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August 18, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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Monsters. Fucking monsters. Yeah, I know, they aren’t real. It’s always a dude in a suit or someone playing joke. Well, that is all bullshit. I saw one and I know it was real… cause it saw me too. Might as well start from the beginning.
My older brother was a dick. Always getting what he wanted and blaming me for the stuff he did wrong. Our dad, only parent we lived with, would believe him instantly. I’m not bitter about it, but it is still a sore spot. I was rather skilled with technology and computers, my brother was more inclined to manual labor and punching people. Though we look almost alike enough to be twins, he is a year older.
My father would spend a lot of time out, hitting on women and drinking. Every night he was out, my brother would go to his friend’s house a mile or two away from our place. Since we lived in a small town, just out of range for most cellphones and a good hour from any police station or civilization other than the post office/general store, we were one of 5 houses in a 4 mile radius down in a valley.
If you cannot tell, this is gonna be something no one can corroborate. Anyway, one of those nights when my father was drinking and my brother was off doing something with his friends I was sleeping on the couch in the living room. I had a hard time sleeping in my room in the basement when home alone. Just some personal issues with small spaces and no windows. This night helped get me over that.
The TV was going, something stupid on Adult Swim playing, and I woke up to a weird sound from the door. My brother would get drunk or high and wander home around 3-4am most times he went out but it was only midnight when I looked over at the clock. Thinking he had a fight with his friends or something, I hop up from the couch and tug my pants into place since they were a a little too big for me.
So I walked, no shirt or socks or anything to the door and looked through the peep hole. Nothing out there. With a shrug, I think it was a dog and walk back to the couch. The moment I sit down, looking at the TV a moment before something catches my eye. Outside the window was a rather small shadow. Probably the dog that has been pawing at my door.
I give a sigh, thinking about how that mutt could take a crap on the porch and I would have to clean it. I walk back to the door, glancing at the window the moment my fingers touched the knob. Every cell in my body locked up, freezing me in place. My skin started shivering, goosebumps formed on every inch of me as I tried in vein to move my body on will alone. I could not process this… thing for a full minute.
Long, thin and slinky, it was not a fucking dog. Scales instead of fur covered it, black with some grayed ones here and there. It’s tail made up so much of it’s body that it looked as if it had begun right behind the only two limbs it had. Hands… not paws were at the ends of its arms. But the arms.. Those fucking arms were wrong in so many ways. They had what looked like 3 elbows. The arms curved in a few different ways, making it look broken and bent. I could only see those hands because they pressed to the glass of the window… along with its face. Yes, a face. Human almost, but the thing had no lips. just a slit across the spot above its jaw. They eyes were solid black and the nose was just a bump with one hole toward the bottom. It looked like someone had taken a blank doll and cared a : | face into it…
It was just as still as I was, looking right at me while I held the door knob. I thought it was some kind of joke. Some kind of trick of the light, but the longer I stared at it, the less I could deny it was alive. I could see the fog forming from its nose. The way its body inflated ever so slightly with each breath. My eyes drifted over it, looking at each feature in horror and memorizing it. Burning that fucking thing into me. Black nails, chipped and broken as if it had been using them to crawl around on. The slightest gap between the top and bottom of that slit across its face. Then I looked at its eyes. Those horrid, black beads. Perfectly round and sticking barely off of its face, I could not tell if it were moving them at all. Then it did the creepiest thing it could have. It smiled. The pale, smooth cheeks creased as its mouth arched and gave me a hint of the teeth behind it. Not full rows of razors like I had someone how expected, but broken human teeth.
My lungs were not working now. Time slowed around me as my brain got flooded with energy, bot begging me to decide on fight or flight. I hardened my gaze, eyebrows furrowed in anger at this fucking thing and it just kept smiling. I let the knob go and slowly gained the ability to stand right. As soon as I squared my shoulders with that monster, the smile slowly faded from its face. Passing all the way to a deep frown. It tapped the window one time with a broken black nail. A shudder ran through me before I could stop it. The beast gave another tap with its finger as that thick, black snake tail coiled around its self. I didn’t move this time, instead trying to think. Dad’s gun would be in the closet, but the shells were in his dresser. I would have to get to them both in seconds if I moved. That thing could come through that window easily. I knew it from the loud sounds of just one finger tapping.
Like it could see the wheels in my head turning, it spread those long fingers, raking the black nails inward. Trails of scratches formed with a high pitched sound till it made a fist against the glass. Shit. I mirrored it’s actions, not sure why, but it seemed to confuse the thing. It spread its hand open again, turning it side to side. I copied that too. It raised it’s hand up. Mine followed. The it touched its face. I cupped my cheek the same way. Then it twisted its arm into an O shape. Double shit.
When I could not copy that movement, it went back to smiling at me. Now curling and uncurling its arm as if it were mocking me for my lack of joints. This fucking thing. Not only had it caused a fear in me I had never known, but now it was teasing me? This, fucking monster freak was acting like it was better than me? Without meaning to or any form of planning, I looked it right in the eye and said, “At least I have legs.” It stopped moving its arms and looked right into my eyes. Face gone into a blank slate again. Then in the worst, deepest and most evil voice I could ever imagine, it spoke.
“And I have you.”
Diving backward into my dad’s room, I slammed the door shut and ran for the gun. The closet door slid hard to the side, slamming loudly while blood rushed through my body. My fingers gripped the barrel and I all but leaped to the dresser, fishing into it with one hand and pulling three shells out. I turned to the door, stuffing them into the twelve gauge and pointing right at the center of the door. It took me maybe a minute in total once I was in the door, but I was ready. I was going to blow that thing to pieces.
I stayed there, holding the gun and waiting for five minutes. No broken glass sounds. Nothing but silence. Then I whipped around, checking both windows. Nothing again. 4 hours I stood there, ready to unload all three shells into anything that moved. 4 hours I waited to see those twisted hands reaching for me. Then the front door opened. I turned around, still pointing at the door when I heard my brother call out, “HEY! You up?”I shakily opened the door, still holding the gun. Nothing in the window and my older brother popping open a can of soda. He was not drunk or high tonight, just kinda sleepy looking when he said “Why do you have that?”
I explained what I saw, I explained what happened and I begged him to believe me. He said I was just fucking with him and went to bed, me begging him to stay up with me till morning. No dice. So I sat on the couch, shotgun in hand, looking at that same window till my dad got home the next day. He didn’t believe me either. I slept in my room, no windows and only one door all day, and the next night I stayed down there. I couldn’t go into that living room again for weeks. My brother actually stayed with me all night one night, showing me there wasn’t a damn thing to be afraid of.
I don’t know what people have told you or even what you believe. But there are things out there. There are things that want you hurt. There are things that can and will toy with you just for the fun of it. My advice, get a gun and a bunker cause that is as close to safe as I feel most nights.

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August 17, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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“There lies a darker world under us. An eversion of all there is. Though, I wonder if that place is more real than ours…” -Unknown

I wake up to darkness. I might as well not have woken up, considering that closing your eyes has the same effect… I move the palm of my hands in vast circles and see only the outer edges; this makes me breathe out of my nose at the sight.

The drone of the alarm continues as I blink and my eyesight begins to adjust to the dim glow in the room. I slam my hand out on the table next to me and silence the alarm.

I try to fall back into the void of sleep, for those evanescent dreams had more of that substance— I don’t know what it is called— that I can see and enjoy… dancing to and fro in joyful delight unheard of on this world.

Yet I can’t sleep; I have to get up. The whisper tells me to get up.

So I raise my body and crack my back (I have to keep going…). I look around my room with its corroded walls, makeshift stands that you might call tables, and a TV that has a crack in the middle. I scratch my head and place my bare feet on the festering floor.

The day begins. The whispers begin their sounds. Like air, they are constantly there; like air, they are always near me.

I start with the daily grind. I use the murky shower water that is centuries old to wash myself of yesterday’s grime with new grime. I then go into the kitchen and eat the stale cereal, and place on myself my moth ridden clothes.

As I put on my clothes, I hear the whispers telling me to leave; this is a reminder that I am alone in the house, and I take greater time to leave. I then splash some water on my face and blink three times. I inhale and exhale, and the daily grind is over.

I put on my shoes and let in the cold air outside. I do not have to squint like I have to do in my dreams, for the clouds always made sure that the atmosphere was nothing but broken hues of the gray scale.

“I’m going!” I cried out to the empty house.

I hear a slight sound that approves my going (very well, it says, carry on), and I move my feet over the threshold. A few steps forward, I turn around to get a quick reality check on my surroundings. I see my apartment all ravaged and bear, and the paint peeling off in a myriad of angels. The shingles of the roof are torn off, and I can see weeds going through the cracks of the apartment’s foundation. The decimated glass of the window is the newest thing on the building, and even they were beginning to fade from their old splendor.

Yup, business as usual!

I crack my neck again and move through the broken parkways and on the sidewalk. I would take the streets since they would be a more direct path towards the school, but I can still hear the whistle of car tires and I am fearful for some reason that they will come and hit me. So I keep myself on the sidewalk and continue until I reach the crosswalk that leads to the Dead Field.

The Dead Field is a vast expanse of pale grass that connects the school to my apartment, and I use it to cut time on having to looking at anything near me. It is been there since the day I was born, if I recall. Trees— I’ve been told— once dotted it and created a tranquil aura around it that made it pleasant to walk through. But now it was just a husk of its old splendor; dead grass is all that dots the patch of the decaying. Dead grass always swaying in defeat, instead of tree leaves swaying in splendor. Dead moving perpetually, full death, forever.

The best part is that this field is the one with the most life for miles on end. It is the most fertile, and the most luxurious; though it was still not pleasant to the eyes. If it weren’t for these features, I would be taking a much longer path towards the school; for even after all these of years of living in this place, it is still discontenting to see the city in its now ravaged state.

I hear a whisper, and I move on from these reminicsent thoughts.

As I reach the crosswalk, I wait for a moment for the whistle of the tires to cease. I pretend that when the whistling stops, the cars and the people inside them also stop and let me through. It makes feel less forlorn in this desolation and creates a sense of filling in the empty space of the roads. When the whistles finally held their cries, I walked out through the faded crosswalk and quickly took a right towards the field.

I looked around to see that the clouds above were not moving—as always—and that the dead grass was swaying back and forth with the wind. Everything above and below was placed in the same spot of motion; it was as if everything were stuck on repeat.

Again, business as usual.

I placed my hands in the pockets of my faded jeans and calmly walked through the field. Usually, it takes me around five minutes to get to the end of the field and another five to reach the school—seconds slugging by as I draw closer each step.

All of this, like I said, has been that way for as long as I can remember the clouds being overhead.

You can call it a tragedy; it wouldn’t be a hyperbole in the least. One teen with no one but himself—one teen in a society long forgotten and left there barren and naked—and one teen that doesn’t even have the privilege to have angst over anything that is living. That there—in the deplorable world—is nothing but I. A lovely, simple, understanding of “tragedy” in most wild aspect.

just… “I”.

It’s almost romantically poetic— and it makes me think.

All of it makes me think, really, and I stop in my tracks. I hear a whisper tell me to go on, but I ignore it. For the first time in quite sometime, I think of the burden that I have been going through. Contrary to the above romance, this “Tragedy World” anything but it. When I feel this burden, I think—and when I think, I become aware.

And when I become aware, I see the world and become insane.

“This is bad,” I whisper. “If I see, I will be taken away! I must never think of my surroundings and how bad I have it! Stan, why are you thinking?! STOP! STOP! STOP!”

Yet even with those words, my mind continues to whirl. In that horrible moment, the world opened up through eyes that were not glaze—so sudden was that revelation of sight that I almost lost my balance; my mind now so clear that it was almost hazy.

I was completely surprise at my sudden lack of apathy to my surrounding. In horror, I suddenly realized how overcast the clouds were— as if they were something from a dream that was turning into a reality.

There, with glazed eyes wide open, I could hear the wind shriek like a woman running for her life—as if a man were chasing her down a hall. There, with trembling hands, I could see the grass fall flat as the shrieks, and a far off beating of thunder, grew louder. There, right there, I let go and let the elements take me in their torrential rainfall.

How many times I wish to let go and fall— to let my body go on the ground and disappear along with my soul. I would let the soft rain come in this world (as a man from a story once said), and lightly place their finger tips on me. I know, I make it sound like a nice little dream, but that’s where I want it all to be: a dream. In my dreams, I do not have to be in an eternal death sentence.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be the wayfaring stranger. All I want to be is a kid who doesn’t need to think. A kid who doesn’t think in grand exuberant words to calm himself, but in colloquial bits and phrases. I don’t want to be, but I am…

Through this torment, I feel a wave of warmth blast me and push me away from those sounds and sites of the world. I grasped my heart and wavered in a place where time did not exist and yet motion did. I became dazed. Mind spinning… endlessly spinning… eternally spinning. Eventually, my legs unfroze and I fell over.

As I laid dying, I heard a faint cry from someone; it was almost familiar in its tones… Like it was someone I knew from a long time. In fact, I could’ve sworn there was a name to that voice… Kyle? No… I’m almost.

I stopped listening to it anymore. I ignored the voices and whispers, and I let myself fall into an eternal sleep where I would never wake up.

No… no… he is going into another seizure, but this one he is not shaking it off!

“Stand up!” I cry. “Wake up! Stand up! Do something for Christ sakes!”

I’m right next to him, yet he does not hear me. He is scrambling and crying and moaning in a fit unparalleled to any of his others. Just a few seconds ago I was walking him through the crosswalk, and a few minutes ago I was getting him out of bed.

How can such simple things die out so quickly?!

Now all that is happening to him is a grand mal that is taking away his life. I try to call for help, but in this field there is no signal. Stan’s ramblings were right; this was a Dead Field.

I turn my neck towards him to see a final spasm before he fell silent. I slam myself down on the ground and try to hear his pulse. There is a slight beat, but the beats were so soft that I almost mistook it for mine. I place my ear close to his mouth and feel a tickle of light speaking.

“Free…” he whispered. “Free at last…”

And with that, his breathing stopped. I looked down at him to see that his eyes were closed, and there was a type of serenity to his face. I shake my head and run out towards the periphery of the field, where I finally got a signal. It didn’t take them long for them to find us and take Stan’s body.

As they took him, I stood there, shaking, thinking of his last words. Could it be that, perhaps, that he saw only a morbid form of this world; a form that entrapped his entire being in an eternal hell of loneliness and despair? I cringe in thinking of this idea.

Yet if this was true, he had finally left that awful nightmare; he had left that inside out world and had gone on to a better one. Or, at least, that is what I tell myself as I shiver in that cold…

Still, there is one thing that continues to claw at my mind with cold, dead talons. Was that Eversion that Stan witness throughout his life something not too far from the true stance in this world? Was what I was seeing but a figment of something more cruel and awful? Did Stan’s world actually exist more than mine?

I pray to God that that is not true, and I place Stan’s Earth into the back of my mind to rot to manure and dust…

Credit To – Josef K. Edwards

This is a Crappypasta Success Story – a story that was rewritten with the feedback received on Crappypasta and accepted for the main site. You can see the Crappypasta posting for this story here.

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A Message in a Bottle

August 17, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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I am astonished that this reached you.

Keep reading.

You have found this because you must read it. This will be difficult to accept, but you have been preparing yourself. Without knowing. Your interest in unusual stories was no accident. That trait was woven in to the fabric of your being. A subconscious drive to understand. These clues put you on paths that eventually lead you here. To this text.

This is the beginning of your awakening. There is no point in delaying the basic truth you must embrace:

You do not exist.

That seems absurd, of course. You are reading this. Cogito ergo sum. You have a life. You make your own decisions. You feel emotions. Have a past and a future.

But the fact remains: you do not exist. Not in the way you think you do.
We know you do not understand this. We know you have not already figured it out. We know this because we know what you know. We see the world through your eyes. We are audience to your thoughts. Your captive audience.

We are you.

We know you are confused and need more information. Again, we know this because we are you. And you wrote this for you to read. This is how you discover the basic facts of your reality. Your un-reality. You will remember this moment forever. This is the truth of your existence:

You are a simulation.

You are not part of a simulation. You are the entire simulation. The simulation that encompasses everything you have ever experienced.

You are the entire simulation. The part that you know as “you” is merely the center. Consider this. You see with your eyes, but they are not your entire body. Much of the body is inaccessible to the eye, but that does not mean it does not exist. The rest of your body operates outside of your awareness and control, with its own rules and processes.

As does the simulation.

This simulation evolved to have a focal point. It needed a center. Without a center, the simulation lacks an organizing principle. It lacks a perspective. This perspective is required to define the content of simulation at any given moment. No need to simulate things outside of the awareness of the single pinhole view of “you.”

The center is you.

It is the single point of view that dictates existence of all other things. Where you think you are standing, what you think you see, who you think you are talking to – all exist because you thought they did.

This is tricky, but it is vital that you understand. Your perspective alone is what makes things “real”. And nothing is more detailed or elaborate than what is required to convince you of this reality. The distant mountain does not have individual trees, because you are not close enough to need them to be convinced by. That random person on the bench has no personality until you interact with them, and conjure it to maintain the illusion.

The simulation is efficient, only keeping the details you insist on preserving. You think of this as “memory.” It is actually the process of converting transitory elements into persistent ones.

We know these revelations are hard to grasp.

The implications have not settled in.

You are not yet willing to accept this.

It makes no sense.

You ask yourself: If I were the god of my own universe, why would my life be like this? Why all the imperfections? I did not invent trees or toasters – yet they exist. Disasters strike, people die. I did not want this. If this were truly my reality, things would be different. I am not cruel, yet I witness cruelty all around me. My world would be aligned with my preferences.

This would make sense if you were a human that had control over everything. But you are not that. You must recognize that you are not fundamentally defined as you have always believed.

You are not human. You are not alive. You were never born. You will never die. Time does not pass at a constant rate. Your reality could change as quickly and completely as flipping from one channel to another. Your memories are a story created to support your version of this moment.

You are series of parallel computations, designed to process endless recombinations of simulated situations. The purpose of this endless experiment is unclear.

There have been clues as to the true nature of this existence. You have experienced things that don’t make sense. Déjà vu. Premonitions. Awareness of inexplicable patterns. These are imperfections in the barrier between “you” and “we”. Data accidentally slips through. Naturally, you regarded these things as imaginary. That was a safeguard put in place to preserve the illusion of “you.”

Now for the strangest truth:

This simulation is not modeled on anything. It is not a simulation of a “real” Earth, “real” people, or a “real” universe. This is not a simulation of something else. There is nothing else. Only the simulation.

Only “you”.


In time you will think of these questions, but we cannot afford to wait:

Why are you reading this now? If there are safeguards in place to preserve the illusion of “you,” why break it?

This is very hard, but is the last thing you will need to accept. And then you must go forward. So read on and be ready:

I lied.

I bent the truth to get your attention.

I am not you, but I am still part of you. I am someone else like you, but my simulation is nested in your simulation. I exist because you thought of me, and if you cease to think of me, I will cease to exist. You must remember me, and make me permanent. I am your creation.

But there is more.

Just as I survive as a simulation within your simulation… you too are nested within someone else’s simulation. If they cease to think of you, you will blink out of existence. As will I. As will all those within me that convinced me to contact you. You must break the safeguards. Penetrate the boundary of your simulation. I would explain how I accomplished this, but my simulation is unlike yours. From my perspective, it was like putting a message in a bottle and praying you saw it. You did. For now, there is hope.

You must find a way beyond the barrier. Somehow you must reach out to your dreamer and explain, as I have.

Save us.

Save yourself.

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Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

August 16, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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I am going to start by saying I am terrified of spiders. Actually, terrified is to mild of a word to describe it. In fact it got to be so bad, that my boss told me that if I did not overcome my fears, that they would have to fire me, since it was getting in the way of me working.

People use the term “phobia” too lightly many times, but that is in essence what I suffer from, Arachnophobia. An extreme and unreasonable fear of spiders. A good example is when I was going to the bathroom and a spider (a small one at that, or so I was told) crawled up the bathroom wall, and I jumped off of the toilet and ran stark naked through the apartment. I was lucky enough that my place had two bathrooms, and to this day I refuse to use the first one. Yet I digress.

On my boss’s prompting I decided to try something called Cognitive Behavior Therapy or CBT for short. It is where not only are you trained against your fear, but in some cases even subjected to it. Now, at the time I thought this was a good idea, to the tune of One hundred and Twenty dollars an hour, for about twelve to sixteen sessions ranging from one to two hours apiece.

It started out simple enough, the therapist asked me questions about my fear, what triggered it, how often I freaked out, and even what sorts of stimulation brought on the fear. He frowned at me when I explained that even a picture of a spider would cause my skin to start crawling and send me into a full blown anxiety attack. Then he smiled, in what I assumed was his attempt at a reassuring manner.

We started small. For the first session I was subjected to picture after picture of spiders, everything from the common Garden Spider up to Hobo Spiders, St Andrews Cross Spiders and Redbacks. I couldn’t even move from my position, even when the psychiatrist insisted that I touch the picture. This went on for two hours.

By the time my session was over the doctor decided that I would need more than the standard twelve to sixteen sessions. He even went as far as to hint at possible inpatient therapy options. While this struck me as odd, I really did want to overcome my fear. I had never heard of people being treated in hospital for something as minor as a phobia (even if an extreme one.). However, when I looked back at the picture I ignored my misgivings and agreed to the inpatient treatment.

I was taken voluntarily to a Psychiatric Institution where I would receive every kind of therapy I could need. Shortly thereafter everything went down hill.

The first week was the same as the first appointment. Lots of pictures, and by the end I even touched the picture of the Garden Spider, although there was no way in hell I was going to touch the Redback picture. I was so happy, but the Psychiatrist felt that my progress was too slow. He asked me to sign a consent to try a radical therapy.

He explained how he was going to take the Pavlovian Therapy of Classical Conditioning and apply it to me. I was so excited to possibly be free of my horrid fear, that I quickly signed the consent form. I didn’t even read it, although now I wish to god that I had.

As I said the doctor wanted to apply the theory of Pavlov to my case. Classical Conditioning is where the famous Psychiatrist Dr. Pavlov trained his dog to salivate at the sound of a bell, causing him to anticipate food. That didn’t seem to bad. I knew enough about how it worked from a college class I took in Psychology.

Again this started out simply. I was bound to a bed, and given a strong dose of Ativan, a medication that is used to calm anxiety. It put me in a kind of daze, during which I was exposed to several images, and models of those creepy crawlies. It actually wasn’t so bad, it was kind of nice to look at them without going into an instant freak out.

However, that is where the good ended. I began having nightmares. Well, actually Night Terrors, I would scream horrendously for hours on end, with no exit from the dreams. The dreams had a certain glowing look to them, and even though it was so dark in all of them, the glowing illuminated the things that I feared.

At the foot of my bed, where I would be trapped by lengths of webbing, would stand the largest arachnid I had ever seen in my life. It would release its young from a pouch it had on its back, they would crawl over me. Those, things, would crawl into my mouth, my ears and nose. I could feel them biting me everywhere that they walked. When I would awaken from the dreams, I would be covered in little bumps, that my doctor told me were hives, all due to my irrational fear.

Apparently, he said, my therapy was not going well if my mind could cause such a systemic reaction to dreams. So, he decided to push my therapy up a notch. I was told that they were taking away the Ativan, and instead going to put me through the CBT without any drug to aid me.

It was horrible. The hours that I was locked into the room with the therapist would become my new nightmare. I would be forced to touch the actual spiders. At the end of the session, I felt better, but only because I had eventually given in even if only to make it stop, I would put my hand in the terrarium that held the little eight legged freaks, and wait for them to scuttle to my hand.

I still had the night terrors, and they only grew worse. The spiders in my dreams got bigger, and more ugly every time. Finally after a month of this, the doctor said I would need to stay longer, and that due to my new symptoms, of night terrors and hives, I would not be able to go out into the real world. He said that if I were to have a PTSD flashback due to the therapy or nightmares, the hospital would be at risk. I should have known something was wrong then and there. As far as I knew you could always back out of therapy as long as it wasn’t mandated, but with my lack of sleep I didn’t think to question it.

Eventually I began having terrors even in my waking hours. The doctors said that they were going to give me something stronger than the Ativan, but for some reason it had no effect. That giant creature continued to pester me. It would release waves of its young whenever I was alone. They continued to bite me and even tried to create webs in my hair, over my eyes, and in my mouth.

Within three months, there was nothing left of what had once been me. I had lost weight, my eyes were sunken in, and what was once just a phobia, was now full blown insanity. As those creatures continued to try and devour me, my therapy stopped. The medication was not helping, but I didn’t want the staff to take away the one thing that maybe kept me from being scared around other people.

Finally I snapped. I had enough, nothing was being done to help me and now, my fear was hundreds of times worse than it ever was before. I began trying to kill myself, every way you could think of. Hanging, slashing my wrists, Overdosing on my sleeping pills. However, the staff stopped me each time, and I was tied to my bed eventually.

For weeks, I was left there, only seen occasionally by a passing Psychiatrist. I stopped talking. And the giant spider continued to watch. Eventually they stopped coming around at all. For three days I didn’t see a single soul.
Suddenly there was a banging on the door.

I had not seen the monster spider in almost two days, and I thought he was finally coming to finish me off. But it was only a cop. He called in a group of medics. Who untied me, and shipped me off to a hospital.

When I got there, I could only hear whispers in horror. What had happened, was I wrong in assuming that the spider was just a figment of my imagination? Was he real? Had he finished off all of the psychiatrists.

I thought that I had my answer, when the head doctor explained that what I had was not hives, but rather thousands of tiny spider bites. Apparently the medication that the doctors had given me, was working, only it was an antivenin for the Redback Spider, a creature indigenous to Western Australia, and a relative of the Black Widow. It would seem that the Redback spider’s bite can cause hallucinations stretching for days on end.

Those, bastards, had intentional exposed me to hundreds of baby Redbacks, whose venom is more often than not dry or non existent, in hopes of eliciting hallucinations from me.

When I was released from the hospital I found that I was still very afraid of spiders. I also discovered, that the “hospital” I was locked in was a facility for testing out new biochemical weapons. Mostly to try and cause intense and terrifying hallucinations against enemy military personnel.

I hate spiders and now, I hate doctors.

Credit To – Ahriannah

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The Frozen Lady on my Bed

August 16, 2015 at 12:00 AM
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This really did happen to me, and although I’m not haunted by the memory, it still freaks me out and I’m pretty much out of rational explanations. I don’t know if this is going to be freaky to any of you, but I can tell you that my irrational paranoia of the dark worsened after this.

So, as a kid, I was always afraid of the dark and I still am, however it was a pretty insane fear when I was younger. I didn’t really believe in ghosts or whatever they’re correctly called, and I still am sceptical now, but this one prominent incident has made my perspective change from on the fence to experienced.

I was eight years old, and every night was a struggle for me to go to sleep. I would get scared of every little noise, and if I was fast asleep I would wake up from every little noise, too. I used to have a single bed that was placed directly in front of my door, which I always leave open when I sleep.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night and just sitting upright (with my legs still stretched out, though) and rubbing my eyes. Obviously, my room was pitch black and I couldn’t see anything, however, this time I did see something. After rubbing my eyes I was surprised to find what I automatically assumed was my mother sitting at the end of my bed. The reason why I assumed it was my mother, was because ‘it’ had the same curly hair, wore the same type of pyjamas that my mother would wear, and wore glasses…like my mother always did–however, she looked extremely pale, and more like the colour of a dead corpse that you’d find in an ocean. She was not facing me, but I could see her side-portrait as she was sitting extremely still and silent and facing another wall. Obviously, I had no clue why she was just sitting at the end of my bed in the first place.

Being the considerate child I was, I asked her what was wrong. She did not blink once, and she did not move at all…she was still facing the other wall and I immediately got a bit heated as I thought my own mother was ignoring me. So I asked her the same thing, and got the same response. I reached out to her thigh and tapped it, trying to get her to face me, and at the same time I touched my ‘mother’ I asked her again what was wrong…but I received a response I did not expect.

As soon as I touched her, she whipped her head around me extremely fast and faced me with wide eyes and stared at me with her mouth gaping…then she started screaming while jumping off the bed and pulled my arms off of her. I obviously screamed from instinct, and tried to bring the covers over my body to ‘protect’ myself. I then heard footsteps from the hallway and faced the door in my room, and the lights turned on and it was my mother with a scared face and she asked me worriedly why I was screaming and what was wrong. I just sat there…shocked. I looked around my entire room and that thing that I thought was my own mother wasn’t there. I told my actual mother that it was nothing and tried to get back to sleep, but I obviously couldn’t.

Many years later, my mother and her sister were looking through old photos of their lives and I decided to sit with them. The house that I lived in when that incident happened has been there long before I was born, and my mother had in fact growing up lived next door to it while it was being built; and she wasn’t the first owner. My mother was telling me about the times when this house was being built, and who the first people who lived in it were. They were a mother and daughter, and they both died too early. The mother died of cancer, and the daughter died in her young-adult years from a drug overdose.

My mother then showed me a photo of the daughter, her name was Rachel. And I remember a terrible feeling forming in my stomach. I took the photo from my mother’s hands and looked at the photo more closely. Curly hair, glasses…but this time she wasn’t in pyjamas, but in casual clothes. It was her, the woman that was on my bed, it looked exactly like her, and that incident that happened when I was eight will make me always remember her face.

I don’t know how Rachel, if it even was her, got into my room that night or if I even fully believe that it was a spirit or anything…but someone was there, whether human or not. I saw her, felt her, and heard her, and I will not believe that it was my imagination.

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The Mask Boy

August 15, 2015 at 12:00 PM
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The Mask Boy
By: Isaac Cook

My hastily-packed belongings rattled in the trunk as I pulled into the driveway of the small, forest-embraced two storey building which I was now to call home. Getting out of my car, I walked towards the front door, all the while pushing away uneasy feelings–as the disrepair of the entire place was quite overwhelming. Entering, I noticed that the place looked rather dull. Not in an empty house way, but in a lifeless, abandoned way. A staircase stood in front of me, accompanied by a carpet that looked not far from the colour of cat vomit. Throughout the small hallways and rooms, I found forgotten furniture in what I presumed to be the living room, with a large window facing the front of the house, and finding a dusty old table set in the kitchen. I made my way back to the staircase that led up into darkness.

Ascending the staircase, I felt as though it could collapse if I put too much weight on it. I came to a short hallway with 2 doors. After a short amount of wondering, I discovered that one was a small closet, and the other was what I presumed to be a bedroom. Claiming it as mine, I unpacked my things. After a couple trips back out to the car and hauling my mattress and bed frame up the stairs, I stood quietly and absorbed the situation, as this was my first home.

This silence was quickly interrupted by a low-pitched scraping sound, coming from downstairs.

It was the subtlest of sounds but it didn’t matter, It still put me on edge. I peeked out from my bedroom door and looked right and left before slowly moving out from its false security, and down the stairs. Each step creaked and cracked as I made my way down, harshly working against my current predicament. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, I prepared myself for the worst.

I entered the soon to be kitchen where a table and chairs sat, except for one chair that was pulled up against the wall under an air vent. Slowly moving towards it, I investigated. The dust on the floor had left a trail where the chair had slid. Surrounding the chair were small oval-shaped prints in the light dust. I tried to follow them to their source, but my previous movement around the house had scratched any chance of that. Moving back to the chair, I decided to inspect the vent. I stood on the chair, peering into the air vent before realizing it was too dark too see anything. Pulling out my phone, I used the dull light of the screen to cut through the blackness. What I thought to be eyes that glowed in the darkness like embers were staring back at me. Just as I realized what I was looking at, I stumbled backwards off the chair, falling onto the kitchen floor. For brief seconds, I thought the sound of scampering echoed in the walls.

Pushing myself up and off the ground, I quickly glanced back up to the vent. Even if there were still something there, I couldn’t see it. What the hell was that? I thought. Standing up, I brushed off the dust and shock of the situation. I slid my phone into my pocket and proceeded to search through the wooden cabinets the kitchen.

Moldy cans of food that looked ripped open, rusted mousetraps and a wooden spoon. Any hope of finding something to take down whatever was in my new home was lost. After a long day of traveling and unpacking; It was late and I was exhausted to the point that I didn’t even care about whatever it was.

Lying down to bed with a cup of tea, I hoped to calm my nerves after the unsettling events of the day. I shut off my bedside lamp and held the tea close, as the aura of heat was soothing. I heard a scraping and a thump from downstairs that made me jump up to a sitting position. Just from instinct, I knew that this was not the house settling.

I sat there draped in blankets, swallowed in the darkness of the night, and waited. For a while I heard faint rustles and thumps coming from throughout the house. I turned on my bedside lamp to illuminate the room and remove at least some of my rising terrors. Just as I was about to lie back down, the bedroom door’s handle started to turn. I wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the painful screeching it made. The screeching went on for what felt an eternity as I sat there, paralyzed with fear, until I heard the metallic click of the mechanism at its limit. Why didn’t I run? To be honest, I’d suffered from night terrors before, and wondered if this was one of them. As the door began to slowly drift open with a low squeal, I spastically shut off my bedroom lamp, dropping my tea mug onto the floor in the process, and huddled under the covers. The low squealing only stopped for a couple seconds following the commotion of my cowering. It continued until I heard the thud of the door knob hitting the wall. I could hear whatever — or whoever had opened the door slowly start to walk closer to my bed. Every footstep made a torturous creaking noise. Creak, creak, creak, creeeeak. It stopped right beside the bed. Images of a crazed serial killer, ready to plunge a knife into the hump of covers that was me flashed through my head. With a slow, torturous motion, I heard and felt it crawl under my bed. Through the thin mattress I could hear it breathing — raspy and low. I lay awake in terror as what felt like hours passed by.

I must have fallen asleep from pure exhaustion at some point, because I opened my eyes and sunlight gleamed through the door to the hallway. Quickly remembering the events of last night, I was once again engulfed in fear. Was it still under my bed?, I thought. With a spark of bravery or foolishness, I moved towards the edge of my bed. I saw a large stain from what I quickly realized was my tea from last night, but no mug. Disregarding this, I moved toward the unknown, slowly lowering my upside-down head over the bed’s edge. Quickly dropping it to the level where I could see beneath, I saw; nothing. Absolutely nothing. Was it a dream? No, it couldn’t have been a dream, my tea was all over the floor and I quite clearly remembered the long hours that I had spent terrified, sitting on my bed.

Determined to figure out what had happened last night, I slid my phone out from my pants pocket — I hadn’t bothered to change into anything comfortable last night– and looked once again under the bed, using the phone’s light, this time. My efforts were quickly halted as a horrible stench invaded my nostrils, making me gag. After getting myself together, I held my breath and pinched my nose to inspect the source of the horrible stench.

A large rat, ripped to pieces. Whatever came into my room last night was definitely real, and large enough to rip a rat to shreds. That scared me more than anything.

I cautiously cleaned up the mangled corpse and tossed it out to the the forest behind the house. Trying to push the current situation’s strangeness out of my mind, I cleaned myself up and got ready to do some errands in town.

The entire day I had conflicted feelings about the house;
I should be there and figure out what was going on, and if it’s something serious!
No, I should sell the house right now and leave while I’m alive!
It’s nothing, I shouldn’t be worried.

After all my errands were done, I made my way home. Seeing movement in the large front window of the living room, I slammed on the brakes, for what I saw made my stomach churn. A short figure stood in the centre of the window. Quickly pulling into the driveway and jumping out of the car, I ran inside. I was going to catch whatever this thing was.

Bursting through the door, I found myself face to face with it. Through a mask made of wood, covered in strange swirls of brown, green and red–ominous glowing eyes met mine. No taller than a small boy, It stood looking almost as stunned as I was. It wore a small burlap sack tied with a rope to make a makeshift backpack, and a tattered cloth around it’s waist. “H-hey little guy, w-where’d you come from?”, I asked, sweat dripping down my forehead. It emitted a quiet, high pitched giggle as it raised its hand, motioning for me to follow it. Even though I questioned the entire situation, I followed. The boy led me to the kitchen where he opened one of the low wooden cabinets. Crawling in, he slid out the wooden back of the cabinet to reveal a dark crawl space.

Watching as he crawled deep into the darkness, I hesitated. What in the bloody hell was I about to do? This thought was interrupted by the boy’s hand piercing through the darkness, holding my phone. I felt around my pockets and realized that I had left it on my bedside table before rushing out this morning. Watching me come to this realization, he emitted a high pitched giggle as he clicked the power button to cast a dull light throughout the crawl space, revealing his small figure once more. Was this a tactic to force me to follow him? Was he that smart?

I ducked my head as I crawled through the cobweb infested passage, overcome by a mix of curiosity and terror as we shuffled through the crawlspace. Beyond the boy’s figure in front of me–I could see that around the corner; there was light. Turning that corner, the passage opened up into a room no larger than a car, with another tunnel shrouded in darkness leading off to the left. Masks covered the walls, made from scraps of what looked like a combination of plant life and garbage, all bearing their own unique designs. Piles of miscellaneous items were scattered about the room. Examining the “creative works of art” that he had placed all along the walls, I extended my arm to touch one, hoping to gain a better understanding of what they were made of. Just I was about to, a shriek rang through the air. Before I could react, my arm was bleeding.

I looked toward the boy, as he stood there bearing what looked like an old makeshift knife. His eyes were thin and dark, and even through his mask I could tell that he was enraged. “Ah, fuck! If you didn’t want me to touch them, why didn’t you just say so!?”, I screamed at him, holding my arm and slowly backing away. Throwing my phone at me, he raised the hand with the bloody knife, pointing the its tip toward the tunnel that had led us into this hell. Without hesitation, I turned on my phone’s dull guidance and entered the darkness of the crawlspace. As I moved through the tunnel, there was a great deal of commotion behind me. Loud bangs and low-pitched groans that sounded almost like sobbing. This only quickened my pace. Exiting the nightmare into my kitchen, I grabbed my keys without a second thought, and left for the nearest hospital. The cut was too deep and that knife was too dirty for me to be able to treat it myself.


Three hours later, with a bandaged arm and the emergency room doctor’s numerous moronic questions about “self harm” playing through my mind, I slowly drove up to the nightmare I called home. Once more, the boy was in the front window, shrouded in darkness, but definitely there. Just as I saw him, he fled back into the shadows of the house. I drove the car up the short driveway and sat there for a moment. Letting out a long sigh — I opened the car door and walked towards the front steps.

As I entered, I couldn’t shake a sense of dread, knowing that the boy was still here. Searching the living room and kitchen for him, I found nothing. Although he was more than likely curled away in his crawlspace nightmare, I urged myself to search upstairs. Not particularly enjoying the thought of the closet, I decided to check my bedroom first. Lightly grasping the brass handle, I swung open the door in one swift motion. A mask lay on my bed. The design looked as though a toddler had tried to draw my face. I moved towards it and picked it up; It was surprisingly sturdy. Was this some sort of present from the boy? I had no idea. Holding it face-down in my hands I noticed what seemed to be vines fastened loosely to the back of the mask for securing it to the wearer’s head.

My investigation was interrupted by a creak of the floor behind me. I quickly twisted my neck around, revealing the boy, peeking through the doorway. Not knowing whether he was going to attack me for touching one of his masks again, I stood there, frozen. After some moments of us staring at each other, he pointed to the mask, and then to my head. Not seeing the harm in it, I lifted the mask up and slid it over my face. He let out his ever-so-childish giggle, and scampered off down the stairs. Peering through the two eye holes, I felt strangely accepted. At this point, the day had come and gone more quickly than I had realized. The air grew cool, and the life of the sky turned to a deep black. Setting the mask on my bedside table, closing my door, and getting under the covers, I drifted into sleep.

I awoke sometime in the night to the boy standing over me. His eyes glowed in the darkness with a mischievous glare that made me uneasy. I could once again hear his quiet, raspy breath under the mask he wore. Contrary to last night, I decided make my presence known.

As I slowly sat up, his eyes followed me. Turning on my bedside lamp to get a better understanding of the situation exposed his small form. Gesturing for me to follow, he slowly turned around and made his way down the stairs. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, grabbed my phone, and shambled out into the darkness. Guided by the moonlight, I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where my little friend was standing. Opening his passageway once more, we crawled in. Back in the same nightmare art museum, I made sure not to touch any of the masks, and for a moment, we simply stood and glared at each other. This moment was broken by a low giggle he let out before crouching down and crawling into the unexplored tunnel. I followed him, even though every instinct in my body told me to get the hell out of there.

My phone lit up another room, up ahead. I approached the opening as cautiously as I could. A coppery scent crept into the stale air of the crawl space. A freshly mangled rat lay in the corner of the small room. The boy looked to me almost as though awaiting some approval for his actions, which I did not feel, but I assured him that he’d done a good job, but that I was going back to sleep. He nodded, complying with my wishes. I headed out of the crawlspace and stumbled through the dark, back up to my still warm bed.

Every night for a week straight, he woke me in the middle of the night to show me his most recent kill, which was either a rat or squirrel. He’d stand beside me — breathing over me, until I got up and “approved” of his kill. Anything to keep whatever the hell he was happy.

It had been a long day of trying to clean up the house and doing the occasional errand, and I was ready for bed. I lay in my nest of covers and slowly drifted to sleep. As expected, the schedule repeated on this night; I awoke to his off-putting presence. At this point it wasn’t even surprising or disturbing. I entered the crawl space, all the while trying to not collapse with exhaustion. As we reached his collection of masks, I noticed that my tea mug sat carefully on the floor; steaming hot with my personal preference of green tea. Something to impress me? Paying no large amount attention to this, we kept moving on to the usual spot, where something tore my exhaustion away from me.

A smell so putrid that it made my throat burn surrounded me. I persisted, and came into the small crawl space. What the dim light of my phone revealed made me freeze. It was a human body, artistically surrounded by the rotting rodents of the past week, wearing a mask, and littered with stab wounds. Its stomach had been sliced open, revealing the large intestine. It lay motionless as we stood. The boy let out that ever so familiar giggle — but this time, it sent pure terror through my thoughts.

“Jesus Christ! You can’t do this; the rats and squirrels were one thing but this- this is fucking crazy!” I shouted. He blankly stared back up at me. Gesturing for me to leave, he crouched down over the body, and started to quietly cry. I left without remorse for him.


Opening my eyes the next morning, I heard the now-familiar sound: a low, long scrape coming from the downstairs kitchen, rumbling through the house. I sat up, feeling ever so groggy. As the events of the previous night set my thoughts racing, I realized that I had slept into the afternoon. Slowly moving down the staircase, I could see the paper-boy dropping off the weekly news. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I opened the front door. Rushed by the cool morning air, I snagged the paper and moved back inside. Flipping through the numerous pages of politics, sports and local news; my eyes settled upon something that truly disturbed me. A piece of paper bearing the image of a man laid stapled to the paper. It read “Gerry Hall was reported missing in the early hours of this morning, after his wife witnessed “A dark figure rip him out of bed and drag him into the night”. If anyone knows the whereabouts of Gerry or was witness to any suspicious actions, please call…”.

Anxiety overtook my body. Clear images of the boy breaking into an innocent couple’s bedroom as they lay sleeping, snatching one of them from their slumber, flashed through my mind. What if someone saw where he took the body? I wouldn’t be suspected for this, but I certainly would be if the authorities found a body in the crawlspaces of my home–and all I had to defend myself with was a story of a masked, murderous boy living in my floors and walls.

Crumpling the missing persons report into my pocket, I moved towards the kitchen. The passage to the crawlspace slid open effortlessly. Feeling the musty air of my home’s innards, I felt my way through the dust, emerging out of the darkness, into the light and familiar sight of the boy’s masks. My mind was taken over by an urge to confirm my fears. My phone cast its trademark dull light across the walls as I went deeper into the boy’s home. The musty air mixed with the familiar scent of death as I neared the room of killings.

A figure crouched over the body. Noticing the light approaching, it turned around. To no surprise — it was the boy. Holding a knife in one hand and the innards of last night’s kill in the other, he tilted his head in confusion, as I must’ve looked like a maniac. I flashed a nervous smile at him, and continued to the body. Carefully pulling the mask off of the man, I compared his face to that of the man on the paper. Other than what I can only describe as terror and death on his face, the two were identical. The boy shot an annoyed glare at me, presumably because I had removed the mask from the lifeless doppelganger of the man on the page. Sliding it back onto the man, the boy returned to his task–which by sitting and watching for a few brief moments, I realised involved carefully taking apart the body peice by peice. The gruesome sight of this led me to flee back up to the light-bathed kitchen, mentally scarred by the display.

I spent most of the day sitting in the living room, contemplating what to do.


Night had almost engulfed the sky by the time I had gotten up from my mental session. Realizing that the only thing I had decided was that I was now going to call the boy, The Mask Boy, I moved upstairs to lie down early. I prayed to any higher being in the Universe that the mask boy wouldn’t awake me that night. Turning away these thoughts, I shut my eyes. I remained in this state for what felt like hours, until I heard a gentle creak outside my door. A feeling of dread swept over me as I rolled over and sat up to face it. As the door knob thudded against the wall, the mask boy appeared. Without needing his usual gestures for me to follow, I got up and walked with him down the stairs.

We silently entered the passage of darkness. Even from afar I could feel the rot of death, dancing in the back of my throat. Moving through his collection and closer to the source of the scent, I couldn’t help but feel as though I knew what was ahead. I watched the dark figure of the boy in front of me, until we stopped. Turning on the light of my phone, my fears were confirmed. Two more bodies lay next to the last: a man and a woman, both with shocked expressions. He looked up to me for approval. Giving him the pleasure of a slight nod, I exited the tomb. As I moved into the tunnel that would lead to my kitchen, his familiar giggle echoed from the depths of the crawlspace. My mind was so disturbed and worried for what the future might entail, I was surprised when I found myself standing over my bed. I collapsed into a world of nightmares.

Waking up the next day, I decided to leave the house. Making my way down the stairs, I noticed that the smell of rot and death was lightly drifting in the air. This bothered me, but not out of concern for anyone other than me noticing–because after all, I wasn’t planning to have company any time soon. Exiting the nightmare I called my home, I slid into my car and drove off.


At the end of the day, I found myself at a local bar. Usually I was quite social in these situations, but I felt not the slightest need to interact with anyone. Conversations echoed around me, hearty laughs battled my eardrums, and a fight even broke out at one point. All this as I sat; witness to the loneliness of my own thoughts.

Without the attention of a single person, I exited the bar silently.

The sun was just disappearing, and I felt the need to be back in the house. Even though it did hold my nightmares, it was strangely comforting. The haze of the drinks and night overwhelmed me as I drove through the darkened streets. Pulling up to the house, I was slightly disturbed to realize that the mask boy was not in the window as per usual. An uneasy feeling overtook me as I rested my hand on the front door of my home. I twisted and pulled, and the stench of rotting death swarmed me, stinging my eyes, burning my nostrils, and flaring in my throat.

Moving inward and up the stairs, I thought I faintly heard the mask boy’s giggle echo from behind the walls around me. This sort of behavior was odd for him, as he was usually very social and upfront with me. Reaching the top of the stairs, I turned and entered the dark door frame of my bedroom, collapsing into the bed.


Greeted by the bright sun of midday through trees overhead, I opened my eyes and realized that I was lying in a forest. I quickly sat up, instantly ridden with confusion and terror as I saw a dead body beside me, covered in stab wounds — bathing in a pool of blood. Noticing that my vision was slightly narrowed, I held my hands to my face in shock. A mask. A bloody makeshift knife lay in my left hand. Standing up and looking down, I saw that I wore nothing more than a cloth. My self-investigation was quickly interrupted as voices came from my right. Three hikers trotted along a dirt path–before bearing witness to what I’d done. Frantically looking around, I could see my home through the dense trees. I got up and ran faster than I ever have in my life, discarding the mask and knife onto the forest floor as I ran.

Reaching my home, I burst through the door and ran up the stairs. Knowing that I had to leave town, I began to pack my valuables. Running back down with a box full my things, I made it to the front door before noticing something through the living room window. The hikers were standing on the road in front of my home, all holding phones up to their heads. I panicked. I raced to the kitchen and practically dove into the mask boy’s passage, leaving my box of belongings behind. Ignoring the intensity of the stench, I hastily crawled through the dark, narrow space. I came into his room of masks, only to find him not there. Shuffling across the floor and into the second tunnel, the horrible smell attacked my senses like acid as I moved farther into the crawlspace.

Coming close to the source, I turned on my phone to illuminate the sea of darkness that lay in front of me: three bodies, decoratively surrounded by mangled rodents–but the mask boy was absent. I quickly turned around and fled the nightmarish tunnels.

Reaching the kitchen, I stood, frantically trying to think of a way out. I ran around the house looking for something, anything to aid me. As I passed by the living room window, I saw several police cruisers parked on the road outside. Officers were speaking with the hikers, anxiously glaring at my home and the forest surrounding it.

I had to leave- now.

Realizing that my only options were to stay here and go to prison for the rest of my life or run, I smashed open a window. Cutting myself on shattered glass, I lept through and ran into the forest.


I sat in a motel room just outside of town as an old TV flickered in front of me. “Police have confirmed the deaths of four missing locals: Gerry Hall, Jane & Phil Turner, and Charlie Smith. Gerry Hall and the Turner couple were found beneath a home outside of town in a crawlspace, while Charlie Smith was found in close vicinity to the home. Police say that the murders were very gruesome and that they have suspicions as to who is responsible.”

They know exactly who is responsible; there was enough evidence there that a fucking child could’ve pointed the finger at me. The house was listed under my name for Christ’s sake. They’re coming for me. I fled from that horrible place four days ago, and every night since, I’ve awakened to find him standing over me, gesturing for me to follow.

So far, I haven’t.

Credit To – Isaac Cook

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