A few months ago a friend of mine, who is an up-and-coming nature photographer, decided to spend a day and night alone in the woods outside of our town. She wanted to get photos of the woods and wildlife as naturally as she could for her portfolio. She wasn’t afraid of being alone, as she had camped by herself many times before. She set up a tent in the middle of a small clearing and spent the day taking pictures. She filled up four rolls of film on that trip, but something was strange about them. What she saw in those pictures has stayed with her ever since, and she is still trying to recover from the trauma the have caused her.

Almost every picture was accounted for, save for one picture in each roll of film. These pictures were of her, asleep in her tent in the middle of the night.

–
Credited to Hendetta.

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady.

I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself.

I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony.

It went bad all at once

Friday morning. I awake from the first dream I’ve had in years, a vivid phantasmagoria of colors and sounds, and begrudgingly leave my perfect and sterile clean apartment for the short walk to work.

I notice it as soon as the elevator opens, the unearthly stillness and silence in the heavy air. The front door of the complex is hanging open, unlocked and swinging gently, the faintest trace of smoke drifting inward in the damp breeze. Outside, the wide streets are empty and bare. My mouth is suddenly dry and I rock back on my heels, cresting a crippling wave of panic and déjà vu.

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10:30 PM. Late in the Summer Season. It’s storming outside. My favorite time of year and my favorite kind of weather. Whenever it storms I just have to smile. Storms are beautiful, or at least I used to think so.

Almost all the lights in the apartment were off, and I’m just talking to some friends over AIM. Then suddenly it became very very cold. As if the storm from outside was creeping thru the door. I just figure there was a temperature drop because of the storm, so I toss on a sweatshirt. After about 30 minutes or so I’m still freezing cold.

I start to get this feeling.

It’s a feeling we all have felt before.

The feeling that someone is staring at you.

The feeling that this someone is not very far away.

The feeling that if you turn your head the slightest bit, you would see them.

I shrug this feeling off because I am an extremely paranoid person and I get this feeling all the time. I continue to converse with my friends, I even mentioned this sensation that I currently had, and my friends naturally laugh at me saying I need to stop being a baby. The sympathetic ones say it will go away eventually and not to worry. I waited awhile…it did not go away. In fact it increased.

It felt like something was consuming the very Happiness within me.

Like something was filling me with Dread.

That chilling Terror we all felt as children when the lights were turned out.

A true Fear of the Dark.

But it’s not the dark we are afraid of….but of what lurks in the dark

I almost couldn’t take it anymore. Here I am, almost a grown man, and I’m jumping at shadows. It’s ridiculous, but as ridiculous as it seems, I still have this little voice in the back of my head telling me that maybe I have a reason to be afraid. Maybe I should turn around and see if there’s actually anything there.

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The clock stared at me with its red eyes, shouting to me that he would arrive soon. He always comes at the witching hour. Of course I didn’t know that the witching hour was three in the morning till I told my friend about my night time wanderer. The witching hour is the time of night when God is at his weakest and all the imps and minions come out. This man was obviously not a three horned demon, nor was he an evil servant of the devil. He looked old, and lonely. I felt bad for him. He was probably homeless with no family or friends to speak of.

Every night he’s there, just sitting in our backyard. Every night I want to go outside and talk to him, but I can’t seem to work up the courage. He just sits on the tire swing, muttering to himself. He looks so lonely. Luckily I have no trees near my window, or anything that could block my view of him. My friend says it’s a trap to lure me outside. He says that a little kid like me isn’t thinking straight this late at night, so obviously; this prince of darkness wants an easy meal. He just wants me to come outside and, wham, I’m a nighttime snack.

Maybe he has a point though. Not about the evil part, but about the unsafe part. The old man might be crazy. I’m sure being homeless takes its toll on your body. I can’t see him that well from window either. I’ll sleep on it, maybe tomorrow night I’ll go and see if he’s harmless or not.

The bed looked so comfortable I couldn’t help but to flop down onto it. I lay there, waiting for the sand man to put his special dust in my eyes to carry me off to dream land. The wind was blowing really hard outside. I could here a tree branch tapping on my window. I bet the man was cold. I wonder if he is smart enough to find shelter. My eyes began to become extremely heavy, but the tree branch’s tapping kept drawing me out of my inner peace. I stared blankly into the cold darkness, when a sudden chill traced its way down my spine. I don’t have a tree anywhere near my window.

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You some how wake up surrounded by very tall hedges. You are very disoriented and groggy. As you observe your surroundings, you realize that you are in a very complex hedge maze. The hedges are 10 feet high and impossible to see over. There is a light fog dispersed throughout the area. You don’t know how you got there or why you’re there. All you know is that you want to get out as quickly as you can.

You feel a strange sensation as you explore the large maze. As you explore the maze, the fog becomes thicker and your heart becomes heavier. After several hours of wandering, you end up in what appears to be the heart of the maze. Your body freezes as your eyes lay upon a large stone statue of some sort of disfigured creature. The statue is missing one of its arms. Its feet and one hand look like that of a reptilian. Its face is deformed and difficult to see and clear features. But there is one feature you can recognize; a revolting, twisted grin with sharp jagged teeth. Your body is still frozen as if though someone had paralyzed you. The statue appears to be looking right at you from about 500 feet away. There is something very unsettling and disturbing about this particular statue.

You realize that you can still blink your eyelids. You blink once. It’s as though the statue had moved closer towards you. You think to yourself that it’s just your wild imagination. You blink again. The statue still appears to be moving closer still. You try not to blink anymore, but your watery eyes get the best of you. As you blink several times, the statue creeps closer and closer. It eventually reaches the point when the statue is only 5 feet away from where you’re standing. The grin on the statue appears to be larger and more disturbing then ever. It’s as though you can feel it breathing right upon your face. You are struggling to keep your eyes open. As your eyes water and become very irritable, you become fearful on how close your next blink will bring the statue. Your eyes close.

–
Credited to Brad H.

Driving home from a friends house, you sit at a red light when you hear a familiar tone from your phone, sitting in the passenger seat. A text message. Probably from your friend; you always leave things at their homes. Being a responsible driver, and the light still red, you open the message and wait for a moment for the image to load. Suddenly, a photo pops into view. Red, obscured, strange contrast. And no text accompanying it.

But the light is green, so you close your phone and go back to driving, wondering vaguely what that was, and who would have sent you it. Perhaps someone accidentally took a picture of the inside of their bag or pocket and sent it to you. You’re still caught wondering as you pull up to the next light, also red, and another little tone from your phone. You flip it open, hoping for an apology from a friend, but find yourself waiting as another photo loads on the screen. This one, still mostly red, but textured now with scraps of blue, yet still indiscernible. This time, it takes an impatient honk from behind you before you realize you can pass through the light and be on your way home. Closing the phone, and continue on your way.

You sit uncomfortable now as the tone rings again, at yet another stop signal. You pause, hesitate, and then open the phone. The picture now is suddenly much more clear. That scrap of blue seems to be the ragged edge of a bit of denim, half blood soaked and laying across a pile of entrails, torn straight through the back of a human torso. You can only see from the bottom of the shoulder blade to the tops of the thighs, but its unmistakably human. Blue-white spinal bone smeared in blood, tubes of intestine trailing out between ragged looking spinal tissue and going out of the frame of the picture. You choke back a throat full of bile and throw the phone back into the passenger seat, happy to be on your way again, and dreading the knowledge that you won’t be able to not look as you hear that tone again.

There is some relief as you realize there are no more stoplights before you reach your home. But as you pull up to that red stop sign, the bottom of your stomach drops out and you feel a cold sweat build on the back of your neck. You have already picked up the phone, even before that tell-tale little tone has told you there is a message. The cell vibrates in your hand as you flip it open, your mind gone on auto-pilot, driving home with your eyes on the screen as the newest photo loads. Intestines piled almost artistically to the side of the body, scalp ripped free and no hair discernable, and that sickening contrast of darkening red on blue. For some reason, you expected that, even as you taste bile on the back of your tongue.

Its not as close or obscured. Flesh torn apart by God knows what means, torn denim, and blood soaked so far into the threadbare fabric of a hand-me-down couch. The one you have in your living room. You pull your car into park, hands shaking as you make your way up to your front door. You can’t stop yourself now, your body’s just doing as it normally would, but your finger frantically scrolls down the screen, finding no name, no phone number, and a time dated on the message three minutes from now.

You put the key in the door as you try shrug off your denim jacket.

–
Credited to The Flea!

The doorbell rings, and you get up from where you sat staring stonily into space. You already know who is at your door, and why he is there. You open it, nodding numbly to the man. You make a note in your head that the man looks… sneaky, but you assume that must be because he’s a lawyer. You show him into your living room, dreading what is to come. The man hands you a CD he produces from his briefcase, and sets what looks like a birdcage on your coffee table. You can not see what is inside the cage, as it is covered in a blanket of embroidered silk. The man sits as you put the disc into your stereo and press play.

You hear the sound of stressed breathing from the speakers as you take your seat. The lawyer hasn’t said a word, but you know the breathing to be that of your late friend, the last breathes of your friend. You can hear something in the background, behind your friend’s heavy breathes, as if someone, or something, was scratching at a door. You wonder if you’re hearing things, as the sound is barely audible in the recording. You look up as you hear her voice, as if she was in the room with you, as if she was alive.

“The date is September the first of two thousand eight.” Her voice is shaky, every word she speaks is saturated with fear, “This is my last will and testament. Now, I don’t have much time. They’re almost here, so I’ll dispense the formalities and get on with what I have to say. This is the last day of my life, as you have probably already figured out.”

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I rushed over to the wall to flick the light switch. Something was in my room, watching me. It was lurking somewhere behind me, sitting in the shadows, and staring at me. This was more than just paranoia. There was definitely something there. I could almost envision it wrapping its arms around me and dragging me into some terrifying abyss. I sat in my chair and stared at my shadow on the ground in front of me. I watched as another shadow slowly grew over my shoulder, never taking on any definite shape. I looked back up and stared at my computer screen. I thought maybe that if I believed it wasn’t there, it would just go away. I held my breath, and tried to engross myself in reading the article on the website in front of me. I couldn’t help but notice how my computer screen showed a reflection of what was in front of it. I couldn’t help but notice the worried look on my face. I couldn’t help but notice the thing hovering behind me, staring at the back of my head. I could tell it knew I knew it was there. I screamed and threw myself against the wall, and slid to the bottom. I was crying now.

Scanning the room, I searched for the thing that was behind me, but I found nothing. My room was empty, except for a mirror. My eyes lingered over the mirror on the wall across from me. I watched my black fan twirl around and around through the mirror. I watched how the shadow of the fan moved all around the room. I watched how the mirror slowly began to tilt till I could see myself in it… I watched as a dark scaly hand grasped my shoulder. I was entranced by my own reflection. All I could do was sit there as I watched the black abomination cup my face. I screamed at my reflection to move as I watched a face made from the darkness itself whisper into my reflection’s ear. I gazed in horror as my reflection stood up and walked to the window. I gasped in pain when he smashed the glass with his fist. I tried to hide my eyes when I saw him pick up a broken piece of glass. I tried to look away when he forced me to stare into his eyes. I sensed his thoughts in my head. They said to me that if I was afraid to look, then I don’t need to look. Everything became tinted red when my reflection brought the jagged object across his eyelids. Yet, there was no blood. Not for him. He just smiled. He walked back over to the black abomination; it again drew him near and whispered into his ear. I could see it chuckle. I cried in despair when I saw a tear roll down my reflection’s face. I cried in pain when he jabbed the jagged glass into his throat.

I awoke in a cold sweat, and rushed to the wall to flick the light switch.

On the last day of every month, close the blinds or curtains before you sleep. If in the middle of the night, you hear a tapping noise at your window, don’t open your eyes.

If you’re one of the unlucky ones, you’ll hear that pebble sound at your window. It’s not a friend; just keep your eyes shut. The sound will get louder, the tapping will get faster and faster. Don’t let your curiosity get the better of you; don’t move. It’ll lose its patience, it’ll start thumping the window. Your window will shake and shudder and the noises will only get louder. It will furiously pound the window and shake the panes; don’t worry, the window won’t break but for goodness’ sake, DON’T OPEN YOUR EYES. No matter how scared you are, no matter how badly you want to scream, pretend like you don’t hear, pretend you’re still asleep.

After a while, the noises will stop. Don’t fall for it, keep your eyes shut. Try to sleep if you can. Don’t get up, don’t open your eyes, until the sun comes up.

Those who do open their eyes…well, no one really knows what happens.

Do you know what a Cordyceps is? I didn’t either until 20 minutes ago. It’s a family of thousands of different types of fungus, grows all around the word in various rainforests and jungles. The awful thing about them is they’re parasitic, they grow on other animals. An ant happens to run into some spores, and then it starts to colonize his insides, starting with his brain. At some point, the ant starts to act visibly ill; standing in place and shivering, or walking in circles. If a fellow colony member sees him in this condition, he will be dragged to the border of the colony and exiled.

Then, when it’s almost over, the ant weakly climbs as high as he can up the vines, and locks his body on tight. Finally, he dies, and the fungus emerges from the back of his head, bursting forth like a long and foul fruit. After a short time, the little stalk spews forth its own spores, leaving the mummified and broken ant clinging to the stalk, his eye cavities filled with drying fungus.

I mention this because last night, when I was up on the roof of my apartment complex, I found my brother’s body.

He’s been back from 18 months on duty in the Philippines for less than three days. This was the first I’d seen him. My parents called me up the day before yesterday to tell me that he was on his way up. They told me he’d stayed in his room since he got home, and then suddenly got up and announced he was on his way to see me. They thought he was drunk, I’d thought he’d never made it.

He must have come straight up to the roof and died, by the smell of it. I was just finishing a cigarette, all torn up with anxiety and head throbbing, and when the acrid smoke vanished I caught a whiff of rot on the hot wind. It took me just a few minutes before I’d found him; face down behind the vents and fans. A slimy gray column rose up obscenely from the base of his skull, and a frozen waterfall of roots and tendrils was dangling from his eye sockets and mouth. At the top of stalk was small arrangement of feathery wisps, a white powder drifting idly from it tips.

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In Beantown, Nebraska, a town with a population of just over 200, there lives a man named Jack Black. Not THE Jack Black, of course, but just a guy named Jack Black.

At 10:06 PM on January 4th of 2014, Mr. Black’s phone will ring. Upon picking up the reciever, Jack will suddenly be able to comprehend the TRUE definition of infinity, and for a split second will be able to truly understand how long an eternity is.

The massive strain on the collective conscience of existence that this paradox will create will actually cause the fabric of space-time to collapse on itself, creating a NEW universe identical to ours, but starting at the beginning of time.

This universe will proceed to exist until the exact moment in time that humans would identify as 10:06 PM on January 4th, 2014 C.E., at which point an alternate Jack Black will pick up his alternate phone, thus comprehending infinity and starting the whole process over again.

You’re in your room late at night. You’ve been on the computer for a while now, and it’s almost time to get some sleep. The light behind you is still blazing, cutting a swath through the oppressive darkness of whatever ridiculous hour of the morning it is. In a sleep-deprived haze, you amble over to the light switch and flick it off, and instantly realize you screwed up. Your headphones are lying on the floor, and without the light to see them you’ll probably step on and crush them. Resolving to turn the light back on so you can grab them, you spend less than a second in near-perfect darkness as this goes through your mind. Then you flick the light back on.

You’re not in your room, anymore. It’s as if fifty years of disrepair have ravaged your once-loved living space. You’re also surrounded. You can’t really see them, mostly just their shadows are visible as they crouch on all fours all around you. The only features you can make out are hundreds of mouths of jagged, grinning teeth, and a set of glowing, red eyes to go with each twisted smile. You almost have time to scream. Almost.

–
Credited to James V.

In France, a young ambient musician by the name of Charles undertook an interesting new project. He was going to record the sound of himself sleeping, and release it under the name “La Nuit” (The Night). Charles lived alone in a rural area, which would remove things like car alarms, traffic, and such from being recorded. He planned his project for many months, acquiring the sensitive equipment to capture all outside noises as well as his own during sleep.

Finally, on the 27th of September, he decided to execute his plan. He set up all his equipment, and fell at sleep at midnight.

The next day Charles reviewed the recording. For the first hour, the recording played his own tossings and turnings as well as some distant dog barks and a few car alarms (So much for his plan to distance himself from cars). These continued throughout the 2nd hour as well, until Charles heard something that horrified him.

For at exactly 3 hours and 24 minutes in, the recording played the sound of his bedroom door opening.

As a child, I was always quiet, and my conversations with others would always end up awkward. Because of that, I always preferred to be alone growing up. Which probably explains my strange obsession with toys, being as old as I am. They never talk. They just stare. I have to say though, being alone in an apartment full of figurines can be creepy sometimes.

However, being with my girl for almost two years, she understands my obsession well, but with this much, she would probably be shocked when she first sees them.

That night, she was more than excited to see my house. as we approached the door, she could barely contain her excitement, so without further delay, I swing the front door open. “Make yourself at home.” I say to her, “it’s kind of messy, but its more comfortable than it l-” her face was in shock, then absolute terror as she started to scream.

I tried to calm her, but it just got worse. I was puzzled. is she afraid of my toys? “I understand its a bit strange, but is it that horrifying? I take a quick look in my house but theres nothing horrific. I had to calm her down, as the neighbors were starting to come out. With a quick impulse, I quickly drag her in my house as I try to ease her mind. Her screaming just got louder and louder. At this point, I had no choice but to put my hand over her mouth. She watched me in terror with tears rolling down her face. I turn around and they were all staring at me as well.

…

I’m alone again. I placed her doll on the top shelf above all the others I have dated. Her look made me feel depressed, so I made it face the wall until I was able to get over it.

Early in the morning of August 19, 2005, the body of a young black man approximately 16 or 17 years old was found on Wolfe Street, in downtown Baltimore. The corpse lay in a pool of blood, and was dressed in a pair of loose jean shorts over white cotton boxers, a Baltimore Ravens football jersey bearing the number 77 and the name Ortiz, a pair of white cotton athletic socks and a small gold cross on a chain around the body’s neck. The body wore no shoes, and had no wallet or other identifying possessions. Baltimore City police concluded that the young man had been just another victim of the city’s frequent violent crimes. Nobody came forth to claim or identify the body, and it was passed on to the coroner’s office for autopsy. The coroner’s report concluded that the cause of death was blood loss and trauma caused by three shots to the upper chest, one of which penetrated the heart and the other two the left lung.

So far, so normal, right? Here’s the part the official statement left out: There were, indeed, three entry wounds, but there were no exit wounds, and after a thorough search of the body no slugs or fragments were found, nor was there any heat damage. The young man had been killed by three shots to the chest, but there were never any bullets. The body was never identified.

Postscript: As of this writing, the Baltimore Ravens have never had a player who sported the number 77, or who was named Ortiz.