Operation Snow Blindness

July 22, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Before the emergence of televisions, radios were widely used as a mean to broadcast news and announcements. In WWII, The rebel radio stations used Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which has a repeating motive of “V” in Morse Codes, to indicate a victory. It didn’t take long for the government to find a way to use it for transmitting subliminal messages.

It was not an easy task, the problem is to hide the message well but at the same time let it give clear instructions to the listeners. Some government psychologists purposed to attack the unconsciousness with hypnosis. For example, A radio program would boardcast news about a political target, and then immediately follows it with a tragedy or a criminal story. To the casual listeners, they would think those are the same news, achieveing “character-assassination” in the subconsciousness level. One might ask the reason such propaganda was so hard to detect, it is simple: No false news were given, thus no one complained.

Some government psychologists were skeptical about the unconsciousness hypnosis, and they turned to a more scientific method to brainwash the listeners. When the military was looking for an encrypted radio channel for transmitting sensitive battle informations, they found a soundwave which only certain individuals can hear. At first they thought it has something to do with the radar-silencing zone in a certain depth level of the ocean, where battleship radar can’t detect submarines. However it was found later that the sonar from the battleship was refracted away due to water temperature and pressure, that level in the ocean is then known as the SOFAR Channel, and the unrelated soundwave was later called Ultrasound.

Upon further research of Ultrasound, government scientists realized that only people younger than 25 years old can hear this soundwave, which was perfect for brainwashing because it is most effective when done to young listeners. The government would put screeching Ultrasound along things/countries/people they don’t want younglings to like or associate with. The outcome of these brainwash efforts were impossible to monitored, thus their effectiveness were unable to be determined as well.

With the emergence of television, the government halted further research on soundwave hypnosis due to the decline of radio usage. Instead, the government focused on how to use visual subliminal messages to brainwash the citizens. For example, commercials associated a happy family with images of bald eagles and the american flag; news associated death with split seconds photos of political enemies or other country leaders.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and such a method was shown to be an effective one. Brainwashing by association was used very frequently, government would associate its own religion with good and put out mottos like “God Bless America”, then demonize other religions and countries.

Perhaps technology is its own demise. Many have the equipment and computer program to decipher subliminal messages, either by looking at a certain news segment frame by frame, or playing a popular song backward to reveal the message.

Further research was halted yet again, but not because the government was afraid of people exposing those subliminal messages; it was because the CIA has found a better way to brainwash the people. It was called Project Snow Blindness.

When a television’s antenna receive no signals, the monitor would display “static”, or a randomly generated black and white dots pattern, like snow. That was how it was explained to the public, but nothing is farther from the truth. Ever wonder why antenna would make the television display this pattern of moving black/white dots, instead of just a blank screen when receiving no signals? It is actually Project Snow Blindness.

A worldwide effort was made by all the countries of major power to broadcast Project Snow Blindness around the globe 24/7. One might comment that he or she hasn’t noticed any effect after staring at the static screen for a long time. That is because only 1 in 100 million people can actually see different shades of white and black. You see, most of us are color blind, to be more specific, white and whiter/black and blacker color blind. While you can tell the difference between the different common colors, such that you can watch your news or your favorite tv show; there are people who can tell the difference of a few extra white and black colors, such that they can watch another news or another tv show that most people on Earth cannot see, in static.

Well, that might be the most ridiculous thing you have heard, what good did Project Snow Blindness do for the government, if it was only broadcasted when no signals were received? Project Snow Blindness was broadcasted whenever the government wanted, but most viewers would simply think the antenna wasn’t receiving signals. The people who can’t see Project Snow Blindness turned off the television, while the few who can see it would think their antenna was fine. Because the majority of people were not seeing it, no complaint was taken seriously. You might ask what good did Project Snow Blindness do for the government, if it only effects 1 in 100 million people. Well, Project Snow Blindness wasn’t used as a propaganda device, it was used as instructions to train sleeper agents. Ultrasound was employed as well in conjuction with the Project.

It is unclear whether the governments in the world have ceased using Project Snow Blindness, or turned to something more effective. But one thing is for sure: the people who successfully became sleeper agents eventually turned to government’s spies and assassins. The people who failed to become sleeper agents instead became terrorists and mass murderers, saying that they heard their God(s) giving them instructions and the permissions to commit terrible acts.

Credit To – Amanda Molliet (Illirya)

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What Are You Really Afraid Of?

July 10, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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We all have our own little fears: spiders, dark corridors, porcelain dolls. Some people have some very strange and obscure fears like things not being organized. Some people are afraid of not being perfect or being alone.

But we have to be choosy about the things we decide to fear. Someday, perhaps in our dreams or slowly creeping into reality, those fears will take over our lives.


Spiders will invade your home; they will be in every cabinet, skittering over the walls and crawling over you in your sleep. Their small, beady eyes will stare at you from all of the walls of your home and you will never be able to leave your home again. Soon, all you will be able to see is spiders. All of the pictures on your walls, the windows in your house, the food that you try to eat, will all be covered with the eight legged creatures. Spiders of all sizes and species will crawl along with your every footstep, and some big black ones will jitter into corners when you enter the room. The spiders will nip at you until there is nothing left.


The dark corridor that you walk down every day will never end. As you pass open doors, you will see unspeakable scenes of torture, malice and horror. Dark shadows will follow at your heels and your sides, whispering disturbing things that add to the terror that the dark corridor installs in your very bones. The corridor is a bit warm; perhaps it is heated by the fires that you can see spewing in some of the room. You will never get used to the things you see in the corridor; the things that slither out of the doors and bite at your heels and arms only hasten your pace. If you somehow reach the end without giving into madness, you will be swallowed up by the darkness and thrust into the pits of anguish along with the other who have walked this corridor.
Porcelain dolls. Some choose to admire their perfect white faces; their painted beauty remains eternal. Others cringe when they meet the gaze of their faultless eyes. The crack splitting from the eye to the chin looks like a dark, shattered tear. You break its gaze and look down, but there’s another one. In fact, the room is filled with the dolls in varying sizes and colors. You feel a cool grip on your ankle that makes you jump. One of the dolls has grabbed your ankle. One of the bigger ones on the chair stands up stiffly, walks behind you, and starts to shove you into the room. Your struggling and fighting does nothing. All of the dolls begin to climb off of their chairs and shelves and walk to the center of the room to slowly begin tearing you apart with their small, cool hands, limb by limb, skin and muscle from bone.


Your life will condemned by organizing. You will constantly run around your home, adjusting every detail. The fingers on your hands will be red and raw, occasionally leaving bloodstains on the things that you pass. You’ll have to clean that, too. Nothing will ever be perfect in your eyes. Eventually, you’ll snap. First, you will polish the silverware and place them into neat piles. Then, taking one of the shined spoons, you will gouge out your eyes to save yourself from seeing the rest of the unorganized world. But, realizing that the spoon is now bloodied and the red droplets are beginning to cover the floor, you will begin to feebly attempt to clean the mess.


The room is all mirrors. Your face reflects from every angle. All you do is stare at yourself and try to perfect the reflection you see. You can never get close, though. People have come in and told you that you look beautiful, but you never believe them. Eventually, they stopped coming, but you didn’t care. Now you had more time and fewer distractions to try and make yourself the image that you have always dreamed of. Things like eating don’t matter too much anymore, though you do eat and drink a little bit every now and then so you can survive and continue your ever-present task. One day, though, it becomes too much. You scream your throat raw and claw at your face until your hands and arms are coated in blood and only your skull remains.


The concrete walls are like a jail to you. But they are, in fact, a jail: There are no windows or doors, just an old fashioned lamp dangling from the ceiling. The silence is so loud you feel like screaming to break it, but you can’t. The emptiness paralyzes you. You bury your face in your hands, so you don’t see where they came from. One second, the room is empty, but the next, there are black forms spread throughout the room. The relief that you were expecting didn’t come, only fear. The things open their mouths and begin screaming like you thought about doing. These screams were both human and inhuman, but you don’t care. All you care about is that they’re loud. Really, REALLY loud. They pierce your ears and numb your brains of any thoughts besides the black forms and the screaming. Your ears begin to bleed and you head starts to split as you now wish that you were alone again.


You see? Fears can lead to some horrible things, things you may regret when the time comes when they come for you. Now, REALLY think about it, what are you really afraid of? Because you don’t want it to be something you will repent when your time comes. . .

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July 5, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I looked too long. My eyes frozen onto hers, still open, but just beginning to become milky. I guess I should start at the most logical place; the beginning. I suppose it’s the least I can do. I mean, people are going to go through all of my shit to find out why I did it. It of course being, me putting the barrel of a thirty-eight snub nose revolver (God bless America and its easy access to firearms) into my eye and pulling the trigger. I can only hope that the extensive damage obliterates me or at least obliterates the images of what I had seen. However, I get ahead of myself. I should start at the beginning and not the end, my end.

It all started with a length of rope, a girl from my village, and a mango tree. If that sounds sinister, it was. She hung herself from a tree outside of my room a month ago. I should explain that I was a Peace Corps volunteer in a small village in Nicaragua. I signed up to open my eyes up to the world. (Oh God!) The village was small and in truth I was a mediocre volunteer that preferred listening to music and reading to interacting with the locals. However this is not about my service (If you are reading this to understand why I was a poor volunteer all I can say is fuck you. We have slightly bigger things to focus on at the moment.), this is to help you piece together why I am writing this with a loaded .38 revolver sitting by the computer.

She had done it during the night and her death had not been instantaneous. She had writhed and swung in the mango tree outside my house for hours before finally dying. I, of course, heard nothing. I came out in the morning to find her hanging a few feet away from my door. Her eyes were wide open and just beginning to cloud and a soft breeze shifted her corpse like she was still struggling with her decision to hang herself. If I knew then what I knew now, I would have never done what I did. I stared at her in shock. She was wearing a cheap knock-off sweater that read “SpongeBill Rectangle Pants.” Her black hair was cascading around her face like a halo. My eyes were locked onto hers. What had they seen in those last moments before the light was stolen from them? I couldn’t look away from those opaque eyes seeing everything and nothing. That was how it all started.

The police came and cut the rope that had hung her from the tree. She collapsed to the ground like a sack of bones probably breaking a few of them in the process. The chisme/gossip around my village was that it was unrequited love. She had eyes (Sweet Jesus!) only for me and couldn’t bear to live without me. The story was spread through-out my community before she was even in the ground. I don’t necessarily believe that as we had literally only shared one conversation in which we talked about beans. I have another explanation for all this, but I rather keep it to myself. She was buried within two days and I just wanted to move on.

It started with chills whenever I passed by the mango tree that she had done herself in by. I would sometimes catch glimpses of something in the branches like a small child or animal. (Volunteers will concur that children can climb trees like monkeys and strip fruits within hours as well as roosting chickens.) When I turned my head to get a better view, I would find nothing there. I brushed it all off as heebie-jeebies. I was dealing with PTSD after all. I thought I would just wake up one day and sit under the tree and read a book like the old days and not even think of the girl clawing at her cyanotic neck with black and red nails…

It all started to unravel one day when I sat down to eat a bowl of hot soup, which coincidentally was only given on the hottest day of the year. I spooned mouthfuls while giving the usual platitudes. “Que rica!” “Que saborosa!” (“Que mierda!”) Until I fished the black hair out of my soup. This was odd as the only cook that day was my abuela whose hair was grey. This was not from the cook and due to the caustic nature of my host grandmother, neither was this a visitor. I ignored it and went on with my day as best I could, but the thought was already haunting me.

That night was the first time I saw it, but not the last time. I was lying in bed and looking at the passing night sky through the wooden boards that composed my house. The wind was rustling through the leaves and I caught a glimpse of something in the aforementioned mango tree. It was larger than before and my skin prickled. I brushed it off once again as nerves until I saw something through the slat that consisted of my shanty house just as I was drifting off. I saw it peering through the cracks. They were milky white and they were looking at me.

At the end of that sleepless night which I spent with my eyes darting to the cracks in my wall and my heart jumping at every creak in my ancient dilapidated room, I went into the nearest city and called my girlfriend, Iris, to come down and visit for a few days. I told her nothing about my state of mind. (Because seriously, who wants to know their significant other is going bananas?) I only told her that I needed her. (And I guess that part was true enough.) She traveled to my site within a day and was by my side the next day.

I tried to fuck my way out of my problem. (As I always seem to do.) My girlfriend was more than willing to accommodate. I buried those thoughts and memories into her body and drew back comfort and peace. The chisme that Iris heard only mentioned a woman committing suicide in my village and nothing else. The people were now more focused on my status as a picaflor which wasn’t necessarily true as I only had one girlfriend, but the sound of us making love and me losing myself in her only spread the gossip. She was blissfully unaware of how I was coming apart and I drew whatever strength I could from her.

That strength left me a few days later. Iris left me a day before that, but once again I get ahead of myself. The cause should always precede the effect. We had just finished making love and I had just winced my eyes shut as I reached the pinnacle and gave myself over to her. I relaxed in the blissful afterglow and wrapped my arms around her. I drifted off. When I came to it was still dark and my arms were wrapped around Iris, feeling her skin pressed against mine. It was one of those moments in which I wish I could freeze in amber and preserve before it all went wrong. Everything soured when the door to my room opened and Iris walked in, complaining of the distance of the latrine. Who was in my bed?

My eyes shot open revealing… Nothing. My bed was empty which I soon remedied for the fourth time that weekend. I focused on Iris, but my mind shifted and drifted to eyes. The hazel eyes that were now milk-white and saw through me. Those glassy eyes staring at me from inside my head killed the mood as well as other parts of me. I sealed myself off from Iris after that point and became distant. I wasn’t surprised when the relationship imploded within days. Iris was gone in three days, but she’d left me one day earlier after crying and the words ‘cold and heartless’ being thrown at me. I was alone… Or rather I wished I was alone.

I tried my best to ignore the sensations of being watched, but to no avail. My community looked at me and my haggard expression with interest. There was clearly gossip to be had here, but they knew little to nothing. I ignored them, but continued to feel them stalking me with their eyes. Even worse, I felt her watching me. I could tell it was her when I found myself throwing furtive glances at shadowy corners. I tried my best, my God, I tried my best! It was the next day that I became completely undone and drank myself into the hospital and then drank myself out of my service.

I woke up to an unfamiliar sound in my room. This wasn’t a rat scurrying around. This was the slow deliberate sound of a rope grinding into the main support beam of my room. I winced my eyes shut. I knew what that was. It was her. She was swinging in my room, feet away from my bed, clawing at her throat. I acted like a child, as if not looking at her would make the hanging shade go away. My eyes snapped open when I heard the rope snap and a sickening sound like bones breaking on the floor inches away from my head. She was gone, but some part of me knew she would never leave.

I’ll gloss over how I came to bi expelled from the Peace Corps. I’ll just allude to a cheap bottle of moonshine and mi drunken raving about eyes in the darkness to all that had ears. I found myself in Amirica amongst my friends who did not know how close I’d come to complete madness. I wrapped myself up in their lives like a shield and visited with them to the point of uncomfortableness. None of that mattered. I was safe. I was wrapped up in that security net of family and friends.

That safety net was cut last night when I woke up with the unmistakable feeling of hair on my face. I felt clammy palms pressing into my cheeks and holding my head in place. She was on top of me, her face inches from mine. I cringed my eyes shut, but she persisted. I waited for hours until I knew that she wasn’t going to leave. I opened my eyes and stared into her milky white eyes. It was in her eyes that I saw it. I saw what she had seen. Oh God! Oh sweet Jesus! I would shoot myself a hundred times over to erase what I had seen.

This is why I’m typing this. I know she will persist and I know why she must. I have only one option left. I cannot face what I saw last night again. I realize why she is watching (Mother Mary!) me. I couldn’t look away from her eyes in grotesque fascination when she was in the tree. My eyes locked onto hers. I saw what she saw and she saw what she had desperately wanted to see again. That’s why she stalks me so. She wanted to see the life in my eyes, but what I saw in exchange… Holy Heaven, I can’t bear to see that again. I’m going to do it now. I have to. I’m sorry.

Eye couldn’t do it. The eyes were there. At the bottom of the barrel, looking into me once again and bringing all the terrors of what she had seen at the end of her life as she tried to claw the rope from her neck. Eye watched frozen as my soul was hallowed out by her insistent gaze. I know now what is waiting for us at the end of it all. Oh Crucified Christ I know! She had caught a glimpse of life, a momentary reprieve from what she now sees and now nothing would stop her from experiencing that again. She’s watching me through the gun, her eyes are on me from the shadows. Oh God! Her eyes are on me from the computer screen! She doesn’t care who! She just wants the sight she’s lost. The gun! THE gun! THE GUN!
Eye See You

Credit To – Empyrean

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July 4, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Soft sunlight glints off rides and merry go rounds, merry jingles floating through the air. The bustle of the carnival goes on around you as you stroll along, enjoying the day.
It’s breezy, yet the breeze is warm and butter-soft, gently wrapping your soft silk dress around your legs as you walk, the taste of ice cream on your lips and contentment in your heart.
You’ve always loved carnivals, loved the life and crowds and energy of them. Children rush past, made energetic by cotton candy and excitement. In the golden sunshine you see mothers rubbing sun screen on protesting children, teenagers shrieking with glee on the rides, or holding hands nervously with each other, delighting in their first taste of closeness with another. Young men cast appreciative glances your way, and you blush softly.
The sun continues to shine down upon you, the sounds and smells and sights blending together into a patchwork of sensations, the scent of cotton candy, happy shouts, a warm breeze…
Sudden freezing cold.
You pause, icecream melting onto your hand unheeded. In the warmth of the summer day, its easy to pass off that cold as a figment of imagination, yet it was so sudden, so intense and so real that your mind can find no explanation.
You try to shrug it off and enjoy the day, and soon you are happily watching a group of children learn a life lesson on trusting the carnies who say every ball wins a prize, even as cold wind buffets the back of your neck.
Your head jerks up, and sudden horror begins to crystallize in your brain as something invisible and unseen slips away, visible only by a sudden rustle in the grass. You shiver, the warm happiness of the day fading fast.
You move away, going faster then normal,frantically rationalizing to yourself.

You’re dehydrated.
You’re heatstruck.
You have an overactive

As you rest by the hot dog stand, the seller pauses in ladling another scoop of onions onto a hotdog and asks if you’re alright. You not and assure him you’re fine you’re not and just tired. He nods and smiles, inquiring as to whether you’d like a hotdog. You decline politely, your stomach churning too much for food cold fingers stroke down your face.
The horror on your face is obvious, and you bolt, the sellers worried cries fading into the background. There is something after you, seen in the corner of your vision, no longer invisible but faster than your eyes can follow. You see…you don’t know what you see, details too faint, too strange, too OTHERLY to identify. Noone else can see it, you know that. It seems to pass them with no notice, normal life continuing around it.
You are the target. It wants you to fear.
Shouts and complaints follow you as you run blindly, sick horror filling you. You bounce into someone who grabs at you, swearing. You flail desperately, breaking free, almost screaming as the smell of its vile breath draws closer (how can no one see this!) light reflecting off unseen teeth (I don’t want to die!) harsh breath panting in your ear (God help me!) as it draws closer.
Something strange is happening to the crowd. The sounds blur together, becoming a sinister mockery with a muffled, underwater quality, the tinkle of the merry go round a vile parody. The faces seem odd, paler, melted, mingling with the bleeding colours of the rest of the carnival in a ghastly palette. The appetizing smells now churn your stomach, similar enough to taunt, yet wrong enough to terrify.
Your legs are tired, the air seeming to thicken and condense, as if you run through water. The creature has no problems. It’s gaining.
As you feel it behind you, you make the last mistake of your life. You turn and look. Before you can scream, your mind shatters as you get your first good look. It reaches you.

The carnival continues on.

Credit To – Christine Dell

(Derpnote: Happy Fourth of July!)

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June 22, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I hadn’t done anything different that day. It started off very normal, in fact; I awoke to the blaring alarm clock. I brushed my teeth. I fixed a breakfast, and ate it. I kissed my mum goodbye and I dashed out the front door, swinging my backpack with me. I sat on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to arrive. I get there early every day, just to be sure. The only thing different that I recall would be the grass; it looked a little greener.

I entered the bus and found a seat. At my seat near the back of the bus, I rested my headphones on my head and listened to some music. I listen to the mellower songs in the morning.

As time passed, the bus quickly filled up with people. It was a school bus. The children were chattering and teasing and twisting and shouting. They were normal kids. With the headphones, however, all I could hear was the music, the soft piano layered on melodic, spacy harps and horns. I don’t listen to normal music.

We reached the school. With the headphones still on, I get up with the rest of the kids and become a drop in a rushing ocean of children, not eager for class, but eager to arrive.

School was loud and busy. The classrooms, filled with students and teachers, went on teaching all matter of subjects; while the students remained restless and less enthusiastic of the knowledge. I met up with all my friends at recess. I played basketball with Tommy and Michael. They were my closest friends on the playground. After we tired of basketball, we went and dug around the rocks and woodchips that edged the enclosure, looking for bugs and worms.

I distinctly remember the moment just before the blackout. We were taking long woodchips and poking at the dirt with them. I joked with Michael about what we would do if we found a little bug friend. Tommy said he’d squish it, but we laughed, knowing he wouldn’t ever do such a thing. The giggles resided and I shifted my gaze to the dirt on the ground, smiling and stabbing away.

For three years, I’d been having these “episodes,” my mother calls them. They occur every few months or so, just when we think they’re gone for good. To my mom, I just go limp and blackout, waking up 45 minutes later in a hospital bed with doctors around me. My mother knew nothing of my experiences during the 45 minutes of being out.

Imagine a night of sleep where you don’t remember your dreams, where it’s a brief blackness that is ended by your eyes waking up to the morning light or your ears sucking you into reality from an alarm. That’s what I saw, except in that darkness, there is a figure. The face is shrouded and the details are indistinguishable. It didn’t feel like a dream either; rather, this figure has been watching me all my life and I just now peer through another world and meet his dark gaze. He just waits and watches. Nothing had been said, and nothing moved. But I knew he was there; I got that recognizable feeling of another presence with me.

As I stabbed at the dirt, the “episode” began. I recognized that it was beginning as soon as I felt my eyes were about to pop out of my face. But by then, my breathing had already stopped and I couldn’t speak. My fingertips began to tingle; my face and feet begin to burn, hot, as blood pooled to them. A horrible sensation deep inside my stomach wrenched and tore me. At this point, I lost my vision and consciousness. I don’t remember ever hitting the dirt.

I was in my blackness again. This had happened so many times before, that I thought I had become familiar with the figure, as well as the blackness. I was ready to meet him, and to stare into his strange gaze. However, for the first time, I was struck with fear. The figure was there, in the blackness, but I feared it. I hadn’t before. It was strange, but I just wanted it to end.

“Yes…” the figure spoke. I heard his voice with chilling clarity. It was deep and old.

“You are…” he took a deep inhale, as if he’d just completed a long, daunting task. “… done.”

Done. That’s it.

I woke up on the playground. The sun had moved to the other side of the sky, so time had passed. It was dead silent; looking around, the lot was completely empty. I get up, confused. Usually I wake in a hospital or on the floor of the office with the teachers gathered around.

I approached the glass doors to enter the school. Peering through the glass, I saw nobody. I walked inside. In the office, I sat in the chairs by the door to regain my thoughts. I hear the rustling of papers and look up. I see a folder floating through the air, from the main desk and down a corridor.

I quickly got up and followed the folder. Down the corridor, a door opened and the folder drifted in. I follow, and watch as the folder approached the desk. The swivel chair turns and the folder flopped down on the table.

I bolted out of the office, feeling alone and confused. I ran to a classroom and saw a piece of chalk writing a on the chalkboard. I panicked and left the school. I saw cars driving in the streets without passengers; doors opening for no people; gardens being gardened by floating tools.

I couldn’t see people.

After a very long while, maybe weeks or months, I noticed a few things. I couldn’t see my reflection. I could have guessed that. What’s interesting, however, is that I don’t seem to get hungry or need to eat. I just sort of wandered around, looking at things. The boredom drove me crazy. The only thing worse than the boredom, was the loneliness. I kept myself company by talking to myself while I aimlessly wandered city streets, houses, stores, parks, and anywhere my feet could take me. I’d watch as people I couldn’t see went about their daily lives.

The wandering eventually became an interesting task for me. I would go for very long walks during the day, counting the numbers on people’s home addresses. I’d see floating hoses watering lawns and drifting helmets riding bicycles. At night I would sprint through the streets, dashing under street lights.

I came up upon a library. That kept me busy for a long while. I scanned the bookshelves and read almost half the books in the entire place. I just sat alongside other floating books, knowing somebody invisible is getting a good read. I’m able to retain information very well.

I came across a cemetery. I spent a long while scanning the tombstones, reciting the names to see if any rang a bell. I recognized a few last names of my old friends. I would look at the dates and count how many years they lived to be. Sometimes I’d see incomplete dates, tombstones of those yet to die; this humbles me as I ponder those planning for death. I felt sorry for them. Sometimes I’d come back and find the incomplete dates completed; the dirt freshly turned. I’d go along, row by row. At night I couldn’t read them, so I’d sprint through the streets, dodging cars that couldn’t see me.

Today, I was finishing up my cemetery walk. I came across a tombstone with my name on it. The realization hit me hard, but it makes more sense now. The birth-year and the death-year were both engraved. I stared at it for a long while. You wouldn’t believe how upset I was. I thought one day I’d wake up and see my mum again. I thought maybe I was in the hospital, and I’d wake up, get better and go back to school to play with Tommy and Michael. I think I cried, but I understand that I probably don’t have any real tears.

After sitting for a while, an idea occurred to me that hadn’t before.

And that’s how I got here. I know I can interact with the objects in this afterlife, but I also know that the living live among me as well. I went into my old house – it’s more familiar.

I get on my computer and type what I know. I submit it onto this website where hopefully it won’t gain too much attention; creepypasta, where stories like this are abundant, but fiction mostly. I guess I’m mostly just writing this to organize my thoughts about what had happened, especially with today’s realization. I doubt I’d be able to actually send any sort of message to the living world. I had tried before, to no avail. Oh well; it’s not like I don’t have time to waste.

Credit To – Nick Farella

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June 21, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I think it was several weeks ago when it started. The electronics in my house started flickering on and off. At first, it was just a minor annoyance. I’d be on the internet, and my computer would shut down. Or I’d be cooking something in the oven, and it’d turn off halfway through. I called an electrician, who said that the wiring in my house was in tip-top shape. Not believing him, I called several more electricians, all of whom said the same thing. I tried using less electricity in the house, thinking I was overloading it. Eventually, I learned to live with it.

What sparked my attention was when my co-workers began to complain of the same thing. The woman in the cubicle over from mine confided in me that her iPod had died, with a full battery, then resumed working minutes later. Soon, we were hearing bits and pieces about it on the news. They told us that the problem would be fixed soon, and nothing more. I soon found out that it wasn’t just our area afflicted. Many areas across the country- and, later on I’d find out, across the world- were being affected.

Things began to get worse. By now, many were used to just one or two of their electronic devices not working at once. But when they began to all shut off at once, and then not work for hours on end, the panic grew. There was no explanation. The media couldn’t tell us why, the electricians couldn’t tell us why. Then the generators started failing. Most schools and office buildings, and even some private homes, have generators for when the electricity goes out. The generators were working just fine, and then, like their electronic relatives, they began to not work. Children had to go to school in complete darkness on some days. I even remember having to navigate my way through my office building with a flashlight; before the flashlight stopped working, of course.

When the lights stopped turning back on, people began to panic. No matter what was done, some homes were completely left in the dark. Panic set in. Without any media access, people were quite literally in the dark about things. Then the madness started. People screaming that they were hearing or seeing things. The woman in the cubicle over from mine had a manic episode. I assume that it was fairly bad, because she stapled her own eyelids. Or so I heard, since by then our building had completely lost power.

Society began to break. Electronics keep our species in touch, in the light, and entertained. Without these things we weren’t seeing what was happening in the world. I stopped going to work. No one was really going anywhere anymore; people were staying at home, stockpiling food and survival necessities, and taking care of their loved ones who were suffering from delusions. During the day- the only time where there was light, now- I saw a man collapse on my lawn. I rushed out to help him, but as soon as I got near him, he started screaming and clawing at the air.
“Oh god, the lights! We need the lights! Turn them back on, please!”
I was afraid to approach him. I took a few steps closer, until what he said stunned me.
“They’ll come if we don’t have the lights! Come for us all! Man, woman, child!”
I felt my hair stand up on end. I’m a rational, church going man, but the way this man was screaming, the way his eyes looked, I felt that he may not be just suffering from a delusion.
I would have asked the man more, but he collapsed, his heart giving out to another attack. He lay on his face in the light of my lawn. I didn’t want to leave him there, but I couldn’t call the police, and I’d never seen his face in this neighborhood. I ended up dragging him to the police station across town, even though I knew the cops wouldn’t be there. By the time I made my way back, the sun was setting, its yellow and orange penumbra stretching over the horizon as night approached. I felt my hair stand on end again as I rushed to my house, slamming the door shut behind me.

An hour later, I was almost drifting off to sleep- I didn’t do much else, these days- when a godless shriek of pure agony ripped the air like a cleaver through steam. A bloodcurdling scream, coming from a few houses over. I shot up in bed, and bolted to the house. A few others joined me as we waited to see what was wrong. However, no one came to the door, no one cried for help. One of the men who had come to help decided to check it out. He busted down the door, and disappeared into the darkness inside. A few moments later, we heard his scream, too. But, as we were closer this time, we also heard brand new noises.

The sickening suction and then tearing sound of flesh being torn from bone, of two-toned inhuman laughter, of blood splattering the walls like the canvas of a modern artist.

My next memory is arriving back home. If I think deeply on it, I remember seeing one of them, through one of the house’s windows. Just it’s bright golden eyes, of course. The being itself was black, matching the darkness it lives in. Of course, it did have those teeth. Oh God, those teeth. When it smiled at me through that window, I saw them. Shiny and white and sharp, the entrails of innards of its victims hanging from them like streamers.
And now here I am. I’ve locked myself in my room, only the moonlight from my yellowed circular window to guide my pen as I write this.The panic outside is audible; they’re trying to fight whatever that monster was, but failing. I hear more and more screams as those who were too brave or too stupid (One part brave, two parts fool) to run attack the beast. I’m almost certain that if I looked I would dry heave, the scent of blood was almost pungent in the air, even at this height. Could they really take pleasure in killing these humans? What kind of monster would enjoy that? More crunching of bones, more blood staining the streets. It’s all I’ve had the pleasure of listening to for the past few hours. I’m surprised I haven’t completely lost my goat, yet.
I’ve had time to think, too. This is why we’re afraid of the dark. These things ARE the dark, the worst of it. They’re the reason that children have to sleep with a nightlight on. Light kills them. That’s why they don’t attack during the daylight. Or whenever there’s even the smallest amount of light, even coming from a computer screen. They’re careful about appearing to humans- When it’s not mealtime, of course- but now I know why everyone’s afraid of the dark when they’re a kid. I remember, now, seeing one of them out of the corner of my eye when I was five years old. My mother told me I was just seeing things, that it wasn’t real, that it didn’t exist.

If I can hold out for a few more hours, daylight will come. Maybe help will come. But they won’t be able to attack me. I’ll be safe. But that probably won’t happen, since I can hear them downstairs, now. I can hear them as they run through the rooms searching for their next game. Next kill. Next feast. They’re knocking over tables and chairs, tearing up the walls. They’re coming for me, and that deadbolt locked door isn’t going to hold them off. I’m going to suffer the same fate as those people in the streets.

The quiet thud of my pen dropping onto my bed jolts me upright. I toss the padded paper aside, grabbing onto the Chefs knife that I had taken upstairs with me I wait.

I can hear their claws scraping at the door, tapping the knob and receiving a pleasant clinging noise. Like when you hit a spoon and a pan together. I hear another two toned giggle, one tone as pleasant and innocent as that of a child, the other as dark and as sinister as the devil himself.
I grip the knife that I had stolen from the kitchen on my way up, clutching it with a sense of false courage. I know that this won’t do anything more than the guns did in the street. Absolutely nothing.

My knuckles are white, and I know I should be focused on survival, but all I can think about is why? Why did this have to happen? What turned the lights out? Was it just our time as humans to go? Was it just time for our species to end?

My thoughts were traveling at a speed I could barely comprehend, and then they all stopped as the horrific creaking noise of my door opening slowly tears through my pseudo confidence, my eyes meeting one of theirs. I drop the knife, fingers losing their ability to hold on any longer.

They’re approaching me, moving slowly, their teeth curled in hideous grins. I fumble for the knife, swinging it wildly as they approach. It moves through their bodies like air.

It’s funny, the last thing I remember is my mother telling me that they aren’t real. That they don’t exist.

And you can’t kill what doesn’t exist.

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