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A Funny Thing Happened



Estimated reading time — 10 minutes

There was no doubt – my mouth had moved a centimeter to the left overnight. I check between reflection and picture before accepting the impossible.

“Hitler, you gotta see this,” I call to my roommate, nicknamed for being the image of Arian perfection – blonde hair, blue eyes (the works). I find him in his favorite pass-out hiding place – behind the couch under a layer of PBR cans.

“Listen, something funny is happening. I think I’m turning into one of those weirdies from the X-files!” I give him a shake.

He doesn’t show any response at all, not even his trademark, ‘Fuck off’. Looks like you reached for the moon and landed on your face last night. I’d hate to be you in a few hours.

Content my transformation would remain after Hitler wakes up, I head to the kitchen for a breakfast of B12 vitamins before returning to the couch. I find a fresh nitrous cartridge from the box on the coffee table (‘Whippit good!’ as sage Hitler would say), load it into a brass cracker and give it a healthy twist. The aluminum seal punctures with a satisfying pop. Finally, I snap a balloon on the end and gently unscrew the device, filling the latex sphere with precious laughing gas.

Waiting for the air to warm up, I bounce the balloon against Hitler’s sleeping face, “Remind me, I take two vitamins for every lung-full, right? I don’t wanna get limp-dick. I like having feeling in my extremities.” He gives a huge yawn and rolls over on his side. “Two it is then.”

I always get laughy before partaking in any narcotic, and this time’s no different. I can hardly control my excitement as I pick the huge balloon off and take in a breath of the sweet-sweet drug. My vision blurs and all thought takes on a slanted quality. Our dog Trigger trots in from the hallway which is about the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen. I laugh and (can it be?) Trigger laughs with me, licking chunks of hair out of my face.

For a brief, awkward moment, I consider French kissing the Golden Retriever when I’m hit with a wave of dizziness. The room spins before me and I have the nauseating feeling that I’m somehow looking at both the ceiling and floor at the same time. Trigger sits down and tilts his head, wondering what the silly human is doing. I look past him and spot the cause of my discomfort in the reflection of our old TV.

My face has changed again. I raise a hand, too scared to confirm what I’m seeing, but having to know. I touch my right eye which had slipped down (socket and all) to rest beneath my chin. The pain that registers when I nudge its wet surface is proof of the awful reality. My ears too, have gone for a trip around my skull and now reside one on the back of my head, the other on my neck. Though perhaps most terrifying of all is a new eye which has opened on my cheek. This one a different color, unlike mine in every way. And looking; watching me, unblinking.

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“Holy fuck, shit!” I look back at Trigger, but he’s left the room, unimpressed by his master’s situation.

“Hitler! Hitler, wake up!” I really go at him this time, alternating between kicking and slapping. But he’s dead to the world.

A doctor! I can call a doctor. There’s gotta be someone else who’s had this (disease?) problem and been fixed. Even in a shit small- town like this one.

I reach for the phone in my pocket and realize it’s not there. NO, NO! Why do I always lose everything? I consider looking for it, but catch another glimpse of my destroyed face in the hallway mirror (I’ve never been ‘attractive’ and now my face is a fucking rubix cube) and decide to just drive the five minutes to the clinic. Time is of the essence, as they say. I pull on my hoodie and set out into the late afternoon air of Linderville.

I’ve only just left the porch when I hear my best friend Chris talking a few doors over, and I pull the hood further down my face. I love the guy to death, but he’s never been one for recreational drug use (did nitrous do this?) and I didn’t have time for a lecture.

“Ya, I’m telling you,” says Chris to a pretty girl in a short dress, “This deer was bigger than a horse. Jumped out like he wanted to die.”

I glance at his pickup. Sure enough, the front’s been totaled and smeared with blood. That’s not gonna be cheap. Sucks to be you, buddy.

I glance inside my garage and stop. Sucks to be me. The car’s not there. I think for a moment, the sun beating down and soaking into the dark fabric I’m wearing, when I’m caught off guard by the mental image of headlights cutting through trees. I feel the blood drain from my face and then, faint as a whisper, I recall my brother saying he’d borrow it.

No choice then – I foot it, carefully avoiding the eyes of the few pedestrians I pass until I make it to Dr. Genn’s family practice. He’d taken care of me since I’d been smoking cans with a bb gun instead of joints and was one of my favorite people. Even if he couldn’t fix me, he’d console me until someone else could.

There’s the familiar chime of bells above me as I push through the door. Dr. Genn is sitting behind the counter invested in a crossword puzzle, his KFC Colonel beard twisting between his fingers.

He hears my approach and looks up smiling, “Well ‘an how can I be of assista-”, he stops when he meets my eyes (well, eye), and then casts his gaze around the room as if he’d forgotten where he was.

Conflicting emotions dance across his face, alternating between fear and revulsion, the desire to help and the urge to run. I give my best smile, despite the flutter of unease in my stomach.

“Get out.” He says with such finality that it catches me off guard. This wasn’t what I’d expected from the man who’d given me suckers for booster shots.

“Dr. Genn-,” I start, but then he stands up and shouts.

“Get out! Get out of here, whatever you are, and don’t come back!” His eyes bug out and his lemon tea falls to the ground in a twinkle of glass and ice.

Never had I been rejected so out right by someone I cared and respected. It hurts in a way I hadn’t experienced since childhood. A loss of control, I suppose (or a challenge to what you thought you knew as fact). I back out the door, bells jingling overhead and run to the only person I knew who would never reject me, never run in fear.

Day has moved on towards dusk when I finally arrive at the gates of Cedar Hill Cemetary. It must be a holiday because I’m not the only who’s chosen today for a visit. A large procession of people mill about the stones, leaving flowers and tears on the graves of their relatives.

I look up at the overcast sky. Perfect weather for a depression-session. My dad’s headstone stands near the middle of the manicured lawn. I could find it eyes closed, I’d been here enough times – which is good because my face starts rearranging itself again, making me lose my balance but not my motivation.

When I see the familiar mini pine tree, I quicken my stride. I’m practically running before I fall to my knees at the foot of His name, carved for eternity (until acid rain do ye part).

“Dad…” It’s not much, but enough to express all the warring emotions inside me. “I need you, Dad. What should I do?”

As if on cue, the voice of my brother Donny drifts from behind me, “This is a shitty situation we’re in, huh, Eddie?” I twist around, surprised, but he’s not there. A woman glances up at me, meeting my gaze before returning to her mourning.

“Donny, where are you?”

“Ha, well,” he replies, “I’ve been here. Inside you.”

For a moment I’m certain my heart has frozen solid. I slip my hands beneath the hood, to the back of my head, and sure enough, a new mouth has formed beneath my mat of hair. It bursts into life and I let out a yelp.

“Nothing?” he says, “I set up the perfect, ‘that’s what she said’, for you.” He starts laughing, and Jesus-Christ-I-Can-Feel-His-Mouth-Moving. I feel like I’m going to vomit.

“Donny?” I manage, “Donny, what’s going on? Am I having a bad nitrous trip?”

There’s no response except for the twitter of blue jays in the surrounding oaks. A light rain begins to fall, and one by one the visitors pop up their umbrellas in reply.

“Eddie,” he whispers, “You know you’re dead, right?”

The pitter-patter of rain swells and I’m once again surprised at the number of people in the park that day. The sweet smell of rotting leaves reaches my nose and I hold it in, tasting it. Yes, I guess I had known. Some things are just harder to face than others.

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“That man – three headstones over,” I say, “That’s Richard Grady, isn’t it? He’s dead too.”

I feel the extra eye (his eye) swivel on my cheek towards the direction I’m pointing.

“That’s him,” Donny replies, “Used to piss him off so much in chem. class. Remember when we set his desk on fire?”

I did – when he mentioned it.

“He died four years after his wife,” he continues, “There was a rumor that he’d spend more time here than at home to be with her. Looks like old habits die hard.”

I watch the old man kneel over the grave of his equally-deceased wife. There’s an odd flicker emanating from his face that obscures his eyes, though I’m sure they’re filled with grief. Something about the dead mourning the dead gives me the creeps; I shudder and put a hand on Dad’s headstone to steady myself.

“It’s not so strange really,” my brother says, “You were doing the same, just now.”

I tremble again, disturbed by the fact that he’d just read my mind.

“How did it happen? Us dying, I mean.” I realize I’d forgotten a pivotal moment in my life/death.

“Close your eyes.”

I do, and find myself walking through a forest with Donny at my side. We are hiking to the perfect camping spot in the nearby mountains of Perth. Something reflective catches my eye and I call him back to help me. It’s a mason jar, buried so that only the lid pokes out above the compact dirt. A childish curiosity overcomes us and we start digging it out with the back of a hammer. After all – anything could be inside it.

Both of us take turns going at when I hear the low rumble of what sounds like a cougar or black bear. I look up in time to see the grill of the truck that crushes both of our heads against the tree behind us. I’m thrown from my body as if from the impact of the crash. From my new vantage point, I watch as the truck pulls back, the hood and bumper crumpled like paper, allowing the mess that is our bodies to slide to the ground.

The driver gets out, assessing first the damage to his car, before turning to our lifeless bodies. One glance at our faces, crushed to the point of unrecognition, confirms our deaths to him and he gives an approving nod. Lighting a cigarette, he kneels forward into the beam of headlights and for the first time I see his face. It’s Chris. My old buddy Chris who’d ‘had the run in with a suicidal deer’. He loads our bodies into the back of his trunk, washes down the tree with bleach and leaves.

“Good friends are hard to come by, huh?” Donny says this from within and without my head.

I open my eyes and we’re back in the cemetery. Night has swallowed day. Still, the mourners wander about on the lawn; pausing to cry, sometimes giving in to hysterics before continuing their march.

“Why did he do it?” I ask.

“Why do any of us do anything?” he replies. “Personal gain. Even when we help others, we do it for the good feelings and butterflies we get, as much as we don’t like to admit it.”

“Doesn’t seem like he helped either of us much.”

“No,” he agrees, “This time was purely selfish. He did it for Lily. I hadn’t had the heart to tell you, but they’ve been sleeping together for a while now. You don’t blame me right, man? I mean, he was your best friend. It’s hard to breach that kind of subject. Besides, I told you she was a bitch.”

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To be honest, I don’t remember a girl named Lily, let alone a humiliating relationship with her. Donny again picks up on this thought.

“I guess even love isn’t safe from death. She was with him today, when he was hamming up the story about the deer – she could hardly keep a straight face.”

A fragment of memory floats down to me and I grasp at it hungrily: a date we’d had that ended with us sneaking onto the top of the old Alladin movie theater. The first place we’d made love; though certainly not the last.

She cheated on me. I can feel my face burn hot with shame. Another abandonment. This time ending in the death of not only me but my brother as well.

But it didn’t have to be over yet.

I stand up with a purpose, avoiding the eternally grieving spirits as I make my exit. And when I reach the gate, I run.

“Why run?” He says, “We’re dead. Wherever we want to be, that’s where we are.”

We’re standing inside Chris’ house now, just outside his room. The door is shut, but I can hear him talking. Talking to the girlfriend he’d stolen. The seed of rage sprouts into a clawing thrush of vines.

“This is it, brother,” his voice echoes more inside my head than out, “You can make them pay. They killed us. They killed me, Eddie,” his voice cracks for a moment and I’m fed the memory of late night gaming sessions together, fighting over the last beer and secrets told in confidence. “You can’t let him get away with it, big brother. You couldn’t protect me, but you can make things even. Make things fair.”

I think over what should be an easy decision, but it’s not. Chris did the unspeakable, but did that mean I should return the favor? We’d been best friends since we were kids. Even if he’d forgotten that bond, it didn’t mean I had to too.

Suddenly the room begins flickering in and out of focus like a strobe light. I’m reminded of Richard Grady and the same flashing light I’d seen slipping from his eyes. I know then without explanation that this is a crossroads. This is where I can forgive and surrender to the universe or unleash it on Chris.

The image of Dad smiling and shaking his head blossoms in my mind; and with it, the flicker continues to grow. Love takes a long time to grow.

Donny pipes up again, “Let’s see how long her neck can stretch.”

* * *

Chris sits at the edge of his bed, still reeling from the phone call he’d received. Lily had slept through the whole thing, and though he considers waking her up with the news, decides against it. There’d be plenty of time for grief. Eddie’s pickup had been found at the bottom of a cliff with his body crushed inside. The officer who’d told him this had explained he’d likely fallen asleep at the wheel, which wasn’t uncommon at all. They suspected he’d been out for a night of camping judging by all the gear scattered around the impact site.

My best friend, Chris marvels, gone. God, I wonder how his mom’s doing. First her husband, and now her only child. He stands and heads for the door, thirsty for a drink. The stickiness is the first thing he notices; it oozes up between his toes, causing the carpet to cling to his bare feet. He glances down to find a thickening pool of blood seeping from beneath the door which swings open with awful finality.

He has enough time to whisper, ‘Eddie?’, before the air around him reverberates into a deep hum like a subwoofer, accented by the agonizing (elongating) screams of his wife behind him.

Credit To – ARScroggins

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39 thoughts on “A Funny Thing Happened”

  1. I loved reading this! Definitely did not see any of that coming. It’s a shame some people feel so highly of themselves that instead of just enjoying a good story and the effort to think it up, they have to nitpick at stupid things like a nickname or what certain trips would or would not occur. I had a trip where I honestly thought I was cinnamon. Like actual powdery cinnamon. So no one can say what trip can or can’t happen. Depends on the person and their personal reaction to whatever they did. So basically… kudos for writing an entertaining story and I hope to read more of your stuff in the future ?

  2. Sorry for my english but I need to comment!
    So first I really liked the story and while scrolling through the comments I saw a lot of people complaining about the ambiguity but seriously it works for me
    Even though the end is a bit short I think it helps the reader to stop and think about what just happened especially as a lot of informations not to say all of them are given in that ‘second part’
    I think a story we need to think about is a really good ones, those that works and I have to say I didn’t really saw that plot twist coming which I usually do
    Just my interpretation of the story as no one seems to think the same thing; I thought that at the end Eddie killed Chris, who didn’t realized he was a ghost and so the blood would’ve been his and the wife screams because she found him dead. Now I can’t really tell if it’s my english and the part about stretching her neck is an expression I don’t get or if it’s unclear for everyone…
    Anyway it was really pleasant to read just one more question; what was in the jar?

  3. Meh. I found it pretty underwhelming and poorly written. I would have just passed it over and moved on, but then I read the comments and saw what a pretentious prick the author is. Have a little trouble with criticism there, pal?

  4. I was scrolling through stories when all of a sudden I saw “Hitler” so honestly, I thought it was an attention grabber. Like so many others, I thought this story was awesome, though I was confused at the end a little. On the other hand, it’s nice to have readers think about what their reading, interpret or guess at some things, instead of giving them all the answers. I mean, you did say at the end that Eddie’s mom only had one son and he and her husband had died. Interpretation would lead to peoples’ “demon” theory.
    (Sorry for babbling). Point is, I really liked it!!

  5. Hasn’t anyone told you not to look in a mirror when you’re tripping?! Lol the Picasso facial hallucinations are exactly why

    Anonymous:
    No one would attribute facial deconstruction to “a bad trip.” That is unbelievable and really ignorant.

    No one would walk to a doctor if they have a problem that serious that they actually believed was happening. They would call someone. 911 exists.

    If he is a ghost then how could he talk with Hitler? He was speaking to him in his sleep?

    Also, the nickname Hitler makes literally no sense even with the justification of perfect Arian looks. Hitler didn’t look like a true Arian, so why not give him a nickname that actually makes a visual connection to how he looks rather than have some lackluster attempt at humor.

    …yeah, what happens in this story? Read it three times now and I still can’t make heads or tails of anything. Youattempt to be funny, but it just comes out as overly-forced cliches.

    I wanted to like this story. Honest. But its just too all over the place.

    Pick a theme and stick with it. You are juggling way too much in way too little words.

  6. Don’t get me wrong, it was a great story, but it was very confusing. One minute we’re on one plot and bam the next minute something else is happening. You really need to stay with one idea instead of switching what the main problem is every few paragraphs

  7. I’m sorry, but what?
    Seriously, what the fruck just happened?
    My brain feels as though you just shoved a brick of word-cheese into it and you expected it to taste just like monkey cupcakes, but instead I got moldy nut butter…
    The beginning was alright, the middle was drab and uninteresting, and the end was just plain confusing. 3/10 and downvote
    This pasta is undercooked and bland

  8. This was a terrific story, once I understood it of course! I had to go back and re-read the last paragraphs and then it clicked! Eddie was a ghost who had been taken over (more influenced) by a malevolent spirit. Eddie had no brother, we’ll never know who Donny was and I like that. That was a great read and I hope you write more. The ending was a bit confusing, but it didn’t take away from the story. Keep writing.

  9. So I’m not an author, but I have an eye for literature. I liked this, it was clever and creative, but at certain points the story was falling apart. For example the cemetery scene. When Donny comes into play we figure out that Eddie died, but it didn’t feel like he did because of how lax he was. I read that scene several times to confirm what my head was trying to grasp, and then with the sudden arrival at Chris’s house, it seemed a little forced but acceptable because he was a ghost. Then the screaming, blood and door scene felt a little rushed. I think that the ending could be great with those elements, but need a little work, like maybe the blood could be related to how Eddie and Donny had been basically pulverized, and the remains oozing blood. I hope this can help a bit, my phone made difficult to type do pardon any errors. All in all, i would say to slow down your writing, look back at the current section to see if it fits together properly, then due it again. Best of luck to your future works, i hope to read more by you.

  10. So he just killed himself so he could kill the guy that stole his girlfriend and what the heck is with mr nazi just dying behind a couch buried in cans this is the craziest pasta I have read so far it was good though 7/10

  11. Ulises Hernández

    I like this pasta a lot. I have no problems understanding it. The idea of the demon-entity-malevolent ghost “hijacking” another ghost for his purposes or just for fun is a great one in my opinion. Cheers!!

  12. I find it interesting that everyone thinks Donny is a demon when there’s literally no indication if that in the text. Until the author proves otherwise, I’m going with the theory that Donny is someone Chris previously killed and who decided to use confused-new-ghost Eddie to get revenge. It’s good and dramatic.
    He could also be Eddie’s identical twin. You know how you sometimes get those people who have an identical twin that never separated from them and is in them and yeuch. He did say something along the lines of “I’ve always been in you” at one point.

    Anyway, my rambling aside, it was an interesting read. Not creepy so much as just flat-out weird. I would have enjoyed it a lot more if you hadn’t made some pretty basic grammatical errors, misspelt words, etc. Stuff like that always destroys the suspension of disbelief for me. Still a good read though.
    Oh, and the ending needed a little more meat on the bones of the story. Ambiguity is good, to a degree, because it lets your readers feel clever when they have theories and stuff. In this case though, your last chapter (or two) completely twisted away from what the rest of the story had told us, with absolutely no explanation for what had happened. It felt rushed.

  13. Awesome pasta, I’m definitely going to check some more of your stories. Again just to reiterate it was awesome keep writing. (:

  14. I actually understood the story towards the middle. I tend to ruin a story by figuring everything out before the end. Still liked it though.

  15. This is drek. Complete and utter.

    I weep for the people who even began to type anything about this being “well written” but then again, we are talking creepypasta here so what can be expected.

    Most of these characters make absolutely no sense regarding both who they are and the choices they make. There’s no urgency constructed in a way that would make sense to the reader, and that just ends with a mish mash jumble of words with some “spooky” bits thrown in to really give it that creepypasta feel and then boom, instant classic apparently.

    It doesn’t have to be like this people. This community could be filled with writers who aren’t full of themselves, ones that may be into listening to some decent criticism without going into a smarmy mess. Please for the love of whatever you think is holy actually look into what an Aryan ideal is/was before acting like you know anything about such a well documented thing. Here:

    http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/UsefulNotes/NaziGermany?from=Main.NaziGermany

    “Hitler, despite having blue eyes, wasn’t “Aryan” in the slightest. The ideal body image for Germans was supposed to be tall and athletic with blue eyes and blond hair. Ironically, perhaps the three most enthusiastic proponents of “Aryan” racial superiority were Adolf Hitler (of medium height and with dark brown, almost black hair), Heinrich Himmler (tall and stick-like thin, thinning black hair, hazel eyes, glasses) and Joseph Goebbels (very short, black-haired, brown eyes and had a limp). (There was a joke about the Aryan being blonde like Hitler, slim like Goering, and tall like Goebbels.) The only well-known Nazi who actually lived up to the ideal was Reinhard Heydrich, who was super tall, had platinum blond hair, blue eyes, was a champion athlete and a renowned violinist. However, according to Himmler’s doctor, Felix Kersten, Heydrich was half Jewish (although this is far from proven). Goering, in his younger years, could have fit as well, but years of hedonism and morphine addiction took a heavy toll on both his body and mind.”

    The proper response? They’re retards who are too uneducated to know better. I just defended your terrible writing better than you.

      1. Pretty sure that by the nickname “Hitler” you were referring to the physical features that Adolf Hitler thought that Aryan people should have, not how Adolf Hitler himself looked. Right? People are fucking stupid (If I am correct in my assessment, if not then I guess I am fucking stupid). Loved the story, took twice through for me to really understand. Great job!

    1. BUT WHO WAS DONNY???

      Dude he ready explained why he used Hitlers name to someone else…

      Nice story by the way, I’m not easily offended so I guess that’s why I liked it more lol.

  16. I finally understood the story. Thank you Katherine. Eddie had no brother, and the girl was actually Chris’ wife. Eddie never was with her.

    After Eddie died some demon planted false memories in Eddie, making him believe that the girl was his and that Chris killed him and his non existant brother.

    Second time reading it was even better. Thank you.

  17. 10/10
    This was fantastic. Artfully written and engaging. I was curious for every word and the grammar was hardly a comma out of place. The plot was interesting and the twist ending blew me out of the water. Overall this was an absolutely delicious pasta and very impressive.

    1. I’m really glad you enjoyed it. There’s something about the way I write that really polarizes readers into two different teams of those who liked it and those who thought it was too ambiguous.

      Still need to work on the ambiguous thing though: that’s not their fault, it’s mine.

  18. No one would attribute facial deconstruction to “a bad trip.” That is unbelievable and really ignorant.

    No one would walk to a doctor if they have a problem that serious that they actually believed was happening. They would call someone. 911 exists.

    If he is a ghost then how could he talk with Hitler? He was speaking to him in his sleep?

    Also, the nickname Hitler makes literally no sense even with the justification of perfect Arian looks. Hitler didn’t look like a true Arian, so why not give him a nickname that actually makes a visual connection to how he looks rather than have some lackluster attempt at humor.

    …yeah, what happens in this story? Read it three times now and I still can’t make heads or tails of anything. You attempt to be funny, but it just comes out as overly-forced cliches.

    I wanted to like this story. Honest. But its just too all over the place.

    Pick a theme and stick with it. You are juggling way too much in way too little words.

    1. Wow, the assumptions you make here are startling. To begin, you should know that you’re talking to someone who’s sipped ayahuasca at the base of Mt. Fuji. I have had many, many experiences with psychotropic substances and known what is to be expected from them.

      There was one trip on shrooms where I not only thought I was one of those cactus guys from Final Fantasy, I knew it by god. And that is what I was getting at in this story. I really hope you weren’t alluding to me saying that chemicals that act in the brain could rearrange physical features. That would be…unbelievable.

      Imagine for a moment what it’d be like to be Eddie, waking up still dazed from a trip and finding your face rearranging itself.

      Encountering the impossible would strike up all types of wild explanations inside of us and I jumping onto the nitrous as the cause, while clearly flawed in logic, was the most sensible thing for Eddie to do in an illogical situation.

      You’re right about calling 911 though. He would have done that, I believe I mentioned him trying to somewhere up in the story that you read three times, except that he couldn’t find his phone. (spoilers) It was at the bottom of the cliff where he dropped off in his sleep. In a panic, he decided to foot it instead. I never said he was a smart one.

      Yes, he was a ghost – good, you’re with me on that one – and yes he was trying to talk to his buddy Hitler. But you’ll notice (or not, it looks like) that his friend never responds. That is why I included the friend at all. That’s also why I included his dog, Trigger (the old idea that dogs can see more than we can) and the doctor (to deny him hope and send him to his father).

      You’re joking about Hitler not being the image of Aryan perfection, right? You honestly believe I (or anyone else over the age of 13 who uses the internet) hasn’t seen a picture of Hitler before? I…I just can’t.

      Hope that cleared some of it up for you. Listening to you has been enlightening. I didn’t think we as a race were this fucked.

      1. Deadlynightshade

        Wow shrooms have NEVER made me have a bad trip to where I thought I was someone else. Acid….yes of course. Shrooms you don’t have the same trip where random shit pops up. Maybe the shrooms u ate had acid in em. And I’ve had blazing shrooms. Whipits haven’t made me trip either. But all in all it was an okay story.

  19. Loved it up until the end. Got confused, figured it out, then lost it again. I think my problem was the 2nd to last paragraph seemed like it should have been 2 instead of one. It’s like it’s two different thoughts. Clean up that last bit of confusion and this would be very tasty pasta.

    1. I think I know what you’re saying. It was a lot clearer when the italics were still there…I should have submitted it with HTML encoding, but that would have taken too much work.

  20. I enjoyed this. The concept it an interesting one, having a ghost note his own steady mutation into death, and I like the overall story. I do wish there was just a touch more clarity. I’m all for ambiguity, but I think there were a few too many options to not have any additional explanation. Maybe just a brief discussion of Donny since Eddie has no brother. I also feel like Hitler is a terrible nickname, simply because it makes the narrator more unlikable (I mean, who gives their friend a nickname that could have such awful social consequences?) The initial “drug” use was used, I assume to set up Eddie as someone who makes bad decisions and has some risk factors for the final cause of death, but I’m not sure it really fit wit the rest of the story. For a relatively short piece, it did take up some hefty realty without moving the story along or adding much characterization. I can see the purpose, but I might cut that back a bit, just for the sake of using words most effectively.

    I enjoyed the story and the conflict between acceptance and revenge in the final scenes. Nitpicky, but where did the blood seeping under the door come from if the wife is still alive to scream? If there’s enough blood to pool outside the doorway, I’m not sure the owner of the blood would still be conscious/alive enough to scream. A nitpick, to be sure, but it was a bit odd to me. It is a really interesting idea, and I feel like I’m only missing one piece (Donny) to make this puzzle make sense. Really enjoyable. Thanks for a great read, and happy writing!

    1. Thanks for review! Yeah, the Hitler nickname was something I wasn’t sure about. It’s actually something an old group of friends used to call me since I was the only white guy with blonde hair in the group. I’m one of those people who have to write out there thoughts to understand how they really feel and so that’s what I did with the name.

      It turned out that I didn’t like it very much, haha. Part of me wanted to change it before posting but the other half – the bigger half – didn’t care at all and so here it is. I’ve never tied much importance to names anyway, so just another reason for me not to care
      now.

      I agree about cutting out a lot of the first half, but what it came down to (as I explain on a post lower down) is that I’m trying to build a set piece and give all the reasons to convince the reader that Eddie isn’t dead. Still could have cut a lot out though, and I might consider it sometime. I also really just wanted to see a pasta up here with drug use in it.

      The blood thing was kind of stupid and I regret not taking it out. This whole story was originally written for a contest wherein the contestants had to use three pictures to write a short. One of them was blood seeping beneath a door and so…there it is, squeezed in out of place and awkward into the closet of this tale.

      As far as Donny goes, I have no idea what he is.

      He wouldn’t tell me.

  21. What just happened? I enjoyed your body transformation idea but I am so confused as to where it was going or how the story matched up. It got 9 stars so maybe I’m just confused ?

    Also there was a medical nitros oxide ad, not sure if that’s because it’s said in the story or tags .

    1. what happened was that in the end a demon or some ting was corrupting his memory and made him into a murdering ghost.

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