sound again. This time it seemed much closer, but I still couldn’t tell where it was. After a minute or two, I heard trees moving off in the distance. I heard loud snapping noises, and branches rubbing against each other and shaking. I couldn’t give you an exact distance, but I think it was about a mile away. The first thing to come to my still-sleepy mind was “bear.” I jumped to my feet and began looked for anything to use to defend myself from this “bear” and ended up picking the hatchet I had brought.

This is what the noise sounded like, only deeper and in longer bursts.

I stood around in a defensive stance for a good 10 minutes before I heard the sound again, this time even closer. I heard tree branches, maybe the trees themselves, snapping in the distance. It was within a mile from me, now. It then began to dawn on me that what I was dealing with wasn’t a bear. My heart was beating furiously and my mind was racing to figure out what was making the sounds I kept hearing. I couldn’t think of anything. The horn-like sound sounded again, this time farther away than before. I stayed up the entire night, listening to it as it got farther and farther away. By sunrise, the noise had stopped. I ate breakfast and packed up fairly quickly; I had decided I’d hike back to the car I had rented and drive off, maybe stay in a hotel till I could get on the next plane home. It was still early, though, and I thought I’d go towards where I kept hearing the noises in hopes of finding out what they were. I got about 3 quarters of a mile from where I had set up camp when I found the first tree. It was completely snapped in half, falling in the direction my campsite was. I continued on, finding more and more snapped trees. They made a trail, almost, that I started to follow, not thinking about the daylight I was wasting moving along the fallen trees. The trail went on for miles, filled with nothing but fallen trees and weird holes, like if a tree had been uprooted, all along the trail as well. I figured whatever had been here had started throwing trees as well as knocking them over.

By the time I noticed it was getting dark, I had almost reached the end of the trail. I kept walking, exhausted from my sleepless night, not even noticing when the trail stopped, and decided to set up camp for the night next to a large, tall tree. It was much larger than the spruces surrounding it, it looked nothing like any evergreen I had ever seen, and its trunk was blacker than the night sky. I decided the tree had been a victim of a fire. It had plenty of branches, and my idea of setting up camp near it was so I could climb it in case whatever had been knocking over trees decided to come back. At the top of the tree was a hole, similar to one you might find in any tree, and it looked large enough for me to climb into and hide in if I could reach it. I set up my plan, ate a little bit of food, and then passed out, planning on heading back as soon as I woke up.

I’m not sure how long I slept. I must have fallen asleep at around 8:00 pm, so it must have been about 3:00 am when I woke up. I was asleep on my back, clutching the hatchet in one hand, when I felt the ground tremble. Whatever it was was close. I was pretty disoriented at first from being woken up, but I soon got a hold of my senses. I clutched the hatchet even harder and tried to open the tent I was in when an extremely bright light appeared right above me. It was blinding, partly because it was just a bright light and partly because my eyes were only adjusted to the darkness. I somehow managed to get the tent open with the full intent of running as fast as I could, and as soon as I did I looked up, trying to get a quick look at whatever it was standing over me. A bright, yellow light was coming from a large oval hole in what appeared to be the tree I had planned on climbing. Only the tree was, at least it was supposed to be, about 10 feet away from me. The light hovered, I think, about 70 feet above me. I didn’t look much longer because I got out and started sprinting through the woods as fast as I could manage. I lost the hatchet at some point, but I don’t think it would have done me much good.

As I ran, I began to feel the ground quake like it did before, at intervals of about once every 5 seconds. Whatever it was, it was gaining on me, but I didn’t have time to think about that because the noise sounded behind me, and it was incredibly loud. I tried to scream, make any noise, really, but nothing came out. Then I ran right into something and fell and tumbled to the ground. I immediately tried to get up and keep running, but soon realized I was tangled up in someone’s tent, which had apparently been abandoned. It was then that I realized I was once again bathed in the yellow light. I looked up to the light, shielding my face with my hand, and got a better view of what had been following me. The tree I had camped by was standing in front of me, bent so that the light, from what was apparently the hole I had planned on hiding in, sent a beam down directly on top of me. The trunk of the tree (if you can still call it one) was split to form what could only be described as legs, each making a rather deep imprint in the earth, like what I saw along the trail of broken trees. The “tree” also seemed to have arms, or long, thin, branches that hung loosely by its side. The thing stood there, unmoving, and seemed to just stare at me. The light soon became rather pretty and nice to look at, but then the “tree” made that awful noise again, and I snapped out of my trance.

I got up and started running again, maybe even faster than before. I kept running till morning came, and then I kept going till I reached my car. I’m not sure when it stopped following, when it stopped shining its light at me, when it stopped making that horrible noise, but I didn’t care. When I made it to my car, I immediately got in and drove off in the direction that I’d come in from. I nearly wrecked several times from exhaustion, but I didn’t want to stop and risk meeting that thing again. I eventually made it back to civilization and got the first plane back home. I didn’t sleep well for the next few weeks. I live in a fairly wooded area, though I have plenty of neighbors, and had to keep the blinds on the windows closed to keep from seeing the woods outside my house, fearful that the black tree I saw would be standing among the pines and oaks. I still have nightmares.

Credit To – Chapman

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December 1, 2013 at 12:00 PM
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I recall when we first found the grove. The trees glowed, illuminated by late sunlight coming in shafts down into the valley, the thick smell of decaying fruit rising up toward us, sweet and sour and wonderful.

I was part of a six-person research team looking into water quality fluctuations in the Sierra valley system, following watercourses and comparing their biodiversity. In pursuit of one specific stream, we’d squeezed through a narrow crevice canyon that eventually opened up into a verdant, enclosed ecosystem rich with plants and animals previously unknown to science. That sort of thing isn’t unheard of in the region – the Andean mountains are full of such tiny pockets of life, totally cut off from each other by high mountain walls, creating Galapagos-like isolation.

But the trees – those really were the discovery of a lifetime, for any botanist or explorer – and I was both. The local natives (Puruhá) called them ‘Witch Berries’, or something like that, according to our guide. I speak very little Quichua, so I had to trust his translation. It’s not an unfitting name, though – they were bewitching. Endemic to just one valley in Ecuador, which was later made into a protected reserve, the small trees were not only beautiful, with arching, pendulous boughs and long, distinctive leaves; green above and pink below, but they also produced flowers and fruit in amazing quantity.

Walking into the grove, the berries were everywhere, emitting a heavenly scent, and we could not resist sampling, even knowing we risked poisoning. Taking some back to camp, they were run through our field toxicity test without any problems, and after we’d gone several days without any ill effects, we went back to the grove and picked hands-full of the fragrant fruit. Orange-pink, grape-sized oblong berries with a thin, fig-like skin, and a ripe mango texture. And the flavor – like burnt brown sugar and melted butter drizzled on perfect strawberries. They also dried easily, and held up unrefrigerated for nearly a week before spoiling. Almost immediately, talk of cultivation and marketing overtook our discussions, we foresaw ‘witchberries’ being the next big thing in supermarkets all across the world – and our visions soon danced with the money to be made!

The Puruhá didn’t seem too happy about us taking branch samples or eating from the trees – no doubt we were offending their religion and angering their Gods somehow – they had some sort of taboo about eating the fruits raw, which we didn’t understand, and dismissed as superstition. They used the berries for various medicinal and ceremonial purposes, cooking, drying, and grinding the fruit into a fine powder. It was easy to categorize their reverence as being similar to other cultures’ superstitions about pomegranates, apples, or honey.

So we took the cuttings back to our greenhouses in Kent, only to be pleasantly surprised by how readily they rooted and grew, thriving in warm, humid shade. Inside of five years, they started flowering, and we arranged an industry party to celebrate and taste the first crop grown in the UK. I lost track of how many people shook my hand, congratulated me and my teammates, and gushed positively about our find.

Oh but of course, we couldn’t say we -discovered- the plant, the indigenous people of the region knew about them long before us, and we had already made plans to send a small portion of the profits from our venture to the Puruhá, to improve their lives and to protect the tiny valley the trees came from.

The tasting party went off without a hitch, and we got a plethora of preliminary offers, not only from within the UK, but Europe and the USA as well. Of course, the fruit still needed FSA approval, but since the trees produced year-round with sufficient fertilizer, we could start shipping as soon as we were certified. Since our own labs had already investigated them pretty thoroughly, we knew it wouldn’t be a long process. With luck, we’d be able to get the next crop out by December, just in time for the big rush on tropical fruit for the holiday season. And when the certificates arrived, I brought in some champagne for us all.

We were, of course, fools. Not stupid, we were all educated scholars. Well, except Paul Dimsey, he was a photographer. But no amount of research or knowledge could have prepared us for the worst. I, in particular, was so blinded by fortune and success that even when I saw the signs that something was wrong, I didn’t pay attention to them. I didn’t want to. And for that I take full responsibility.

There’s a disease called ‘Pica’ that affects people with certain neurological conditions or dietary deficiencies, and it is characterised by the sufferer eating non-food items or substances. In some cases, pennies, buttons, small sundry objects… in others, clay or dirt. It was the latter that I caught Nick Blessed up to in the greenhouse, perhaps three days after we’d packed our first shipment and kissed it goodbye. He was eating the moist black soil straight out of a large plastic bag, and when he saw me watching him, he immediately stopped, guilty-faced and stuttering. He called me ‘Miss Torgersen’, instead of my first name, and tried to hide what he had been doing.

I asked him if he was feeling alright, and he abashedly admitted to me he’d had the condition his entire life, it just… happened to come and go at odd times. I told him I understood; though really, I was surprised. He’d never mentioned it, and he’d always seemed very open and jovial about his life. But then, I’d reasoned, some people act that way to better hide their secrets. Still, something felt off about the entire thing.

I regretted not listening to my instincts when Dr. Hanlon came to my apartment a little less than a week later. He asked to come in, and I offered him a drink. “Bless you, girl.” He said, and I poured us whiskey on the rocks. We weren’t best friends, but we’d spent a lot of time talking on our trip. I think our mutual love of a good bottle pushed us into each others’ company – the others in our team didn’t drink, and didn’t find our rowdiness after a few as mutually endearing as we did. Dr. Hanlon; Eugene outside office hours, hadn’t come for my delightful presence, but to talk to me about something far more problematic.

He asked me if I had felt any strange urges recently, for example, the urge to eat anything… unusual. Eugene was edging around the true crux of his question, so I supplied it for him.

“You mean like soil?” As I said it, his face stiffened. I’d hit the bullseye. I told him I’d walked in on Nick earlier, and he nodded, then told me it wasn’t just the one. He liked to sneak into the greenhouses for a tipple here and there between his appointments, and he’d spied three people – all members of our expedition – snacking on black humus. We discussed the situation for a good long while, consuming half of my bottle of Glenfiddich.

The possibility of having brought back with us some exotic tropical parasite came quick to our minds, though Eugene and I weren’t experiencing any odd urges yet. Still, I was worried, and sought a clinic as soon as they were open the next morning.

I went back to the campus in the afternoon, to ask Eugene to help me convince the rest of the expedition team to get themselves tested. There was initial resistance, everyone seemed to feel fine, even those who we knew were snacking out of the garden bed. Especially those, which just made us more worried. Our concerns were taken seriously by the department head, who ordered mandatory testing for everyone who’d been on the expedition – as well as anyone who’d been in extended contact with us, or been in the greenhouses for any length of time.

Everyone in the department submitted to various scans and samplings without argument, including the soil-eaters, their smiles so certain that nothing was amiss. And they seemed to be right. There was nothing new or unusual in any of their samples, no strange bacterias, viruses, nematodes, no extreme nutritional elevations or deficiencies, nothing to indicate why some of them were having such odd cravings.

Testing did reveal those who were affected – crapping dirt is hard to miss. Seven people came up positive for soil-eating, which meant that whatever it was had spread to at least four people who had not gone to Ecuador with us. Suddenly, the situation was -far- more serious. If the disease could be spread, it could get out, and nobody had any idea what it was, or how it was transmitted. More people started showing symptoms, some reporting right away – others only admitting their condition after they’d succumbed to dirt hunger. All the while, the lab techs ran themselves ragged looking for an explanation, but it was only after ruling out just about every cause for the symptom they could think of, that one of the techs finally noticed something common to those who’d been afflicted: Witchberry.

Well, we’d all been eating them. Some more than others, apparently. But these folks most of all. More specifically, they were finding -lots- of chewed seeds in the subjects’ stool. When asked about it, all of the unaffected said that they specifically avoided eating the seeds, while the others did not. So we had an obvious suspect, but we’d waited too long before looking at the fruit. Hundreds of pounds had already been shipped all around the world, and while we could shut down the farm and stop production, a recall and the potential panic it could cause seemed unreasonable. If we could just figure out how to mitigate the effects, maybe the situation could be salvaged.

And then the symptoms just… went away. The dirt-eaters’ cravings evaporated a few days after they’d stopped eating the fruit, starting with those who’d developed them first. They’d experienced some mild withdrawal symptoms, but it seemed the problem had resolved itself. Still, we had a lot of work on our hands. If it was just the seeds that were the problem, we could deal with that, all was not yet lost.

So we halted shipping, and on the advisement of our legal department, sent out a statement advising people not to eat the seeds, or, if they had already been eating seeds, to stop doing so. Arrangements were coming along nicely to buy a modified olive-pitting machine, that would target and elimiate the problem area. A lot of our profits were going down the crapper, since cut fruit wasn’t as shelf-stable, and we needed special packaging to keep it from spoiling – but some income is still better than none. Or none and a legal fiasco. Looking back, I would have taken that legal fiasco happily.

Dr. Godorr had been transferred to another office, so I didn’t hear about him right away. He’d been depressed since the Pica incident, and talked about quitting, but it was still strange that he’d just disappear. A police detective came by to ask us a few questions, but I got the impression he wasn’t very optimistic.

Two weeks later, another member of the expedition team went missing. She just didn’t show up one morning. The same detective came back around, but didn’t seem to remember having talked to me before. He just gave the impression of general disinterest in the case. There was a lot of pica talk in the department, both of those who’d vanished were recovered dirt-munchers. It quickly became a department-wide rumor – the witchberry curse. One of the others who’d showed symptoms early on became so anxious that she simply quit, another went on extended vacation, and a third came into work high until he got a suspension. I never heard from any of them again.

It was fall when I received a letter on my desk. I opened it to find a complaint from the resource management office, upset that our department was using a greenhouse unit we hadn’t requisitioned or been granted the use of, and that if we didn’t move the new plantings, they would be destroyed.

New plantings? I called Eugene Hanlon first, and then Maggie Hershbaum, the only other people who might use the greenhouses for personal projects. Though even then, they’d have needed to apply for them with resource management. Neither of them admitted to knowing anything about it.

I asked them to meet me at the unit mentioned in the letter, curious (and slightly irritated) about what was going on. I’d rarely even been in that unit, since it was out on the end row, a long way from our crops. Even if I felt like putting anything in, there was no logical reason to go do it out there. After work, I hiked up to the last row of greenhouses in grey drizzle. Maggie was already there when I arrived, and Eugene made it only a few minutes after. The unit in question was unlit, and I flipped the switch so my companions could read the letter. They agreed it was odd, but sometimes our students get odd ideas for projects, and they’re notorious for failing to follow procedure with some of these things.

As promised, there were a number of seedlings growing in one of the plots. They were perhaps seven or eight inches tall, representing a couple weeks’ growth. Healthy and robust despite being in an unheated, unlit unit. They had the elegant pink and green leaves of Witchberry.

“Maybe someone’s trying to selectively breed them.” Eugene rubbed a leaf, “Make them hardier.”

“Noble, but misguided.” I noted a spade left on the floor in the aisle, and picked it up. “We’ll need to move them. Maggie, could you get a pallet?”

I remember pushing the spade into the soft, loose soil around the seedlings, working down and pulling up. I remember the -rip- of fabric, and when I lifted the spade, the dull sound of dirty brown bones coming up all tangled with the roots. I didn’t recognize what I was seeing until I looked closer, down into the hole I’d made, and saw a human jawbone with still-white teeth shining out of the dark, loamy earth.

I think I went into shock at that point, since I don’t recall much else of that night, and had to be filled in later by Maggie. Within an hour, police had swarmed the greenhouses, Eugene, Maggie and I were taken to a hotel and questioned repeatedly. I was in a daze, Maggie told me, and not very responsive. Forensics specialists dug up all the greenhouse plots with any sign of recent soil disturbance, including the original crop trees, which were moved into a storage facility in plastic tubs. The bones I had found had been those of Paul Dimsey, who had actually been the first of our expedition to go missing – but he wasn’t an employee of the university, having been hired on contract, and he lived alone. I hadn’t even known he’d gone absent. Five corpses were found inside the greenhouses – and three more in some nearby woods, each one indicated by a small cluster of pink and green saplings.

Evidence suggested that the deceased had actually buried themselves, sometimes using their bare hands to dig a hole big enough to lay in, and then pull the freshly-turned earth back in over their own bodies. Of course, not everyone who’d eaten the seeds ended up in self-made graves. A couple were found decaying in their beds, with sprouts attempting to grow through the blankets. Others were still alive, but now experiencing fatigue and abdominal heaviness. And a good percentage showed no symptoms at all, regardless of how much of the fruit they’d eaten.

CT scanning revealed what earlier tests and X-rays had missed: Some of the seeds, swallowed whole, had implanted themselves into the victims’ intestinal walls, and germinated there. Invisible to the immune system, they’d quietly spread soft, fine roots all through the bodies of their human hosts, feeding and storing energy until they were ready to progress to the next stage. Somehow, the plants made their hosts want to bury themselves, their corpses providing fertilizer for the fast-growing trees.

Efforts were made to remove the parasitic plants from the still-living victims, but the surgery proved more deadly than the parasites. And worse, new cases of soil-eating Pica were starting to emerge in every place we’d shipped the damned berries. A full recall was ordered, the fruit gathered and destroyed, but there was little way of knowing how many people ignored the recall, or had already been infected.

Eugene and I went to be more thoroughly scanned, and again, we came up clean. We went for a few drinks to celebrate our one small mercy, and talked about the future. We were pretty certain the entire department was going to be scrapped. We’d be lucky to keep our jobs once the full legal reprecussions came down on us. It would be the last time we’d see each other.

It’s quite amazing how efficient the media and government can be at hiding a crisis in plain sight. The public was scarcely aware of any of this happening. Witchberries vanished from collective awareness, and a few (dozen) people came down with an unrelated illness in each of the countries we’d shipped to.

A cure was, in fact, discovered in time to save some of those people. There was a pattern to who did or did not get infected – the immune were all regular drinkers of hard liquor, like Eugene and myself. I don’t know about Maggie, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Beer or wine wasn’t strong enough to kill the seeds, it had to be something at least 30 proof. Hospitals prescribed vodka and scotch, and patients drank to their health.

Sadly, this came too late for some. Once they’d passed the Pica stage, the growth in their bodies became resistant to treatment. Or, even if they did manage to kill the parasite, the damage it had done to the host’s organs by that point was often irreversible and terminal. Some waited too long – or simply did not, or could not, seek medical treatment. This included a lot of people in the United States, who lacked any form of medical coverage. For those who got such a prognosis, suicide was vastly preferred over letting nature take its course, but the numbers didn’t make much of a blip on the world radar. People kill themselves all the time.

Witchberries are now illegal, though I’m certain there’s a black market supplied by backyard growers. The cure for infection is now well-known folklore, and new cases of dirt-eating Pica are rare.

I’ve moved on, I don’t work at the university anymore, I rarely travel, and I prefer meat and bread over greens. I do not eat fruit of any kind. And now and again, when I see a sapling coming up with pink and green leaves, I kill it.

Credit To – Smoke

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November 30, 2013 at 12:00 PM
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I’ve noticed a spot forming on the dining area wall in my apartment. I figure I should call someone about it, but I’ll have to worry about it later. I gotta concentrate on the work load I have waiting for me back at the office. I don’t have time to call and make appointments about some weird black spot.

My work day is as busy as I figured it would be. There’s just a lot to get done with my deadline creeping up at the beginning of next week. At lunch I mentioned that spot on my wall to one of my co-workers. He told me that a mixture of water and bleach should clear it right up. If I can get home and clear that up tonight, that would be one issue off my mind. I’ll try to remember that water and bleach thing when I get home.

Finally made it home. I had to stay late to complete phase one of my work load so I can stay on schedule. Time to try that mixture on my wall, though I’m not too clear on how much bleach to use. As long as that spot goes away, I think I’ll be fine. I guess I’ll just use an old kitchen rag to clean that spot before I cook myself some dinner and go to bed.

Another day another dollar. Good news, that spot is gone, but I have noticed a weird smell… Maybe I used too much bleach, I dunno. The smell should be gone by the time I get home. Time for some scrambled eggs, toast and coffee and see what’s on the news. Bad news, it seems that there’s another missing person with no clues at this point. I guess I’ll keep an eye out.

Work was just another rat race for this guy. All this work will make that cheese taste all that much better. I hope I get finished this Friday so I can enjoy a stress free weekend. Okay, there’s definitely something wrong with that mixture I used ’cause that smell is still here. I’ll give it another day, but if it doesn’t get any better I’ll definitely have to call someone. In the meantime, I’d better get some rest.

Well, it’s the next day and I think that smell is still sorta here. Maybe I’m used to it. Well, no time for that now. I think I’ll be able to finish my work load and get ready for an awesome weekend. I’ll just go ahead and make a few phone calls during lunch to get someone over to my apartment to inspect my wall and that smell.

Okay, I scheduled someone to come over Friday afternoon, tomorrow, to inspect my wall. I’ll be able to finish my job assignment in the morning and I at least have a good reason to get off work a little early. Sounds pretty good to me. Sounds like I’ll just have to spend one more night in a smelly apartment before I can let loose this weekend. My assignment is pretty much in the bag so I think I’ll get off work a few minutes early to try and beat the traffic and get some well deserved rest.

I decided to pick up some dinner on my way home from work so I don’t have to cook in that smelly kitchen. I think I’ll eat in my bedroom tonight with the door closed and seal it up the best I can. As I walk into my apartment, that smell hit’s me in the face causing me to cough and gag. Thinking fast I open a few windows and crank up my A/C to air out my apartment.

Once I feel like I can breath again, I venture into the dining area… That spot is back and bigger than ever. It also appears to be leaking some sort of dark fluid. As I get closer I have to shield my nose and mouth from the thick odor with my coat sleeve. Oh God, I can still sort of taste it. My mouth begins to salivate in preparation for any vomiting that I may do.

Forget waiting until tomorrow, I need someone to take care of this now. As I inch my way closer I call up the maintenance person I had scheduled. After a few rings he answers and I quickly tell him the problem I had has gotten worse and can’t wait till tomorrow. I give him a quick run down and he assures me that he’s only a short drive away and he’ll be around in a few minutes. I hang up and at this point I’m right next to the wall and my eyes begin to water.

As I stare at the spot with squinting tear filled eyes I notice something. Something small and white poking out of the black spot. With my free hand I grab a napkin off the table and wipe the small protrusion. As I do some of the black spot around the area falls away. Startled I step back and notice the napkin has been stained red. I look back at the newly formed hole on the black spot.

At this point I have a gut wrenching realization. That sharp, white protrusion… is that a broken piece of bone? With my mind overcome with shock and dumb curiosity, I nudge at the hole with my foot. As the rest of the black spot begins to crumble away my mind flashes with thoughts… I’ve noticed a spot…worry about it later…a lot to get done… water and bleach… spot gone… smell…Bad news it seems… another missing person…rat race… smell… finish my work… make phone calls… another missing… smell… finish job assignment tomorrow… another… no clues… smell… pick up some dinner… smell… spot… no clues… missing.

I wake up to the sound of my door buzzer ringing in my head. As my memory begins to flood back, I scramble to my feet and answer the door. It’s repair man I called. I’m rambling trying to explain what happened. The only clear words I think I was able to blurt out were, Police, in the wall, missing persons, black spot. As I gesture to the wall my eyes lock onto the small heap of rotten body parts on the floor and everything goes black again.

Okay It’s been a couple days, my weekend was hell. I had to spend it away from my apartment which is now a crime scene and I was bombarded with a lot of questions. After everything settled down I was able to find out that one of my neighbors had been abducting people in the area. It’s unclear when and how he would kill them, but once he did… he would… eat his victims.

The body count is unknown, but it seems that he’s recently become a bit picky with the cuts of flesh that he would eat. That’s why missing person reports have gone up in my area lately. I mean he would abduct a person, take the certain flesh he wanted and dispose of the rest. Figuring he can’t flush or trash his leftovers he decided the next best thing would be to hide his scraps in the walls. my stomach turns just thinking about it.

After getting those details I was given more bad news. Once they figured out which apartment the remains were coming from, they found that the tenant had already vacated. The name and info attached to the apartment belongs to a dead man. With no more clues and no leads to go on, he remains at large.

As much as I don’t want to stay in my apartment, I guess I have no choice. Now that the police know he’s been here, they’ll be keeping a look out and so will I. As for the rest of you, who live in apartments, keep an eye on any weird spots on your walls and sleep tight.

Credit To – Creepy Jonez

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