Recent Discussion

This Week's Active Posts

• Comments: 10 • Facebook: 1
South Ferry
• Comments: 4 • Facebook: 1
The Intruders
• Comments: 1 • Facebook: 1

Please read the FAQ before using this form!

Your Name (required)

Your Email (required)

Pasta Title (required)

Category (required)

 Aliens Audiopasta/Podcasts Based on a True Story Black-Eyed Children Candle Cove CandleJack CandleWalker Conspiracies Creepy Comics Cthulu Mythos Eyeless Jack Haunted Games Historical Horror Interactive/Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Jeff the Killer Lost Episodes Micropasta Mythology/Folklore Parodypastas Poetrypasta Real-World Creepy Seasonally Spooky Slenderman Smile Dog The Holders The Rake The Russian Sleep Experiment Vampires Video Pastas WHO WAS PHONE Zalgo Zombies

Enter Your Pasta Here


Credit Link

Author Tag: If you have an author tag, please enter it here. IMPORTANT NOTE: This field is ONLY for people who already have existing author tags. If you enter something in this field and your tag does not already exist, this field will be ignored even if your story is accepted. If you fulfill the requirements for an author tag, you must follow the rules on the Author Tag Request form to obtain your own tag.

Terms of Submission: By submitting your story to us, you are giving us permission to post your story on We do not claim any ownership or responsibility for your story beyond that; you retain ownership of your work, you are free to do with it what you wish. Further, you acknowledge and agree that you will not receive any compensation – monetary or otherwise – from us in exchange for posting your story. You are not entitled to any profits that we may receive from advertising or donations. If, at any time, you wish for us to remove or edit your published submission, you must let us know by replying to your submission email with your request - any other ways will be ignored. Lastly, by submitting you are acknowledging that the work you have entered here is your own and not plagiarized or borrowed.
 I Accept

Crappypasta: If your pasta is not selected for publishing on the main Creepypasta archive, do you give permission for us to possibly publish it on our sibling site, Crappypasta? This will allow people to read and provide feedback on your pasta, but be warned - it is not for the faint of heart! Please visit About Crappypasta for more details.
 Yes No

Human Verification: In order to verify that you are a human and not a spam bot, please enter the answer into the following box below based on the instructions contained in the graphic.

Please leave this field empty.

Your Favorited Pastas

  • Your favorites will be here.

Available Beta Readers

Whether you're looking for someone to help proofread and refine your creepypasta or you'd like to offer your help to writers in need of a second opinion, please check out the Available Beta Readers post!

Creepypasta Prompts

Have an idea for a great pasta, but lack the time or ability to see it through? Or do you have the time and the will to write a story, but your personal font of inspiration is running dry? The Creepypasta Prompts page should be helpful to people in both camps!

RSS Stories Looking For Feedback

Popular Tags:

Human Echolocation

October 2, 2015 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.0/10 (407 votes cast)

I’ve been blind since birth. This in and of itself is not what this is about, but it’s a crucial part of the story. Throughout my life, I’ve used lots of different kinds of assistive technology; braille keyboards, voice command apps, adapted smartphones… Recently, I tried human echolocation for the first time in my life. For those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s a technique emulating that of how bats find their prey in the dark. By making clicking noises with your mouth, you are able to hear the sound bounce off of objects it hits, and in that way “see” where the objects are. A friend of mine, let’s call her “J”, had seen a couple of videos about it on Youtube, and asked me if I had ever tried it. I told her I hadn’t, though I had heard of it.

Long story short, I decided to test it out. It took a lot of concentration at first, but after a few days I felt like I started getting the hang of it.

The next time I met J, she sounded excited and congratulated me when I told her I was doing really well. Practice makes perfect, and I was able to avoid any major obstacles without much trouble. We went to a park, and J asked me to demonstrate what I could “see” around us with my current abilities. I laughed, and told her that I’m not exactly Daredevil, but that I’d give it a go. After a few clicks, I told her I thought there was a small wall or building to our left, and a tall thing in front of us. It was “blurrier” for me to make out, so I guessed it was some kind of bush. J got quiet then, and had a hint of worry in her voice when she spoke again. “Well, you’re right about the wall… but there’s nothing in front of us at all. Just… grass.”

I froze. I knew that I was a beginner at this, but the sound clearly bounced off of something. It was much taller than a person, and only a few steps in front of us. Could I have messed up what I heard that bad?

I decided to laugh it off with J, and said that I apparently wasn’t ready to go out and fight crime just yet. Feeling very uneasy, I hurried us away from there, and we continued our walk. By the time she dropped me off at home, she seemed to have forgotten about it. I doubt I ever will.

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.0/10 (407 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

October 2015 Halloween Discussion Post + Creepy Funko Pop Pack Giveaway [Contacting Winner]

October 1, 2015 at 5:11 PM

As some of you have already noticed, the ratings stars have once again turned to pumpkins. This means that it’s finally October again, and thus time for our annual Halloween discussion post and giveaway!

Just like in 2014 and 2013, the October discussion post will serve as a sort of catch-all for any Halloween chatter. What are your Halloween costume plans? Will you be trick-or-treating, throwing a party, or otherwise celebrating the spooky season? Which pastas are your favorite to re-read around Halloween? You can even tell us what your favorite Halloween candy is, if you’d like. The only rules are as follows: no stalking/harassment, no offensive speech, no outright bullying/rudeness, and do try to stay on the topic of Halloween and the giveaway. In other words, keep it relevant and keep it civil. Be excellent to each other!

Now, as for the contest…

This year I’ve purchased a little “paranormal pack” of Funko Pop figures. I tried to get a decent mix of fandoms, so hopefully my choices will appeal to most of you!

ONE winner will receive the three following Funko POP! figures, brand new and in box:

Ash from the Evil Dead series:

Dana Scully from the X-Files series:

Weeping Angel from the Doctor Who series:

You may enter through this widget:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Rules & Legal Stuff:
The contest will run from October 2nd to midnight on November 1st. Note that you can repeat the Twitter entry once per day for more entries, however you must send the tweet with the link to this post included for it to be a valid entry! Seriously, guys, this applies to the other bonus entry methods: follow the rules, because I do actually, manually, really, truly double-check that the winner has done everything correctly before I contact them. Even if the RNG machine spits out your entry, if I look and see that you’ve somehow cheated, I’ll just disqualify your entry and pick a new winner. Cheating/lazy entries do nothing but waste your time and mine.

Please pay attention to the terms and conditions. For legal reasons, this giveaway is only open to legal residents of USA & Canada who are 18 years of age or older. Void where prohibited or restricted by law. No exceptions.

There are affiliate codes included in the links to the Funko POP! figures. This means that if you visit the site through my link and purchase anything, I’ll get paid back a tiny kickback which then gets funneled back into site expenses and funding more giveaways. Thanks to anyone who uses my affiliate links, I appreciate it!

LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Don’t Think of The Old Hag

October 1, 2015 at 12:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.0/10 (476 votes cast)

It has been six weeks since my first sighting of the wicked old hag. I woke up in the middle of the night and went to roll over, but my entire body was paralysed. I lay there, scared and helpless, contemplating my predicament when I became aware of a presence in the room with me…a presence that I can only describe as pure evil.

I caught sight of a withered old woman at the foot of the bed. Her tall hunched frame was draped in a long dirty gown and wisps of filthy white hair hung from a balding scalp. I channelled all my energy into a desperate attempt to move, but my efforts were in vain. It felt as though I was being pinned to the bed by an invisible force. I tried scream out for help, but my words came out as jumbled whimpers. I could feel her claw-like hands on my legs and my arms as she crawled her way up my rigid body. A crooked smile revealed rotten teeth and her bloodshot eyes were callous and calculating as she stared directly at me.

Suddenly, I bolted upright in bed. I could move again and the room around me was empty. It was just a bad dream, I concluded. I took a few minutes to catch my breath and settled back to sleep.

A couple of weeks later I met an old friend for a drink and a point in our conversation reminded me of my dream.
“I had a scary case of sleep paralysis a couple of weeks ago,” I told him.

“Really? Did you see the old hag?” my friend replied.

An icy chill ran over my body. I hadn’t told anyone about the dream and there was no way he could’ve known what I’d seen. “How the hell did you know that?” I asked with disbelief, my voice quivering.

“I read about it some time ago,” he explained, startled by my reaction. “…A phenomenon known as Old Hag Syndrome where sufferers of sleep paralysis are visited by an entity, often in the form of an old hag.”

“You’re bullshitting me!” I said, incredulously.

He convinced me to look it up, and so when I returned home I typed the keywords OLD HAG and SLEEP PARALYSIS into Google. It returned pages full of results, some of which told of ancient folklore spanning different cultures; others told of personal experiences like my own. To some the entity took the form of an old lady or a witch, to others she looked more like a demon, but they all described the presence of overwhelming evil. Most chilling of all were the accounts in which the hag tortured and molested her victims as they lay paralysed and helpless.

I turned off the computer and tried to put it out of my mind. An eerie mood lingered in the room and I had a bad feeling that unless I could get her out of my mind, she was sure to pay me another visit.

That night I was woken by a piercing cackle and I lay paralysed as that tall and stooped figure emerged at the foot of my bed. She crawled under the covers and up my body before sitting on my chest and peering down at me. She ran her slimy tongue over her chapped lips and made slurping sounds. What transpired after that I cannot bring myself to talk about.

I’ve spent subsequent days browsing forums for answers…for a way out. I am neither religious nor superstitious and I don’t believe anything considered “supernatural”, but scientific resources offer no rational explanation for what I’ve been experiencing – just speculation and scepticism. In some cultures it is believed to be a demonic curse and the entity is brought to life through the power of suggestion. Most victims recall some kind of trigger that worked its way into their subconscious, such as a painting or a friend sharing their personal experience.

I’ve been telling myself, “Don’t think of the old hag!” But as we all know, the harder you try not to think of something the more that thought persists. The visions grow more vivid and traumatising the more I think of her. Some nights she violates me in unspeakable ways and I wake with bruises, scratches and bite marks over my body. Other nights I hear her ragged breathing in my ear and find her lying next to me, grinning and gurgling.

But I think I’ve learned a way to be rid of these visions once and for all. I must plant the thought into the mind of someone else and distract the old hag with a fresh victim. As selfish and cruel as I am to pass this curse on to someone else, I just can’t bear it any more.

Dear Reader, whoever you are, please forgive me!

Credit: Daniel Hammonds

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.0/10 (476 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

A Soft White Glow

October 1, 2015 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.5/10 (155 votes cast)

I didn’t want us to move, but my parents didn’t give me a say in the matter. My father’s new job paid much better than anything he could have landed within driving distance of our home in the city, and the new company agreed to hire my mother, too. Not only would she have the chance to go back to work for the first time since I’d been born, but the two incomes would afford us the money to buy a house — an actual house, my father stressed — that even came with some land attached. They promised me it would be a welcome change from our apartment in the city. To them, our home was merely a cramped little space where we lived on top of one another, and that we didn’t even own. It rankled them to shell out more and more money every year to an unseen landlord for permission to occupy space, simply because that person had wealth and we did not. It was if we would not be granted the right to exist if we were any poorer than we currently were.

My parents didn’t much care that I liked being in the city. There, I never had to confront my fear of the dark. A light always burned somewhere in the city — the sky by day, the streets by night.

More than anything, it was the lack of light in the countryside that I wasn’t prepared for. Things weren’t so bad in the daytime, when the sunlight shone in the grass and speared between the tree branches to dapple the ground below. Come nightfall, however, our new home and its vicinity became a different world entirely. The darkness in the countryside was absolute. No matter how long you stared into it, your eyes would never adjust. Unless there were a strong moon in the sky, you would be condemned to blindness once the lights went out, and forced to rely on your ears and touch and imagination until the sunrise restored your eyesight.

I fell into the habit of leaving the blinds in my bedroom open at all times, including at night, so that the sunlight could start streaming in as soon as it breached the horizon.

* * *

We had finished with the move in the spring. The dark and seemingly endless nights in the country had me on edge within a week. I looked forward to the summer and its progressively longer days.

I came to learn that it wasn’t the dark itself I was afraid of, not quite. I hated what it did to my senses. Imagined motions — particularly flurries of static like on the screen of a broken television — rushed over my eyes when they remained open in the darkness and found nothing to draw their focus. My ears would pick up sounds that drove me crazy if I couldn’t immediately put a source to them: the creaking of the house as it settled into its foundation, the yowling calls of animals out in the distance, the lonely and sorrowful moans of the wind through the pines. Then there was the problem of my own body, and discovering that no position in bed was comfortable once I started thinking about it.

Mostly it was the feeling of abandonment I couldn’t stomach. Nothing in my life had prepared me for how isolating rural living can be. In the city, you never want for human contact; the streets are never empty, and the public venues always crowded. In our new home, hidden away among large swaths of field and forest, there was nobody around but us. Once my school day ended, I was effectively done with seeing other people. In the evenings I felt like a castaway marooned in the middle of a sea of grass, and at night, that sea seemed to swell and broaden, pulling me even further from the world I knew and loved.

I never could deal with the overwhelming sense of space the surrounding fields gave me. Open air was not something I had ever experienced in the city. I soon discovered I didn’t like it. What did I care about a bunch of grass? Where other kids my age might want to roam the fields and explore, I found I would much rather stay inside, surrounded by the safety of walls and floors and ceilings and the finite. Plus, there were no mosquitoes indoors.

And there was no computer outside to connect me with the friends from back home that I hadn’t yet lost in my great uprooting. I spent fewer hours basking in the sun than in the glow of my monitor, trying to maintain friendships that slowly slipped away as life happened differently to each of us, and brought my friends new excitements that I had no part in to replace our shared memories.

* * *

“You should eat some more,” said my father at the dinner table. “You’ve lost weight these last weeks.”

I tried to put down seconds.

“Try going outside tomorrow, too,” he added. “You’re looking pale.”

“If I have time, sure.”

It was obvious they worried about me — but not enough to reconsider the move.

“Why don’t you call your friends tonight?” my mother suggested. “They’d be glad to hear from you.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

It was easier to tell them what they wanted to hear. I could have mentioned that the silences when I called my friends were now longer than the sentences. Yet somehow it didn’t seem right to let my mother know that my friends and I didn’t have much to talk about anymore.

* * *

In wishing for the change of season, I hadn’t accounted for the heat. We’d always had an air conditioner in our apartment in the city. The new house, however, had no means of cooling down besides opening the windows. I had thought the nights in the springtime were miserable by virtue of their length. I knew nothing of the unpleasantness of summer nights, of simmering sleepless in one’s own sweat no matter how many sheets and layers one shed. Sometimes I caught myself exhaling a low, lonely moan, like I’d heard in the trees.

One summer night, when it was too hot to sleep, I found myself staring through my dark window, wishing the pinholes of starlight above were enough to brighten the earth. They sparkled, winking at me through passing cirrus clouds as if they were teasing me. Some even seemed to descend from the sky, lighting on the fields below. It occurred to me that stars don’t really “fall” like that — despite the fears and warnings of the world’s early civilizations — and I began to wonder whether my mind was playing tricks on me again.

When the fallen stars started to shimmer and flash, I realized what I was actually seeing: fireflies!

I had never glimpsed one before, having only the fakes from movies and television for reference, but I didn’t think there was anything else the lights outside could be. They certainly moved like fireflies, tracing lazy arcs between blades of grass before disappearing into the darkness, and surfacing from the blackness again some distance away. I watched them flit and flicker until I felt tired enough to sleep through the heat.

In the morning they were gone, but the fireflies returned the next night. The soft white glow they trailed through the field’s tall grass gave me a sense of deep comfort, like what children must feel around their night-lights. With each brief flash, I felt as if the fireflies were calling me to play. Few things seemed more fun to me in those moments than chasing the little white motes around. Yet I worried about being eaten alive by the mosquitoes that surely swarmed out there — and about finding my way back to the house in the dark — so I remained indoors.

Inwardly, I was already preparing myself for the season to come, when the fireflies would pass from the field, and into memory and regret. If our abrupt move from the city taught me anything, it was that nothing lasts. It was best to inure myself to it sooner than later.

* * *

The cold season struck early that year, snowing in mid-October before the trees had the chance to drop their leaves. They couldn’t bear the extra burden, and their limbs snapped beneath the loads they were never meant to carry. Oftentimes they took power lines with them, and we spent several days without electricity. The wreckage outdoors looked to me like the world had ended — in ice rather than fire, answering an old question. I wondered how the fireflies had fared in the unseasonable cold, figuring that few of them had survived.

Imagine my surprise when I peered out my window one night at the tracts of snow, faintly blue beneath the crescent moon, and saw clusters of fireflies glittering over their favorite haunt. At first, the sight left me bewildered — how could cold-blooded insects endure the premature winter’s chill? Then again, I knew nothing of firefly ecology. Perhaps they were hardier bugs than I thought. My confusion soon gave way to joy, for the fireflies’ soft glow filled me with the same warm feelings it always had. Their playful glint seemed to promise all the pleasures I had wished for through the years, and never attained.

A thought arrived, unbidden, as if it came from outside of me: that nothing would make me happier than to stand amidst the procession of fireflies in the field, to let their glow wash over me, to reach out and touch the light I’d craved.

I resolved to venture out into the field once the moon was full. With all the fallen snow to reflect the moonlight, it would be as good as daytime; I could find my way back to the house in it easily. And surely the cold snap would have killed off all the insects out there that wanted to drink my blood.

* * *

Before the end of the month, the night came when the moon shone full like a silver sun. I waited until my parents had gone to sleep. Then I headed downstairs, put on my snowboots and bundled myself in my winter coat, and went outside. The glassy scent of the cold shocked my airways and stung my lungs as I trudged toward the firefly field. The blanketed snow muted every sound, making my footsteps seem yards away, and my breath belong to somebody beside me though I saw it cloud and disperse before my eyes. In the distance, the fireflies rose from the ground like snowfall in reverse. Even through the frigidity of the air, the sight of them warmed me. I picked up my pace.

As I neared, the fireflies drifted away from me like dandelion tufts on a breeze. I thought I had startled them, so I slowed my approach. I crept toward them, planting my every step lightly enough that the thin layer of frost over the snow made no noise as it broke beneath my weight. The fireflies retreated, but less than before. A few cautious steps later, and they hardly moved at all, floating in space as if I were not there. They allowed me to tread into their midst.

Surrounded by the little glowing sparks, I felt a happiness unlike any I had known. I giggled, delirious with pleasure. I was pricked by an urge to hurl myself onto my back and make a snow angel while the fireflies settled on my face. I threw out my arms. Several fireflies drew closer. One landed on my outstretched finger. Delighted, I brought it toward me. How thrilling it would be to see a firefly in the flesh!

It took me a moment to see the thing at the center of the soft white glow. Squinting, I could discern a few of its features. Then, as its image came into focus, I gasped as if I had been struck.

Whatever I held, it was no firefly.

I could not have told you exactly what it was. It resembled a human skull in miniature, ringed in pulsating white flame. It seemed to stare at me — into me — as I regarded it. There was a certain predatory intelligence behind its empty gaze.

My glance averted by instinct, and darted among the other glowing things. Were they the same as the one on my finger? I shook my hand, and the spectral skull drifted away. The rest of them encroached, gradually but deliberately. The low moan I had formerly ascribed to the wind soughed across the snow through the still air.

I heard a crack like a breaking bone, and my heart sank.

For I realized what I had never discovered hiding indoors: it was not a field the glowing creatures had led me to, but a bog.

The ice gave way, and I plunged into the freezing water. My boots dragged me down, dunking my head below the surface. The terrible cold forced the air from my lungs as my muscles began to quake. Above, the white lights bobbed like jellyfish, their outlines undulating in the turbulence.

The blackness under me looked darker than sleep. Small white spheres rose from it like bubbles. They skirted my cheeks, revealing bone grins inside their glow. I started to flail, but I found I could not move one leg — something grasped me by the ankle!

The shining little skulls gathered in the shape of a hand where I felt clutched. It tugged on me, and something like a white human silhouette raised itself from the depths. I thought I could see bones beneath its luminous skin. It brought its face up to mine, restraining my head between its palms. A bottomless loneliness radiated from its empty eyes, devouring, insatiable.

Then, as I fought to break free, it pressed its mouth to mine in a cold, hungry kiss that tasted like everything I had ever lost.

* * *

My parents tell me they found me in the morning, pale and emaciated, lying on the bank of the bog. They said I was shivering and unconscious, and feared I had gone into shock. At the hospital, I was supposedly treated for hypothermia. I remember none of it. The doctors discharged me with a relatively clean bill of health, advising me to pack on a few pounds in the meantime. They claim there’s nothing wrong with me.

But I know better.

I tremble beneath blankets even when the air is warm. I feel no hunger, and steadily drop in weight even if I can manage to eat anything. My skin picks up no color after hours in the sunlight.

It doesn’t matter what I lost, or where, or to what. I have no answer; nobody does. All I know — and all I need to know — is that some precious thing of mine is gone.

And I doubt it will come back to me, even if I knew where to look for it.

Credit: Lex Joy

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.5/10 (155 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Bennett’s Exorcism

September 30, 2015 at 12:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.5/10 (134 votes cast)

“Our church is no more. Our arrogance and ignorance brought forth our destruction. We are all that’s left of the once glorious church. Christianity now relies on us to survive.”

-Pope Pius IX, addressing the Magisterium in the ruins of St. Peter’s Sqaure

All Hallow’s Eve – 1856

The hollow autumn wind brushed through the dying trees with zealous tenacity. Soft whispers on the breeze called forth spirits long forgotten. Here, in bleak despair, a lone boy sat. He cried over the loneliness of a mother’s death. By his side, an older gentlemen, mid aged, his father.

“Bennett, your mother loved you, you know that, right?”

“She left us here father, how is that love?”

“Don’t talk like she was heartless. We tried to give you a life beyond these cathedral halls. Away from religious fervor and zealous politics. She died giving you a chance to make your own life.”

“It still hurts.”

“I know my son.” Gregor, the boy’s father, said, reaching down and hugging his son, ” I love you.”

“I love you too, father.”

The dark, moonlit halls were still, not even the dust woke upon the chilling winds. Bennett traversed the sanctuary, it’s ruined state brought a strange quiet to his torment. The moon was rising and its pale blue light gleamed through the stained glass windows. Bennett knelt before the alter, looking upon the crucifix which hung from the wall, a radiant golden glow gave it an aura of hope.

“Lord, I am lost. Help me find the light which is lost to me.”

No answer.

“Please Lord, I ask for guidance. I ask for peace.”

No answer still.

Bennett’s mind raced; foul thoughts brought to the forbearance of radical cognition. Death seemed to be a comfort, a release from the empty company this site gave.

“I love you.” His father’s voice echoed through his mind.

“Lord, help me. I beseech you. I lay down my pride, my guilt, my sin. Show me your benevolent light.”


Bennett sighed and rose from his pious stance. The moonlight dimmed to dark luminance.

Into the sanctuary walked three figures, garbed in black robes with flowing cloaks. Bennett gave no thought to their strange regalia, for thoughts far worse entered his mind. Thoughts of flames, of cities brought to ash, of an evil returned.

“Excuse me sirs, but the sanctuary is closed. My father is in the chapel, delivering the All Hallow’s Eve service.”

“We have not come to pray before the cross young Bennett. We have come to give you hope.” The center figure said, a strange, deep dread in his voice.

“Your release which you so long for.” The figure to the right said, his voice gave a chill of hate to young Bennett.

“Your prayers have been heard, your plea has been granted.” The last figure said, an aura of death radiated from him.

“My prayers, answered. My cries heard. Surely my doubt is mistaken, the Lord has heard his servant.” Bennett said, tears falling upon his cheeks.

Bennett wiped the tears, which blurred his vision, then he noticed a strange sight; black feathered wings stretched from his saviors’ backs, black halos above their heads, which held a black flame, alit in malevolent hate.

“What are you, surely not of Heaven.” Bennett asked, fear overwhelming his spirit.

“We are your saviors dear Bennett, servants of the true light.” The center figure said.

Bennett stood there, his mind affected, his soul shakened.

“Take my hand, let us show you our grace and forbearance.” The center figure said, the other two started a haunting yet beautiful chant which echoed in the ruined sanctuary.

Bennett hesitated, he tried to run away, but his legs couldn’t move, his thoughts raced. He reached out and touched his savior’s hand. Then, darkness took his vision, then there was nothing.

Bennett awoke in the sanctuary of his father’s church, the moon high as it glared at him through the holes in the once beautiful ceiling. Around him, a symbol, a star upside down. Candles at the points where it touched the circle enclosing it.

“What is this?” Bennett asked, his voice raspy and shallow.

Strange chanting echoed through the halls, small flames sparked in the lines of sand which made the foul pentagram.

“Hear our voices, oh bringer of light. We give you a chance to return.” A voice said, it’s speaker unknown.

“A soul, pure and willing.” Another voice said.

“We send it to you, oh fallen savior.” A third voice said.

The three black angels stepped into the dim light of the flames.

“This isn’t right, you lied. What salvation is this!” Bennett cried out, yet his voice still held its solemn quiet.

“Into the darkness we raise this soul. From torment and deprivation shall he be saved. A herald of the new age.” The center angel said.

“All these, we give. Our lives, our souls. So that we may see the coming storm, the wave of retribution swept clean.” A fourth voice said, a woman, as she stepped into the light. Her hood was down, revealing her dark nature. Her eyes were as if they were torn from the sockets, blood dripped down her cheeks. Her voice boomed, torn stitches ran across her lips, as if they were forced apart. Bennett stared at them, shocked at the sight. Foul shadows encased them, their faces twisted in pain and death. His heart raced, his mind panicked.

“Dear God, what have I done.”

Unable to move, unable to speak, Bennett cried in his mind for release. He thought of the life he would leave behind, the love he would never feel.

Then, in unison, the four figures finished their foul prayer, “Into light, we release the one who fell.”

The flames of the pentagram flared, turning into smokeless black light. The moon turned dark. Whispers echoed through the sanctuary as if the damned themselves were released from Hell.

“God, forgive me.” Bennett whispered, sinking to his knees, crying.

The figures then all looked up, their mouths wide open, and jaws dislocated. A malevolent black smoke rose from their mouths, meeting high above the center of the ritual.

“Release, I remember this feeling. It will be fleeting if I do not have a host.” The vile smoke said, it’s voice has foul as its appearance.

Bennett could not help himself, his mind was not his own anymore, “I have given willingly, my soul for the light.” He said.

“Yes, a soul, meant for Heaven. A lost boy, longing for answers. I shall give you what you seek.”

The smoke, now a large cloud of black mist, flew with all haste towards Bennett, whom held his face high, his mouth open, his arms outstretched towards the sky. Into Bennett, the demon flew, a silent scream overpowered Bennett mind, his thoughts clouded by the corruption which was invading his very soul. Around him, the fallen angels dissipated into black dust, which faded into nothingness.

“A world anew, a brother restored.” The demon whispered in Bennett’s mind.

The demon had taken control. It drew upon Bennett’s life force, eating at his very soul. His world grew dark, nothing was left.

No hope,

no salvation.

Then, from behind, a voice boomed throughout the sanctuary, like angels heralding the dawn, “How dare you enter this place!”

It was Gregor, whom ran towards his son.

“Back to the flames, back to your master!” Gregor yelled, tearing his cross from its chain.

He held it forward, “In the shadows I cast thee, into darkness you shall return!” His voice shaking in wrathful righteousness.

The cross flared into divine light, the windows gleamed as if day had broken.

Bennett screamed in pain, causing Gregor to flinch.

“Oh archbishop, truly you cannot believe mere piety can banish me.” The possessed Bennett said, his voice was as if two were talking at once.

Gregor once again held his cross forward, still illuminating with the divine aura.

Bennett fell to the floor, screaming in agony, bringing Gregor nearly to his knees at the sight of such pain towards his beloved son.

“I cast your faith aside. Your messiah shall fall!” Bennett yelled.

The ground shook, dust fell from the ruined ceiling and the crucifix fell onto the alter, splitting both in half.

“You dare insult Christ. You forget who broke Hell’s grip in the first place.” Gregor said, now standing over his possessed son, “I cast thee away!”

Gregor slammed his cross into Bennett’s chest. The demon’s scream overpowered Bennett’s,

“Shadow’s shall fall, and the sun shall rise. Your darkness shall end.” Gregor said, pushing the cross harder. The ground shook, violently. The walls crumpled, the windows shattered at the sheer force of the battle of wills. Shockwaves sent stones flying into the night, booms of trumpets echoed in the sky. The whispers of the damned turned into deafening shouts and screams.

“In righteous light, I banish thee.” Gregor yelled, the light of the cross sparked as it burned away at Bennett’s flesh. Black veins grew from the skin where the cross touched, Bennett’s skin started to grow pale.

“You think your false messiah can save you. There is no escape from the truth.” The demon said, weak yet all the more arrogant.

“Damn you, let go of my son!” Gregor yelled, tears pouring down his cheeks.

“Never, he was promised to us and to us he shall go.” The possessed Bennett said, breathy yet strong.

Gregor thrusted the illuminated cross deeper into Bennett’s chest, weeping at his son’s torture. Bennett screamed as the cross burned at his flesh, the smell of burning flesh flooded Gregor’s nose, steam rose from Bennett’s wound. Then, a silence befell the destroyed sanctuary. A column of thin dust stretched up into the sky and Bennett rose into the air, his screams now as silent as the night. Gregor was thrown back, landing on his back.

“Out of death, shall life be freed. In eternal light shall Hell be spent. Your master is calling you back, return to the chains!” Gregor yelled as he arose, his final cry to the demon.

Bennett’s screams ended as he looked up, opening his mouth in a manner most unnatural, his jaw dislocating with a painful crack.

The demon rose from Bennett gaping maw. Bennett’s eyes faded to solid black and his skin now was almost snow white.

The demon was wrapped in strips of soft blue energy, golden motes danced around it. Bennett’s skin turned pale and the veins around his eyes and mouth grew black as the demon took more and more of his soul.

Gregor yelled at the top of his lungs, “By the power of Christ, I banish thee back to Hell!”

The demon then flew at top speed into the air, a massive cloud of black smoke, Bennett’s soul dancing around it.

Gregor held his cross high, which flared with golden light, almost as bright as the sun. The demon screamed in pain as a hole formed in the ground, smoke and flame outpoured from it. The demon spoke once more before he flew into the portal to Hell, “This is merely alteration in my master’s agenda. He shall have his prize, one way or another.”

In an uproar of flames and smoke, the demon was pulled back down to Hell by the infernal chains and the portal closed. The scent of brimstone still lingered in the air. Gregor ran to Bennett, who laid on the floor, pale and lifeless.

“Bennett, oh my boy. I’m so sorry.”

Gregor held his son, tears ran down his cheeks like down pouring rain.

Through the tears, Gregor looked past the ruined windows and saw the breaking dawn, the radiance of the sun filled the room. In the sunlight, the ruined alter and crucifix flared bright and Gregor had to shield his eyes. After the glorious display, Gregor gazed as the alter and crucifix were restored. He looked up as the sound of choirs started to sing. A single speck of blue light floated down in a ray of light which pierced the now dissipating clouds. It flew into Bennett’s chest, and he took a deep shallow breath, his jaw snapped back into place. Gregor’s tears turned to joy, and he held his son even closer,

“Oh, my son. You’re home.”

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.5/10 (134 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Mystogan Mountain

September 30, 2015 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 5.8/10 (83 votes cast)

November 4, 2015 – 3:20 am –
Entry 1
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

Today is the day that I venture to the other side of the World. That starting sentence seemed a bit bombastic, but it’s true. I will be travelling to a rather small town, possibly village, not entirely positive, to go and live on Mystogan Mountain. For some reason, this particular mountain hasn’t been placed onto any sort of map. Which is rather odd, but I’ve honestly never taken the thought to my heart, nor my mind. The reason for my going to this new and mysterious mountain is for my studies. I am a Paleontologist.

To many people, including friends and family of mine, not that I have many of those, choosing this as a career was a mistake. But I don’t believe that. Yes, I have to go to some bizarre and possibly dangerous places to dig up fossilized plants and bones. At least, that’s the short way to categorize us Paleontologists. I, personally, don’t mind it. I’ve been obsessed with things that are in the ground and finding, along with identifying, exactly what it is my whole life up to now. My obsession with this rooted from Miners, turning into Pirates, eventually rounding towards my obsession of Dinosaurs. Which became very much known by the time I was about six or so. Thanks to the discovery of the movies Jurassic World. (Allen Grant, my childhood hero.)

Now, how about I get further into what Paleontology is actually about, and the different sub disciplines of said career while I am driven to the airport with my boss and my other co-worker.

Paleontology is a rich field, a field filled with stories and mysteries. A long and interesting past with an intriguing and bright future. Hopefully anyways, it all depends on the future generation at this point. Many people believe that Paleontology is all about the study of fossils and Dino bones. Honestly though, Paleontology is much, much more than that. Which people would know if they actually tried to look up what it is that we do and what different sections of this choice in a life career there are. More than even I thought there were.

Paleontology is traditionally divided into various sub disciplines. Let’s start with the first one to pop into my mind, shall we?

1. Micropaleontology is about the study of generally microscopic fossils, regardless of the group to which they belong.
2. Paleobotany is the study of fossil plants; traditionally includes the study of fossil algae and fungi in addition to land plants.
3. Palynology is the study of pollen and spores, both living and fossil, produced by land plants and protists.
4. Invertebrate Paleontology is the study of invertebrate animal fossils, such as mollusks, echinoderms (A marine invertebrate, such as a starfish, sea urchin, or a sea cucumber.), and others.
5. Vertebrate Paleontology is the study of vertebrate fossils, from primitive fishes to mammals.
6. Human Paleontology (Paleoanthropology) is the study of prehistoric human and proto-human fossils.
7. Taphonomy is the study of the processes of decay, preservation, and the formation of fossils in general.
8. Ichnology is the study of fossil tracks, trails, and footprints.
9. Paleoecology is the study of the ecology and climate of the past, as revealed both by fossils and by other methods.
Just in case whoever reads this or finds it depending on what happens to me in the next few years, ecology means “the branch of biology that deals with the relations of organisms to one another and their physical surroundings.”. Or, on a more political advance, it means “the political movement that seeks to protect the environment, especially from pollution.”.

As you can tell, Paleontology has more to it than most think. Paleontology is the study of what fossils tell us about the ecologies of the past, about evolution, and about our place, as humans, in the world. It incorporates knowledge from biology, geology, ecology, anthropology, archeology, and even computer science to understand the processes that have led to the origination and eventual destruction of the different types of organisms since life arose.

Now that I’ve got the definitions and whatnot off of my chest, let me explain what field of Paleontology I chose. Which would be Paleoanthropology. AKA, Human Paleontology. Something just fascinates me anytime it comes to finding skeletons of humans, or maybe animals that closely resemble humans, that have been in the ground for who knows how many years. I believe that it’s the not knowing factor that really triggers my interest. Not to mention, I also like to help out in the Vertebrate Paleontology since finding fossils of primitive fish in mountains really get me interested. Because we don’t know how it got there. Maybe someone of something caught the fish and ate it there? Maybe there used to be a river and it died in the river, or where the river had dried up? Or, it could have been salt water, and the oceans of today could have been that big. And when high tide turned to low tide, that fish was stuck there, and died. But it really strikes your interest and imagination since there is an element of not knowing.

We’re halfway to the airport, it won’t be long before I have to put my Journal up, but I just wanted to state beforehand, if there was a chance of you becoming a Paleontologist, go for it! Not only does that mean that most trips are free, but you meet a lot of intelligent and amazing people along the way. Not to mention that the teachers are awesome. And this is coming from a twenty-four year old man. A single twenty-four year old man in college with a high-paying job, ladies, I’m looking at y’all.

But honestly, all jokes aside, the job is amazing. I am making a lot of money. I got out of High school with a full-ride scholarship and I had taken AP classes while still in High school as to not have to take the college courses for Geometry and English. Plus, no more PE. Which I am very happy with considering that I pretty much hate any type of physical exercise unless I know why I am doing it, and if it’s truly worth it. Not to mention, I am bilingual. Italian, Spanish, French, Swedish, and I am currently working on my Russian. Which is absolutely amazing since I’ve always wanted to learn all of these languages, though I will be trying out Japanese later on once I’ve buckled down both Russian and Finnish. Because anywhere with a lot of mountains or a vast landscape is where we might be. And these places have multiple mountains and vast landscapes. Plus, Italian was a language that I’ve always wanted to learn. Favorite quote in Italian? Maledetto bastardo! Which means, in Italian, damned bastard. One of my first sayings in Italian. I’m rather proud of that. Not to mention, doing amazing in my classes in school and saving up money and having about two jobs during the Summer and a part-time job during school really helped me buy the tickets to get to Canada. Considering how I am from Idaho, US.

But I am travelling way off topic.

My past and everything behind, if there were ever a chance for you to become a Paleontologist, please take it. So, let me think about everything that I’ve written down for my first Journal entry.
–Introduction (Kinda)–Check.
–Where I am going–Check
–How long will I be gone?–I will be absent from Canada for two to four months.–Check
–What is it I do for a living?–Check
–Explaining my job–Check
–Unexpected off-topic ramble–Check
–Tell people to become a Paleontologist–Check
–Do check-list–Check

So, since I am finished with everything and I only have about five more minutes to where I can actually write, it is time to say goodbye.

Bye-Bye, Entry 1!

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington.
P.S. I know that I might not seem like the hard-working type or a studious student because of how I write, but why not add my personality into the things that interest me and while talking about myself. Only business writing when it comes to my actual work/studies.

November 6, 2015 – 11:20 pm –
Entry 2
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

So, we have arrived at the village, not town, that resides at the bottom of the mountain. Which, to be totally honest, standing at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to our cabin which resides on a cliff of the mountain, it’s rather terrifying. I’ve always been told, since I was a young boy, to follow my heart and trust my gut. And right now, my gut is telling me to turn tail and run like the Devil is on my heels. But my heart is telling me to follow after my co-worker and boss/professor and get the job done. Follow my heart or trust my gut? Not to mention, the residents were acting rather strange. The men seemed big and gruff, though skinny and lanky at the same time. Not to mention they treated us rather coldly, or as my co-worker put it, “like a bunch of jackasses that didn’t have any milk left, so they came out in a sour mood.” Which is probably one of the weirdest things I’ve ever hear come out of his mouth.

Speaking of which, my co-worker, is Ethan Jones. Well, Ethan Michael Jones. He’s a tall blond with rather piercing grey eyes. Though he’s not that bad. Sure, he’s more of a pessimistic guy who isn’t much of a morning person, but he’s a pretty cool dude once you get to know him. He’s tall, but not very lanky. More on the buff side. He has to wear glasses, near-sighted, but they compliment him, honestly. And Ethan’s blond hair stops about mid-neck length. He also has a tattoo of a snake impaled as well as wrapped around a dagger with a map behind the dagger with a rose crisscrossing with the dagger. Creating a cross of sorts. Just an FYI for any girls who are interested in tall and buff blonds, he’s Hawaiian.

Now, onto my boss/professor. He’s a cool guy as well. Shorter than Ethan and only an inch under my own height. Which, by the way, I am 6’2″. He has black hair peppered with white along the sides, but it looks good, honestly. His name is Terrence Frey. I don’t know his middle name, but that’s fine. I do know his favorite color, which is orange. Anyways, Prof. Frey is a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, has a smile on his brown face. He also has little crinkles around his light brown eyes each time he smiles or squints. Prof. Frey doesn’t really need glasses, but sometimes he’ll wear a pair to help him grade papers or check a list or document at work. He’s kinda short, not that I can be talking, but a relatively skinny guy. He just has a little bit of fat. Though he does have a big nose. Not overly large to where it looks funny and it’s the first thing you notice about him, but it is one of the things that you notice shortly after meeting him. Just a small fact, my boss/professor is mixed. Half black, half white.

I never wrote about my appearance, so, here we go. I am a 6’2 white male with slightly wavy, light brown hair. My skin is rather pale, though freckles align my face, shoulders, back, and a few scattered along my arms and legs. My eyes are a dark, almost deep sea blue. I am rather pessimistic, but I am happy and bubbly anyways. I strongly announce my opinions and I’m not afraid to call someone out on doing something wrong or when they are wrong during class. My ears are pierced, just regular piercings along with my second hole in both ears pierced, and I have a “smiley” piercing. In case you don’t know what that is, it’s where you get that rather thin piece of skin that connects ones upper lip to their upper jaw pierced. Well, at least the gums of your upper jaw anyways. Last but not least, my tattoo. A tribal tattoo that starts at the bottom of my neck, down to my bicep. It also grows towards my left peck, eventually fading once it starts to reach over to my right peck.

But screw our appearances, let’s talk about what this place looks like. It looks fucking creepy, that’s what it looks like. The houses in the village were made either from brick or wood. The houses all looked broken down and dirty. Black sulfur or something like that covered the outer corner of the houses, crawling upwards and spreading outwards. Any railings, or anything metal for that matter, was rusted. The dead trains that took up a crossed off section of the railway had graffiti and rust all over them. Some of their wheels had been dislocated and there were even dead plant vines that had winded themselves around the trains. These stairs that I am, still, staring up at look rickety and old. As if the slightest pressure on them they’d break. Or like they were very, very creaky. The sky is filled with grey, gloomy clouds. It’s sad really. Not that I was expecting a bright blue sky with little to no clouds in sight, but I was expecting something different, that’s for sure. Plus, it was lightly snowing, still is.

Okay, there’s a woman here. Her name is Belarus or something close to that. I guess I kind of have to follow her. I mean, it’s either that or turn tail and use up most of my money to get back to lovely Canada. I took my first step onto the stairs, I am cringing so bad right now. The wood is all rotten looking and it is so loud, I have hardly even put any type of pressure onto this fucking step. It’s ridiculous. But I have to mush forward as my professor put it. I don’t like this at all.

But I need the money. For more than one reason. Plus, it might be fun while actually working.

Oh! The reason it took me two days to create this new entry was because of some problems at baggage claim. My backpack containing my Journal couldn’t be found, and when we did find it, I had to rush straight onto the train to take us to the village. So I fell asleep within ten minutes on the train. Plus, I was too lazy to grab my backpack and get my Journal out once again, but let’s not spill that to Prof. Frey.

Anyways, now that I am standing in front of the wooden lodge that my companions and I will be staying in, it doesn’t look half bad. Rather new. Almost as if it were made merely weeks ago just for us. Honestly, I am both freaked out and excited for the journey ahead of me. I mean, I get to hang out with my friend, I get more tips and skills when it comes to working out in the field, plus there’s no telling what we’ll find. Hopefully something ground-breaking.


Not that I want one of us to step on loose ground and we all fall to our deaths after uncovering an underground cave. Yeah, no thanks. That doesn’t sound fun.

Anyways, I’ve got to go. I’m tired and lazy and hungry.
Bye-Bye, Entry 2!

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington

November 7, 2015 – 7:32 am –
Entry 3
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

I am back to writing after grabbing some grub for waking up at such an ungodly time.

So, it turns out that today will be a rather boring day. Maybe. Depends on how the professor and my co-worker take this unfortunate news. We are stuck in this wooden lodge for the day. Because of severe weather. Now, after getting used to the Canadian weather and trudging through things worse than the storm raging on outside, it still is very dangerous. Especially if you are on a mountain. I mean, there is a huge difference between a sidewalk on a hill and it’s snowing heavily compared to a small, rocky trail that leads upwards towards the tip of a mountain. Not to mention it’s gonna be slippery due to slush and ice that might stick to the rocks.

We haven’t even been here a full day and I’m dreading this journey. I mean, I know that I was super excited at the beginning, but now…

I wanna go home.

But whatever. I’ll just have to suck up my homesick feelings and deal with it for the time being. Plus, these next few months are gonna fly by. Hopefully.

Anyways, I’m getting off track, again. We will be stuck inside the lodge all day. What will we be doing? Cleaning equipment and counting/checking that we have everything. Plus eating food and lounging around. Might even play a card game or something. I might be able to watch television as well, though sadly, I cannot use my internet or text anyone. Because there is no such thing as signal while on a mountain across the World.

I also found out that my co-worker and I have our own personal work journals, so this one can’t be judged on what I write in here. Though of course I will write down what happens during work, just as a precaution to any possible mishaps of my work journal. See what a motivated and prepared kind of guy I am? I’m pretty sure that this all will interest a woman. Or man. I’m fine with either sexuality. Maybe even someone transsexual. I am a demisexual, so before I even think of getting into a relationship with someone, I have to form a deep and emotional bond. Though I won’t deny a good one-night stand. And I really don’t care about what you think of me from that sentence; because it’s true. My dick will sometimes think before I can and there is nothing wrong with that.

I only have one rather crucial detail to share. Last night I didn’t get much sleep, which isn’t strange for me considering I am an insomniac, but it wasn’t my mind keeping me up. It was an animal. Maybe. I mean, I’ve heard coyotes, wolves, regular dogs, and I have never heard a noise that frightening in my life. And it didn’t sound like it was outside. It sounded like it was in the room with me. Of course, it could have just been right outside of the lodge, near my room considering that my room is the only one with a window that I know of.

But it was a low, growl of sorts. It sounded both human and animalistic, it almost scared the piss out of me. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but I’m trying. Like a gravely chuckle mixed with a coyote howl and a wolves snarl. And it sounded like it came from the closet, or outside my window. Either way, it scared me, but that’s probably the only time that I’ll even hear it.

So, I’m gonna cut this Entry short considering how we won’t be working or anything. Nothing exciting.
Bye-Bye Entry 3!

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington

November 8, 2015 – 3:46 pm –
Entry 4
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

We found a prehistoric trail today. Yes, you heard it hear folks, we actually left the lodge to work. But I felt super unnerved. Some of the village men left with us, they were holding weapons and they were looking around nervously. Not to mention that they told us to stick close to them and when it gets to about two in the afternoon, then we all needed to head back. Creepy shit right there. And it felt as though something or someone was staring at me all day. It was probably one of our personal bodyguards, but this stare was filled with malice and anger. Maybe even hunger?

Oh well, I’m probably just being paranoid. I mean honestly, I did catch the youngest of the three bodyguards kind of glaring at me before our eyes met and he whipped his head away from me. Acting as if he wasn’t caught in the act of, most likely, defiling me with his eyes.

Anyways, work crap in case something happens to my work Journal.
Location of trail: 54 N; 38 E”
The trail showed small rocks and what seemed to be eroded prints of sorts. If possible, might be an animal or person.
This trail seems to have been preserved for about 30 or so years. Depending on whether the trail is proof or not. Could be more, could be less. We’ll find out more.
The trail stopped rather abruptly at 62 N; 14 E”. We could no longer follow the trail.
When cement mixture was placed onto the first section of the trail (54 N; 38 E”), and then taken off, it showed an animal print. Possibly.
This trail could be a dead end.
I really hope that we didn’t spend the day looking at a stupid trail. One that won’t lead us anywhere. Plus, there’s no telling if I took the notes correctly for a trail. I didn’t choose to major in Ichnology. I chose to major in Paleoanthropology. I deal with human bones and fossils or at least animals that are primitive and have left behind their bodies…ish.

Now that I’ve got that out of the way, I have to inform whoever reads this that the noise was back. And this time, it was accompanied by a dream. Well, technically nightmare considering that when I woke up I was gasping for breath and there were dried tear streaks under my eyes and gliding along my cheeks. Plus, my nose was running. But yes, the sound was most definitely back. And this time, it sounded closer. Clearer. Not muffled by a door or a wall, but almost as if it were standing on the outside of the closet instead of the inside of the closet. It’s freaking me out.

But the nightmare, it was probably the worst thing that night, not the noise. Not that mutated growl. The nightmare was almost as if I were actually living through it. The nightmare started off brutal. Showing people, those villagers, slaughtering the woman, Belarus. They had gouged out her left eye, stabbing these knives of spears maybe into her shoulders and thighs, keeping her held upright on a wooden table. It was an old one, that’s for sure. It had dirty spots, more like splatters, covering it everywhere. They gutted her, placing some of her organs on a platter, the others into glass jars. Then they slit her throat and held up a silver gauntlet of sorts. The villagers were chanting in a tribal language, the wind was howling outside, and the setting was in some dingy old cave of sorts. But, you’re probably wondering, what was the strangest thing about this gruesome nightmare?

Belarus didn’t scream once. She didn’t flinch or whimper in pain. She’s was quiet, staring straight ahead. Which made it seem as though she was staring straight at me. Though that isn’t possible, but it still seemed that way. I could tell, while in the nightmare, that the humanoid yet animalistic growl was blended in with the chanting, though growing louder. And I swear, when I snapped my eyes open, I saw something dart out of my line of vision.

Scariest shit ever.

I had asked both Ethan and Prof. Frey if they had heard any strange noises. They both said no. Ethan said that he could only hear the wind and possibly an owl at night. Prof. Frey said that he couldn’t hear anything from the outside, but he could hear my panicked breathing. Though he was half-asleep when he heard me. I don’t understand what the fuck is going on, but I don’t like it.

I think that I’ll end it here. My hand is shaking just from remembering that dream. But, luckily, Belarus is fine. She’s an older woman with silver-grey hair up in a bun with some type of clip in her hair that is aligned with tribal beading. She looks youthful other than the slowly showing wrinkles and her hair. She said that she’s just about fifty-seven. Belarus is the cutest old woman I’ve ever came across.
Bye-Bye, Entry 4!

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington

November 9, 2015 – 8:13 pm –
Entry 5
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

Belarus is dead.

Supposedly she was found dead earlier this morning in her bed, died of a heart attack. I don’t believe that. I have that dream of Belarus dying and suddenly, the next day, she’s dead? Not to mention, that young bodyguard was there today. He seemed to be sweating up a storm. Like he was hiding something. I’ve always been the type of person that believes in supernatural beings and Karma, things like that.

What can I say? I’m a superstitious bastard.

Nothing happened at work. Except for the fact that I found a human, female, skull half-buried in the ground. Fresh. Blood and flesh still clinging onto it. Along with some silver-grey hair. This has to Belarus’ skull. That skull had to be hers. It was too fresh. I didn’t mention it to anyone. I was afraid of saying something and then the bodyguards going after me. Screw writing down what happens at work. I need to release my concerns and thoughts here. I am afraid that I can’t trust anyone here. I could trust Prof. Frey and Ethan, but they’d probably think that I was crazy. You know what? I probably am crazy. But I still trust my gut. And my gut is telling me not to trust anyone else other than my Journal with this information. It’s also telling me that my heart was stupid and that I should have abandoned this job while I still could’ve.

I’m pretty sure that if I tried to run off now, the villagers would do something to me.

It has to be a conspiracy. It HAS to be a conspiracy. The villagers are all in it. They’ve created a plan. That’s why, in my dream, Belarus reacted with no emotion at all. Because she was anticipating the end. She knew everything from start to finish beforehand.

That’s the only way that it could have ended the way it did. I’m sorry, Belarus. I’m so, so sorry. But you knew. You probably knew about this since the beginning of your life. When did they tell you? When you were twelve? Did they sacrifice you to something? A God? An animal? An otherworldly being that you all worshipped? My most important question though, is if the rest of you family before you were killed like that to. Were they? I wish that I could have been there. Not to watch, but maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have stopped your ultimate demise. Doubtful, but I feel so, so guilty.

On a different note, I had yet another nightmare. These have to be visions of the future or something. Because it was the death of the young bodyguard. The young boy, about eighteen, who watched over us yesterday and today. It was different. I saw some of the villagers in the nightmare. They were dressed in velvet purple cloaks, black pieces of cloth covering their eyes, simple white dots showing where their eyes would be. The leader was wearing a red cloak made of silk. It was a man, buff and bulky. I still couldn’t quite see exactly what he looked like as to decipher him from the rest of those villagers. But the leader held a book in his hand, a curved dagger being held in his other hand as he spoke out loud, his voice thick with Russian. The only words that I could really understand were; “We”, “have”, “it is time”, and “rejoice”. The victim, that poor boy, was naked with the only clothing on him being the same cloth that covered the villagers eyes around his head, covering his eyes as well. But instead of there being two white dots where his eyes were supposed to be, there were none. It was simply black.

Unlike Belarus, he was chained to a wooden post. It had ancient, most likely tribal, writing covering it. With different symbols and swirls filling in the gaps. The color of said symbols and swirls were either red, white, or black. With tiny, almost unnoticeable green dots that went in a straight line from top to bottom. His hands were chained up, his fingers missing with blood steadily pouring from the new nubs on his hand, falling onto the crisp and white snow beneath him. He was positioned onto his knees, his head bowed down in a respective way. His feet were missing. They had chopped his feet off.

What kind of sickos do that?

I had to watch as they tore his ears off with a wrench. Okay? A fucking wrench. Unlike Belarus, he flinched in pain, but nothing more. I also saw them put his ears on a string, accompanying many other ears. These villagers were still chanting the whole entire time in an unknown language.

The noise was back as well. I could hear it. It was way closer to me. Almost as if it were at the foot of my bed. Watching me. That same noise. It’s gonna forever haunt me, I just know it. I have to be insane. I must be insane. But the noise this time…was different. It was almost as if it were trying to say something. Crazy, yes. Wrong, no. I’m never wrong. I’ve never been wrong.

When I opened my eyes, I saw glowing red ones staring right back at me. But I blinked and it was gone.

Maybe I should stay up late tonight and try to follow the villagers. To stop this deadly conspiracy. To put an end to the needless murders.

I’ll be ending it here.
Bye-Bye, Entry 5.

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington

November 10, 2015 – 4:08 am –
Entry 6
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

…I’m so sorry.

I couldn’t do anything. I felt so worthless. So useless. I watched as something mutated tore into that boy. I watched as the villagers stood by, chanting nonstop, sadistic and joyous grins covering their faces.

I can’t go out there. I can’t face any of them. I have to get away from here.

Mystogan Mountain was a terrible choice.

Why did we have to come here? Why couldn’t we have gone to a place to where this wouldn’t happen? Why did we travel to an uncharted mountain in the middle of fucking nowhere?


Maybe this is why it was never documented. Maybe this is why no one knows about Mystogan Mountain. Because they were murdered. Sacrificed to some mutated being that the villagers here worshipped.

I’m so sorry.
Bye-Bye, Entry 6.

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington

November 10, 2015 – 11:40 am –
Entry 7
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

I fell asleep and saw Ethan get slaughtered by the villagers. And then sacrificed to that mutated thing. I just want to know why. Screw how, tell me why. Why am I seeing this? Why is that noise in my room? Why did it feel as if the animal that creates that noise was breathing onto my face? Why did it sound as though it called out my name?

I’m awake now, and I can hear the noise, that gravely tone calling out my name in a brutal whisper. It’s pounding within my mind. The only reason why I’m not out there with Ethan and Prof. Frey right now is because I pretended to be sick. Which right now, I don’t know why or how I’ve managed this long without having the feeling of bile rise within my throat. Why haven’t I thrown up yet? Why did it feel as though I enjoyed watching Ethan die in my dream? Why did it feel as though overwhelming excitement washed throughout my mind and body as I watched the villagers pluck his teeth out, one by one? Why did I enjoy hearing him howl out in pain? Why? Why?! Why is this happening?

I’m scared.

I keep seeing shadows and those glowing red eyes. Any time I turn by back to a room or hallway, I have the overwhelming sense that something is there, waiting, watching. Playing with me. I want to leave. I want to go back to Canada.

Oh my gosh, I was so scared and paranoid that I growled at Prof. Frey and tried to hit him. I thought that he was one of the villagers.

I thought that he was that mutated humanoid animal that was feeding off of Ethan and the young villager. I lashed out at my professor and boss. He looked taken aback, that’s for sure. Scared kind of. But whenever he talked, I didn’t hear anything. I heard static. And the static almost clouded over that fucking noise. It almost drowned out that voice whispering my name.

Kill me. Someone kill me.

I need to do something. I need to get out of here.
Bye-Bye, Entry 7.

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington

November 11, 2015 – ??? –
Entry 8
Journal of Tyler E. Rivington

I killed Prof. Frey. I killed him. With a Bowie knife.

I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t take it anymore. It was almost as if I didn’t have control over my body. As if someone were in my body, as if someone had locked me up in my mind, and made me watch. But I felt happy. I felt powerful. I felt in control even when the situation was out of my control.

There’s something wrong with me.

I saw something today as well. I saw the villagers in their cloaks, circled around the lodge, continuously chanting. I had a dream last night, predicting Prof. Frey’s death. Ethan is dead. He died yesterday actually, he didn’t come up mysteriously missing today. He was murdered yesterday while Prof. Frey was checking up on me. And I went and killed him. I went and killed Prof. Frey. But it felt good. The blood splattering onto my face? Amazing. The smell and taste was so sweet. But at the same time, I hated it. I was, still am, disgusted with myself. That mutated humanoid animal thing that I was seeing in my dreams? It’s just sitting at my feet.

Wait, where am I? How…did I get here?

There are a few bodies surrounding the chair that I’m sitting in. My…pet is currently chewing on one of the villagers severed limbs. Did I do that? If memory serves me correct, I did. The static is back. It’s just filling up my head. Wait, is it static? Or is it the sound of a horde of bees? No, no, I’m not wrong. That’s static. The voice that had called out my name? Gone. It was my new companion eating an arm that had called out to me.

Crazy, right?

And to think, I was freaking out over nothing.

Mystogan Mountain is amazing.

Everyone should come here. Everyone should come here and join the villagers conspiracy.

Everyone needs to come to Mystogan Mountain.

My pet might run out of food if you all don’t come here.


I can put you out of your misery.

I think that this is my last Entry for my Journal.
Bye-Bye, Entry 8!

Sincerely, Tyler E. Rivington.

Credit: GuppyChild

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 5.8/10 (83 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare