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Bill Cosby Commercial

April 1, 2014 at 4:00 PM
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Last week, on a wet and windy night, with no motivation to finish my college assignments, I began to peruse the Internet as a way to procrastinate, as we all often do. Having completed Sonic the Hedgehog on an emulator a few hours earlier, I was in a nostalgic mood. After searching youtube for old Sega Genesis commercials, my finger still lingered on the mouse. I kept clicking on the suggested videos and reliving old memories from my childhood. I felt a comfort one only gets from seeing things you never really knew had such an influence on you when you were young and innocent.
Soon I was lost revelling in such classics as “melts in your mouth, not in your hand”, “Who loves orange soda?” “NO SOUP FOR YOU”, “How you doin’?”, “Come with me if you want to live”, “The truth is out there” and of course, “Wassssssaaaaaaaap!!”
I only realised that I’d lost track of time when I tried to find my phone in what was now a pitch dark room. Checking the time on my monitor I was shocked to find it was already after 2 AM. I resolved to go to bed as I had class in the morning, but couldn’t resist watching one last video, just to round off the night. Scanning through the suggestions, I was disappointed to find that I had watched them all, except for this one video at the very bottom, entitled “Bill Cosby sells his soul for pudding”. Although I had a vague idea of who Bill Cosby was from old Simpsons episodes, I’d never actually seen anything he was famous for- but I’ll admit the title intrigued me somewhat.
As I clicked the link and sat back to be entertained, I had no Idea that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

The video started off Innocently enough, obviously some old commercial for gelatine.
Bill Cosby was standing in a Kitchen surrounded by little kids. “There’s an easy way to make Jelo instant pudding- Just shake it!” He announced in a cheery voice. The Video skipped a bit at this point, lingering on the “Shake it” part- a tad annoying, but the Internet in the house could become a little jittery at times, so I was used to it. The video cut to Cosby’s head moving in from the left of the screen- “Follow the Directions” he said. I wasn’t sure why at the time, but something about this was vaguely unsettling, though I thought perhaps it was due to the fact that it was a sudden jump cut. A mangled version of the product jingle played, then it cut back to “Follow the directions”, only slower– my brow furrowed. The next part was from a different advert, Cosby was holding four jiggling watermelons, the movement seemed to be semi-cyclical, moving from the start to the end and back again. It was hypnotic, and quite nauseating, which made it all the more abrupt when then audio cut to triple speed “What’s making these watermelons wriggle?”, I felt at this point extremely uncomfortable, like my defences were being broken down. I felt like, just like- “Just like Jelo gelatin” Cosby finished the thought for me, several times. This was beginning to feel really weird.
The scene cut to a ginger kid repeating the same movement over and over.
“That’s it” I thought. “enough of this”. Ginger kids freaked me out at the best of times. As I raised my hand to move the mouse however, something peculiar happened. A cut to Cosby again, moving his left hand in seemingly random directions, pudding pop in his right, repeating “This, this, or this” a number of times. My right hand immediately became stiff and started to spasm beyond my control, disrupting my path to the mouse. After that point on, I was powerless to control myself- forced to sit and witness what was unfolding before me, regardless of will. At this point of no return, Cosby lingered a look of surprise my way, almost mockingly, emitting a demonically low pitched moan. I was scared.
Another kid in the video seemed to echo my emotions, “Hey Bill Cosby what’s tha- AH AH AH”. If I could have screamed at that point, I would have.
“Follow the directions” Cosby repeated horrifyingly.
The Mangled Jingle played again, for longer this time, each second forcibly propping up my eyelids.
The watermelon part reappeared, even slower than before, but instead of being nauseated, I felt lulled into subservience.
The scene cut to a smiley faced clock, moving its hands in an almost wave-like pattern, A bit- crunched warning repeated almost too quick for me to make out- “You sing you die, you sing you die” before crunching completely to a jarring buzz, its eyes popping open and shut at a speed greater than what should be physically possible.
“Follow the Directions”
“…FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS…”
The video grinded to a complete halt, Cosby’s judgmental eyes fixed squarely on mine, just long enough to make me feel a glimmer of hope that the internet had failed, before he whipped his head back saying “Don’t worry…” with a smug superiority.
“…Pudding pop swirl” The demon Cosby finished, before letting his head fly about erratically on his unmoving shoulders in a movement akin to something out of ‘The Exorcist’.
“whatwhatwhatwhat” it continued, as if to eradicate any morsel of critical thinking left in my being.
The demon proceeded to fellate a chocolate pudding pop with a sleazy, unholy glee. A close-up cut to its burningly erotic gaze left me with no semblance of the lie that I had not been violated. Even though the video quality was grainy, those eyes pierced me to my very soul; they were so…Hyper-Realistic.
“Thank you” it finished, before poising itself like a cat ready to pounce.
In the brief respite that followed I allowed myself to exhale for the first time since that horror began. As the breath exuded however, I felt my consciousness follow suit, all remnants of perception fading as I slipped into an abyss, serenaded by the haunting echo of “WaaatteerrrMmeelloonns” marking my descent into darkness, until I knew no more.

I came to by the sound of the front door closing downstairs. It was still dark outside.
“Man I must’ve been conked out for at least an hour” I thought to myself as I rubbed the back of my creaky neck on the way down to the kitchen.
I felt exhausted as I pushed open the door, but I needed both water and to find out who could be calling at this hour. Turns out it was just my housemate getting home from a nightclub.
“Hey man” I greeted him. “Didn’t know you went out, don’t you have an exam in the morning? What is it like 4AM?”
“What are you talking about dude?” He asked, quizzically. “It’s only half twelve. And that exam was this morning. You high or somethin’?”
At this point I felt extremely muddled. “Nah man that can’t be right. I fell asleep like two hours ago. We just finished playing ‘Sonic’ earlier on remember?”
“Dude that was YESTERDAY, I ain’t seen you at all today. Whatever you’re on you gotta share it with me!” He chuckled.
My face knotted into a ball of confusion. I simply turned to go check my calendar upstairs, he couldn’t have been right.
“Pffft fine” he snorted.
“And by the way, you owe me a box of pudding pops!!” he called after me.
I froze. “What did you say??”.
“My pudding pops. I had a whole box this morning now they’re gone”
With that I felt a tremendous fear and bolted up the stairs.
“Hey man don’t worry about it I ain’t mad. Just get some new ones when you can that’s all!” He shouted.
I could barely hear him though as I raced to my room to check my computer. I thought it was just in power save mode when I woke up but now it wouldn’t even turn on. The screen was on standby, but the actual computer was unresponsive. After much frenzied inspection I found that the power chord had been cut. To Say I was freaked out would have been a massive understatement.
“What in the name of holy hell is going on??…” I remember muttering to myself.

It’s been a whole week since then, and things have just been getting stranger and stranger. The blackouts are becoming longer and more frequent, and I can feel myself slipping away. Every time I’ve slept I’ve been plagued by visions of the beast, pudding and ginger kids everywhere. I tried my best to fight it; I’ve been awake now for forty eight hours but it’s no use. I can feel Bill Cosby’s presence even in my waking moments. Sometimes I don’t know where I am and can’t communicate in anything other than nonsensical jabbering.
Two days ago I suddenly snapped back to reality to find myself staring at my fridge, full to the brim with pudding pops. I screamed and tried to run but immediately fell to the floor as I was wearing two halves of Watermelon on my feet instead of shoes.
I’m really scared. There’s no one in the house anymore, all my housemates have disappeared. I can’t even bear to think what may have happened to them, what I in my delirium may have done; the atrocities that monster may have used these hands for…
I’m doomed. There’s no hope for me, I realise that now. The reason I write this is to share my story so that whatever happens, at least I got chance to tell my side of it, and maybe spare other potential victims the horror of this terrible fate.
To those who loved me, my family, my friends; try to remember me as I once was.
To everyone else, for all that is holy, whatever you do- DO NOT WATCH THE VIDEO!!

Oh god *flipfloop* It’s happening again. I can *flimflam*feel it! God please!*ZamZobbidy*. I can’t *HipHobbidyhold out much longer!! He’s *KimKamKibbityComming!! ZimSomebody Help me!! ZimZamZobbidyZELP ME!!! ZELP MEEMBAMbobbidy…
FlipFlumFlobbidy…
ZipZamzoppidy…
Boop.

FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS.

Credit To – AbsoluteBillion, Beefnuts

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How to Write a Vidya Gaem Pasta

April 1, 2014 at 2:00 PM
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(A last hurrah to the Haunted Game ‘genre’, as it were.)

So, you’re wanting to write a video game crappy – erm, creepypasta? Think you have what it takes? To be honest, you probably don’t. But fear not! With just the submission form (who needs proofreading? Or drafts? Hell, who needs edits? Not you, that’s for sure!) and this handy guide, you’ll be writing terrible pastas in no time!
Wait, did I say ‘terrible’? Like, out loud?
I meant ‘beautiful’.
Yep.
Totally.
————–
First of all, you’re going to have to pick a topic! Maybe you should go for something well known? Maybe try your hand at more obscure games? It’s your choice! Let’s get creative!
(And by ‘get creative’, I mean ‘write the same shitty pasta that’s already been written a thousand times before’. But that doesn’t matter. Whatever.)
>Try a Pokemon pasta! They were the most popular video game pasta subject for a reason, you know. Don’t know anything about Pokemon? Doesn’t matter – just as people who have never played Pokemon can pick it up easily, you don’t need to know anything about it to write a pokepasta! Just throw in some peekachoos and charozords and you’re all set!
>Maybe a Minecraft pasta? Just like how you can do so much in Minecraft, you can write so much about it too! ..Or you can just write about Herobrine! ‘Who’s a hero brown,’ you ask? Why, only a slightly original monster that was mutated into a cliched horror monster by thousands of bad fan misinterpretation!
>Try your hand at a Legend of Zelda pasta! Hey, you remember that one ‘ben drowned’ pasta you read about a year ago? Well, let’s write that again, but with all grammar or decent writing absent! I’m sure it’ll get thousands of upvotes! (read: downvotes)
>Something a bit more obscure? Why not? You could be contributing to the large amount of stories that only make sense to a small, unknown group of people! A scary story… about lawyers? Farming? Why? Why the hell not?

Wow, that took a while! Time for deciding the name of the pasta! This is nice and simple!

[GAME NAME]: [DESCRIPTIVE WORD] [WORD RELATING TO THE PASTA]

Sounds relatively simple! Let’s try it out a bit!
Pokemon: Bloodied Diamond
Minecraft: Curse of Herobrine
Ace Attorney: The Demonic Testimony

Do you like those names? I like those names. Let’s move on!

Of course, your main character has to get their game in some way. What’s that? Introducing the character? No, no, no, no, no. You’re doing it all wrong.
>”I got it from a garage sale/market sale/yard sale” – The oldest and best one in the book. If 99% of people write it this way, then it can’t possibly be bad, can it?
>”Some shady guy/girl/being of unidentifiable gender gave it to me” – Sometimes, we just want to skip the boring introduction and get straight to the action, and there’s no better way to do it than this.
>”I downloaded it online” – Who goes to garage sales anymore? Keep up with the times with this new, hip trend!

Moving on to step number three – of course, because this is a creepypasta, the game has to be haunted, right? But what’s it going to do?
>Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary – because hey, if you put in no effort here, you can use that effort later, right? That’s how it works, isn’t it? Right? Right?!
>A couple of graphical glitches – because nothing makes your viewers tremble more than the screen flickering a little or some colours changed. This is a true fact.
>Noises. – More specifically, weird noises. Glitchy sounds. Muffled screaming. The usual.
Okay, those are some basic ones, but why not step it up? Add some blood! Lots of blood! Also, make sure to use some of these words at least three times in the story…
>Hyper-realistic
>Bloody
>Demonic
>Ghostly
>Scary
Alright, we’ve got some scary shit going on, but if the main character ran away now, the pasta would stop half-way, right? Let’s choose an excuse for them to stay around.
>”I thought it was just a glitch”
>”I thought it was just a glitch”
>”I thought it was just a glitch”
Just kidding. You get no choice on this one. Trust me, this is for the better.
Alright, now just fill in the rest of the story using more glitches (as always, consider adding more blood and hyper-realism to your story), until WHAM! Something really scary happens! This can be anything – hell, it doesn’t have to be scary. Just as long as your main character responds fittingly. Or, alternatively, not-so-fittingly.
How will your protagonist respond to the sheer creepiness? How will this story meet its conclusion?
>Throw their console out – Destroy their DS! Pulverise their Playstation! Erm, throw a TV out the window? Whatever. It works.
>AND THEN THE PROTAG DIED – Dead things are creepy. People dying are creepy. Why not kill off the protagonist? I’m sure that, with the large amount of characterization we gave them earlier, it will really shock the readers. Honest.
>YOU’RE NEXT – Did you know that all creepypasta readers have a constant fear that there’s a monster behind them? Use this to your advantage? Everyone’s terrified of walls!

Alright, now we have the main story and -
Oh?
Did you think that was finished?
Oh no, this is the fun part. Now we add some… er… personality to your story. And by ‘personality’, I mean ‘bad writing skills’. I mean, let’s face it, nobody really misses punctuation. I sure don’t.
Choose one of the following typing quirks – I mean, writing styles.
>capital letters. get rid of all your capital letters. no-one likes them at all. too old fashioned.
>WHY NOT HAVE LOTS OF CAPITAL LETTERS? BE NEW AND DANGEROUS. MAKE YOUR ENTIR STORY CAPITAL LETTERS. (Obviously, don’t use this one with the previous one.)
>Make Every Capital Letter Refined And Pronounced. This Makes You Seem Posh And Smart.
And at least one of these. You can have more, if you want to be EXTREME.
>Motherfucker, let’s get some fucking swears up in here. Swears are bitchin’ as shit. It makes you sound fuckin’ hip and cool. Fuck yeah.
>No punctuation ever at all because seriously having things just constantly flow is so much easier and better in every way wow
>Waht if you where unabel to spel things right? Sonds fun!
———————
Congratulations! If you’re reading this, you’ve most likely just finished writing your first video game pasta! Now just publish your beautiful (read: horrendous) story (read: crap heap), and watch it get thousands of upvotes (read: downvotes) like it deserves! Good luck!

Credit To – Yu “The Operator” Meigns

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Yo, dude, do you own a dog?

April 1, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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“Yo, dude,” Brewster said, looking out the glass doors at the back of my kitchen. He pushed back his baseball cap and scratched his head. “…Do you own a dog?”
I looked up from my Pokémon game, frowning. It was about 2am and the neighborhood was as quiet as death, but leave it to Brewster to find my empty backyard more interesting than Pokémon. He was a textbook jock; an impressively tan lax bro with muscles the size of Texas and a brain the size of a tube of chapstick. I was a black nerd. Somehow, we were best friends. I paused the game to grab a fistful of popcorn. “Hell no, my mom’s allergic. It’s probably a stray.”
“It looks really sick, dude. It’s creeping me out.”
“Just close the blinds.”
“I don’t want to,” he whined.
“Jesus, Brew, we see strays every day!”
“I don’t know, now it’s like foaming at the mouth…” He cringed. “Ughh.”
I rolled up from the couch, grumbling as I dropped the Pokémon game and walked up behind Brewster. “Look, you moron, the—” I stopped as I looked out the door and into the darkness of my backyard, lit by a few garden lamps.
That was definitely not a dog.
That was definitely a naked gray bald man crouched in my backyard, drooling and staring at us.
My face screwed up in confusion. Leave it to Brewster to think that some poor homeless man was a dog. “Aw, crap. I’m calling the cops. That’s not a dog, that’s a homeless guy. And he’s probably mentally ill, it’s not his fault.”
“But he growled at me!”
I was already dialing the Baltimore City Police Department, ready to explain that there was some naked guy in my backyard at 2am. Typical stuff for “The City That Bleeds”. The dispatcher clicked on the line.
“Baltimore City Police Department, state your emergency,” a calm female voice answered.
“Good evening, uh, I live at 126 Woodbird Drive.” I looked back to the glass doors; the homeless man was still firmly rooted on my property. “Um, there appears to be a naked man in my backyard.”
Static suddenly crackled to life in the background. “Could you give me your address, please?”
Frowning, I gave her my address again and waited for her to respond. Silence; except for static and an occasional pop. I thought that I had lost the call but there was still no dial tone.
“Hello? M’am? HELLO, M’AM?” I shouted into the phone. “THERE IS A NAKED PERSON IN MY YARD.”
“Where are you going?”
“What?”
A loud pop echoed on the phone before the same tone repeated itself:
“Where are you going?”
“M’am, are you on drugs?” I asked, that being the only plausible explanation at the time.
“Come back.”
“…excuse me?”
“Come back.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the thick smell of rotting meat clogged the air. Both Brewster and I gagged; he stuffed his sleeve over his nose and looked back at me fearfully. “Why does it smell like hamburgers?”
“Hell if I know!”
His voice turned fearful. “It’s the dog!”
“Brewster, shut up!”
I turned my attention back to the phone, but the woman continued to repeat the same phrase over and over again.
“Come back.”
“Come back.”
“Come back.”
“Can you connect me to the Baltimore county office?” I asked.
The women was about to respond when Brewster let loose a high-pitched shriek; I whipped around to see the homeless man’s face pressed against the glass door, snarling. I gaped at the visage and my eyes bugged. My mind struggled to process the face. That was definitely not a naked homeless man.
The thing had hollow, black eyes and a canine snout; its curled lips revealed dozens of stained fangs. A few gossamer hairs grew on its emaciated head; the rest of the body gray and taut. Its spine stuck out on its back. At this point Brewster crumpled up on the ground, sobbing and repeatedly screaming “Mom”, as the thing brought a huge, bloodied claw up to the door.
I dropped the phone, the woman’s voice now only reduced to something that sounded like Latin, or Japanese, I’m not really sure. The phone clattered on the counter as the Naked Gray Thing and I stared at one another, I shocked and horrified, it evidently enjoying scaring the crap out of two pathetic high schoolers. After what seemed like hours, the thing’s face crept into a huge grin and it paused to rasp two single words. Although the glass door muffled the sound, I heard the two words as clearly as if they were whispered in my ear:
“Frederick Ellison.”
Brewster stopped screaming and jerked back to look at me in horror as the thing shot off back into the darkness. I swallowed.
Oh, shit.
That was my name.
Brewster and I both looked at each other and screamed. We hit high octaves of horror.
“WHAT DO WE DO?” he shrieked.
“I don’t know. Calm down.” I grabbed his shoulders. “My mom keeps a shotgun in her closet. Grab that and come back downstairs.”
He bit his lip, resembling a massive infant for a split second before running upstairs. I heard his footsteps banging above my head before they stopped abruptly. It didn’t sound like he stopped to open the closet— it was as if he was startled by something and froze in fear.
“Brewster?” I called hesitantly.
“Uh…dude?” His voice was high with fear. “Do you have an adopted Asian sister?”
I frowned in confusion before busting it up the stairs, bursting into my mom’s room to see Brewster frozen in the middle of the room, staring out the window. My mom’s room has a small balcony, and on the balcony stood a small, thin Asian girl. She was about our age with straight black hair and a face that could’ve killed someone. Her downy brows sharpened low over her dark eyes in a mask of rage.
I stared at her for a moment. How could she have accessed the balcony?
“Are you lost?” I shouted at her. “This isn’t your house!”
She continued to stare.
And then she took a step forward.
I’m not sure if it was her furious expression, the fact that a strange girl just appeared on my mom’s balcony, or the fact that a weird naked gray thing had just attacked us, but Brewster and I both rushed into the closet and jammed ourselves inside. I grabbed the shotgun wedged in the back and cocked it, aiming it at the closed doors of the closet.
“I’m scared,” Brewster whimpered.
“Shut up,” I muttered. “It’s just a random girl.”
I cracked the closet an inch to look outside.
Looking into the space was the girl.
My heart stopped and I fired the gun wildly, the base slamming into my shoulder as bullets riddled the room and smoke filled the air. Brewster screamed and jumped on me in fear, knocking the gun away. As the smoke cleared, the girl still stood before us, unharmed. We silenced immediately as her furious expression changed into a deep frown.
“All right, you idiots,” she said. “You’re in trouble, and I’m here to help. The name is Mildred.”
__
Mildred and I sat opposite one another in armchairs, Brewster cowering next to me. Mildred wasn’t as terrifying as before, now seeing her in the light— although she still had chronic bitch face. The clock ticked on the wall.
“Uh,” I said. “We’d really appreciate you telling us why you followed us, broke into my house and then told us that we were in trouble.”
She nodded, disinterested. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So.” She paused. “I hate to tell you this, but…you’re being hunted down by a monster who won’t stop chasing you until he basically rips you up and eats your dead body.” She paused again. “I’m sorry.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”
She sighed. “Let me phrase this another way.” She paused. “You’re screwed.”
Brewster and I exchanged glances. “Uh…what?” Brewster managed.
She steepled her fingers a la Doctor Evil, turning to me. “If Garden Tool says your name…” Mildred made a chopping motion with her hand. “You’re good as dead.” She paused. “Except for me. I attribute my survival to my intelligence and charm.”
“Garden Tool?”
“That gray thing that came up to your door.” She rolled her eyes. “The grand council of internet virgins uses the name ‘the Rake’ and writes fanfiction about him. I don’t know, it’s stupid.”
I blinked at her. I was never exactly a horror aficionado, but the fanfiction I read never involved Naked Gray Dog Men. That was a subject I did not want to touch.
Her eyes snapped to mine. “I live a few doors down from you. I heard the screaming and went to investigate.” She paused. “It was after me last week, but I suppose it has a new plaything.” She shrugged. “Now both of us are screwed.”
I threw my hands out. “You say that so casually!”
“It’s pretty easy to talk about death once you’ve accepted the inevitability of it,” she said cheerfully.
There was silence for a moment.
“I can try to help you guys out,” Brewster mumbled guiltily.
I turned to him. “Goddamn, Bre—”
The powerful stench of rotting meat hit me and I stopped; Brewster and I both registered it at once and turned to Mildred, our eyes tearing and sleeves over our noses.
“Yo, dude,” Brewster whimpered. “It’s that smell!”
Mildred wrinkled up her nose. “That isn’t good.”
“What the hell do we do?” I asked desperately.
The doorbell rang.
All three of us looked to the front door, still overpowered by the rotting smell. It was about 3 AM. My mom was on a business trip. Who the hell would be at the door at 3 AM?
Brewster jumped up from his seat. “I’ll get it—”
“Brewster, you idiot!” I grabbed his arm and pulled him back, picking up the shotgun from the side of my chair.
I inched to the door, looking through the peephole.
Darkness. Not the darkness of night, but pure black with a glass sheen. My mind worked to figure out what I was looking at, when I suddenly realized in horror what it was.
An eye.
“Oh, shit!” I scrambled back just as the door began crashing on its hinges, battered by something huge. Cracks raced across the wood and I cocked the shotgun, aiming it at the door.
“I have no experience shooting a gun,” I said, cowering behind my armchair. Meanwhile, I think Brewster wet himself.
Mildred sat up in her chair. “We need to leave. Now. Get a car; it’ll catch us on foot.”
The door was almost down. “I don’t have a car.”
Mildred looked at Brewster and he shook his head, trembling. “Mine’s in the front.”
“Shit.” She tried to knock the gun out of my hands. “Don’t even bother, that won’t work anyway.”
My eyes bugged at her. “What?”
“We need, like, holy water or some religious shit.”
“You tell me that now?” I shrieked.
The door fell down with the splintering of wood and a huge crash.
The three of us shot behind one armchair to hide, which was both stupid and ineffective. I heard claws scratch against the wood floor as whatever broke down my door walked into my house. There was silence for a few moments, coupled with wheezing, before I heard a familiar, rasping voice. I knew instantly what had just broken down my door.
“Meeeaatt…come outtt.”
Garden Tool.
When you’re about to die, you notice the little things in life. Like the fact that the kitchen faucet was dripping, carelessly left on by Brewster, or the sudden knowledge that you forgot to pick up beef jerky from the store. The little things.
Death was approaching, and I knew that in that moment, we weren’t infinite.
We were fucked.
I eyed Mildred, muttering to her. “Are you absolutely positive a gun won’t work against it?”
“Well, it won’t kill it.”
“Stun?”
“I guess…”
“Commeee out, meattt…”
I shot up from behind the armchair and pumped lead into the monster, tumbling back from the shotgun’s recoil. I attempted to say something suave, like “This time, it’s personal,” but all I said was, “AUGGGG”.
As I fell back, Garden Tool did too, lurching back with the shots and splattering the room with black blood— but just as he rolled on he floor he rose again, bullet wounds filling up with flesh. The blood faded. That was definitely not normal.
I stood, paralyzed, as he stalked forward. The thing cracked a grin, revealing stained sharp teeth, black eyes narrowed. He knew that I was terrified.
“Guns don’t workkk.”
Suddenly, I heard a shout behind me:
“BAD DOG!”
Brewster came through for me just this once, hefting an armchair over his head with mighty roar and heaving it at Garden Tool. The monster tried to duck away but the chair was too large and it smashed into his body, trapping him back in a corner. Black blood began to pool around the chair and his twitching limbs.
The three of us stared at the bloodied armchair.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
The armchair moved and in a split second the three of us tore up the stairs while Garden Tool was incapacitated, stuffing ourselves back into my mom’s bedroom closet.
“Why the hell didn’t we run outside?” Mildred asked angrily at us.
“We can’t worry about that now,” I whispered. I turned to Brewster. “Bro talk. What do we do?”
“I don’t know, man,” Brewster sniffed. Tears appeared in his eyes. “I’m scared, bro. Guns don’t work. Chairs don’t even work.”
“Brewster, we’ll get through this.” I grabbed his hand. “Remember the power of friendship. I love you, brother.”
“I love you too, dude.”
“Okay. What do we do?”
“I got the keys to my car, we just need to get to the front of your house.”
“How?” Mildred whispered angrily, cutting into our heartfelt friendship fest.
“A distraction,” Brewster whispered. “How about I jump out, start flapping my arms and meowing—”
Garden Tool threw the closet door open, screeching in fury. I screamed and for once in my life, had a good aim— I shot him directly in the mouth; he jerked back from the force, screaming in pain and frothing blood.
“EVERYONE MOVE!” Mildred howled, pushing us into a run. We barreled to the front of the house, Garden Tool springing up and tearing after us.
I leapt through the busted front door and shot out into the winter night, stuffing myself into the passenger seat of Brewster’s car. Brewster and Mildred followed suite, Brewster taking the driver’s seat and Mildred tumbling into the back of the car. I cocked the shotgun as Brewster struggled to take his keys and stick it in the ignition, much like R. Kelly.
“Brewster, MOVE!” I yelled.
He blinked back tears. “I’m scared!”
I pulled him into the passenger’s seat, jamming the shotgun into his hands and shoving myself into the driver’s seat. I heard scrabbling outside the car.
Garden Tool leapt onto the front of the car and then smashed it’s head on the windshield. I gunned the engine and floored the car forward; Brewster blasted a bullet into the windshield, missing Garden Tool completely and blowing a massive hole in the car. Glass exploded everywhere; I threw my arms up to shield my face as Garden Tool forced his torso through the broken glass, screeching in my face.
HIs breath smelled like, guess what, surprise, that rotting meat smell that followed him everywhere. He was about to lunge at me when Mildred shot up from the back seat and threw something around his neck, pulling back.
Garden Tool shrieked, choking, scrabbling to untangle itself from whatever was choking it. I caught a glimpse of the rope for a split second, a crucifix charm dangling off of it. A rosary.
Mildred let go of the rosary and Garden Tool fell back from the front of the car. I rammed the gas and the car roared before shooting forward, running over the creature with a satisfied thump and roll of wheels.
We burned rubber onto the street, shooting into Baltimore city. Mildred looked back and saw Garden Tool for a split second, slowly rising from the ground. She flipped him off.
“MILDRED, DON’T TAUNT HIM,” I screamed back at her.
“Whatever, mom!”
I drove blindly, flashing past side streets and continuing deep into the city. The more people, the safer. “Okay, Mildred, where the hell do we go?”
“I’m kind of hungry,” she mumbled. “McDonalds?”
“You said that religious items hurt him? All religious items? Where’d you get that rosary?”
“My grandpa’s church. The Korean one out in the county.”
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
“Sure, but we’ll have to bust in.”
“I don’t care. If you think it’s safe, we’re going there.”
Mildred gave me a look that wasn’t the most confident thing I wanted to see, but I steeled myself and turned onto the highway, burning rubber the rest of the way.
Soon enough, we rolled up to a darkened church on one of Baltimore County’s smaller streets. A sign with Korean lettering stood in front of the church. The road was deserted.
“My grandpa’s church,” Mildred muttered. “I forgot how deserted it was.”
“Well, let’s get inside before that thing hunts us down…” I got out and slammed the car door behind me, tossing the keys to Brewster. I pulled on the church’s front door, armed with my shotgun. Locked, obviously. I had no clue how to pick a lock, let alone bust a door down, but I wasn’t going to look like an idiot in front of Mildred and Brewster. I had already shot a monster in the face; might as well continue my descent into badassery.
Brewster stood next to me at the door, frowning. “I don’t like this, bro…”
“I know, dude. But this is all we can do right now.”
He paused, eyes downcast. “This is all my fault. I’m sorry, Fred. I’m the worst bro ever.”
I punched his shoulder. “Hey, don’t be like that. You’re the best bro ever.”
“But you still condemned your friend to death,” Mildred chimed in, worming her way into the conversation. Brewster went back to looking depressed.
I turned back to the locked door and began using the shotgun as a kind of battering ram before Mildred shoved me aside. “Idiot. Let me do it. You’re not fooling anyone.”
I quailed away as she got busy picking the lock, finishing with a smug smirk and the click of an unlocked door. She cracked open the door, smile turning into a frown. “Jesus. I forgot what a dump this place was.”
The three of us piled into the church, locking the door behind us. Mildred flipped on some lights and the space illuminated in a disappointing array of empty chairs and a fake wooden podium. It looked nothing like the predominantly white-Catholic churches of Baltimore; it might have well been a multipurpose room. Bowls of what I assumed were holy water stood at random places in the church. A massive Jesus crucifix was poised behind the altar, weeping blood tears.
Mildred flopped down in a seat. “Well, here we are. Feel free to start praying. I don’t know.”
I paced the back of the church. “Okay, so, I propose that we create a gun filled with holy water and wine, call it the Baptizer 2000, and then—”
“Uhhh,” Mildred said.
I turned to her. “Uh, what?”
She paused before muttering, “I kind of lied about the power of Jesus thing.”
I frowned at her. “Excuse me?”
“The religion thing?” She avoided eye contact. “Actually, that was just a guess.”
“WHAT,” I screamed.
She thrust up the rosary she had used to choke Garden Tool. “My grandpa gave me this from this church, and that seemed to work. I threw a dollar-store crucifix at Garden Tool once and he laughed. I don’t know, okay?”
Brewster finally seemed to comprehend what was going on. “So…you drove us out here for nothing?”
“No! I know there’s something about this place that must work, it’s just…” she gave a little shrug. I saw her face sadden. “I was actually hoping you two could help me. You didn’t think I broke into your house just because I wanted to help you out, did you?”
“You don’t seem like the most charitable person.” I glared at her.
She matched my glare. “I’ll have you know, I donate—”
She silenced at a far off noise— the sharp, muffled ring of a telephone.
I scanned the room and saw the telephone perched on the far side of the room. I started towards the phone as Brewster yelped, “Wait, bro!”, but I caught the call on the last ring, answering with a hard, “hello”. I was getting tired of these games.
Static on the other end.
“This isn’t scary,” I said. “I live in Baltimore city, for God sake!”
There was a pop of sound, before:
“Where are you going?”
I shrieked like a small child and hung up the phone. Suddenly, there was a bang and the church lights cut to black. I froze, my voice taken away.
“Fred, bro?” Brewster’s far away voice called.
“What the FUCK,” I responded.
Something slammed into my temple and white-hot pain split through my head. I fell back, my mind going dizzy for a minute, the darkness and sudden sounds of shouting mixing together in my head. I figured that this was what a hangover felt like. I tried to get up but I struggled; after a minute I managed to stumble to my feet again. Something was strange.
The church was completely silent.
I steadied myself on the wall, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head pounded.
“Brewster?” I called. “Mildred?”
Silence; the pain in my head made it hard to think straight and I ended up stumbling backwards. I thought I was going to hit the wall but instead I fell back into a seat behind a heavy curtain. I panicking for a moment, feeling walls around me, but then I thought back to my church days— a confession box.
I rested my head in my hands, rubbing my head. “Jesus Christ…”
“Yesss…?”
I looked up, eyes wide. That was definitely not the voice of Jesus.
That was the voice of Garden Tool.
“You are not Jesus!” I yelled in a random direction, blind in the darkness.
Garden Tool rasped a laugh; I realized he was on the other side of the confession box. The stench of rotting meat filled the air. “I have something that is everything to youuu…”
“What, the Pokémon game? I don’t care what you steal from me!”
“Return to this church at dawn and I will let him go.”
My heart dropped. “What?”
The lights suddenly flashed back on. I hissed and squinted before stumbling out of the confession box and throwing the curtain aside. Garden Tool was gone.
I cursed and suddenly remembered Brewster and Mildred before running to the front of the church. Mildred was just raising herself up off the ground, a hand at her bloodied head.
Brewster was gone.
“I feel like I just got hit by a truck…” Mildred mumbled, still groggy.
“BREWSTER!” I rushed past her, screaming Brewster’s name. At some point I tripped on a chair and tumbled onto the floor, but instead of getting up I just stayed there for a while. I knew my search was fruitless— Brewster was gone.
Return to this church at dawn and I will let him go.
I eventually got up, Mildred standing over me. “What the hell just happened?”
I swallowed. “Garden Tool took Brewster.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
I whipped around to her. “The religion shit didn’t work, Mildred!” I yelled, kicking a chair. “All of this is bullshit! He took Brewster! You took us here for nothing! NOTHING!”
“I didn’t promise anything.” Her voice was hard. “I could’ve just left you two to die. Instead, I try to help. You should be thanking me for even trying.”
She threw her arms up in huge movements to show all that she did for us, which added up to breaking into my house, forcing Brewster to cut up a pineapple, asking to go to McDonalds when we were being hunted down, and then taking us to a random Korean church.
I stormed away from her, and, having nowhere else to go, walked up to the altar. I sat down at the front of it and attempted to pray, but no matter how desperate I was, I was still an Atheist. I attempted to be proud of my mental fortitude.
I put my head in my hands and struggled to be calm. All I had to do was face Garden Tool at dawn and Brewster would be fine. Brewster would be fine. Brewster would be fine.
There was still a massive hole in my heart as I attempted to comprehend my own death at the claws of a monster. The fear was there, but no hesitation— Brewster was my main bro, my heterosexual life partner. I would take a bullet for him, let alone sacrifice myself to a monster. He would do the same. I looked up at Jesus hanging over the altar. I supposed that’s why people coveted religion so much— the feeling that someone had your back, no matter what.
A thought suddenly shot through my mind.
My eyes widened and I got up from my seat, effectively standing in awe of my own brilliant idea.
I knew exactly what to do.
Mildred puttered up behind me, giving me a skeptical look. “Are…are you okay?”
“…I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.” I turned to look back at her. “Hey, Mildred?”
“What?”
“Where’s the closest place we can buy dynamite?”
__
Dawn.
The sun peeked through the windows as I stood at the altar of the church, smoking a cigarette. The cigarette tasted disgusting, but I looked like an absolute badass so I was struggling through it.
The monster was due to appear any minute now, and I had my shotgun at the ready. If my plan worked, it would be the most epic day of my life. I could write all of my college essays about it. The birth of my first-born child would be welcomed with an apathetic nod, because nothing would be as beautiful as this moment. If my plan didn’t work, Brewster and I would both be dead.
You win some, you lose some.
There was the loud bang of a slammed door somewhere from within the church, and I whipped around to see Garden Tool slinking from the front of the church, black eyes shining. He wore a massive grin of needles. That hunched, gray form was nothing human or animal— and he dragged something along behind him in one of his claws.
He was dragging an unconscious Brewster behind him, my best friend completely out but otherwise unharmed. For a minute I thought he was dead, but then I saw the copious amounts of drool dribbling from his mouth.
As Garden Tool neared me, his eyes flickered and he noticed the shotgun in my hand. He hesitated for a moment before leaving Brewster behind on the floor and slinking closer.
“You never said no weapons,” I said nervously, as if using logic would appeal to a gray dog-human monster.
He hissed a laugh. “I fear no weaponnn. Prepare for deathhh.”
Garden Tool tensed, looking ready to pounce, and I released an incredibly pathetic whimper of fear. I caught myself, attempting to remain stoic.
“This isn’t a regular gun,” I managed, relatively close to peeing myself in fear. Garden Tool suddenly seemed to notice that I had modified my gun with something. Don’t ask how I modified it; I’m in AP Engineering. “I call this baby the Baptizer 2000. Not only does it shoot bullets, but holy water too.”
“Your pathetic religion won’t kill meee…” Garden Tool hissed with laughter once more, squinting in delight. He moved from his crouched position, and my fear dampened. He was amused.
“You know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” I paused to exhale smoke from the cigarette, attempting not to choke and start tearing up. “I’ve been contemplating life.”
“Sucideee?” he asked, hopefully.
“No. I’ve been thinking about all of the joys of life, and what makes all of our struggles meaningful.” You could’ve heard a pin drop; Garden Tool’s expression became slightly confused. “I know that religion might not hurt you…but you know what will?” I paused, letting it soak in.
“Love. Love will kill you.”
Although he tried to hide it, I saw his expression flicker into one of absolute fear, and then switch immediately back to an expression of amusement. “Love? Love? Emotion is nothingggg.”
“You keep on saying that things are nothing. You’re wrong. Love is everything. Back in my house? The shotgun and armchair hurt you because Brewster and I were protecting one another. Mildred’s rosary worked because her grandfather gave it to her.”
As I ended my speech, Garden Tool’s eyes widened. Damn, I should’ve written my thesis paper on that shit. It was pure gold.
“Garden Tool, you’re right. Religion won’t hurt you. But you know what will?” I cocked the gun. “This, and 100 pounds of explosives. Filled with love. Bro love.”
Garden Tool didn’t react; I knew that he didn’t want me to see his confusion. I cocked my head at the Jesus statue behind me. He glanced at the statue, its arms held out in a welcoming gesture— arms now full of dynamite, dynamite that I bought using my mother’s credit card at a shady downtown Baltimore weapons shop that Ray Lewis probably frequented. The dynamite gathered in a string that lead down to directly in front of me. Garden Tool couldn’t contain his shock; he whipped his head at me with an expression of pure fury. His nostrils flared.
He lunged at me, claws out and jaws agape, and I shot him square in the mouth with a combination of holy water and bullets. Garden Tool seemed to freeze and drop in mid-air like lead; crumpling on the ground and frothing from the mouth. An inhuman gargle ran from his jaws. He attempted to rise; I shot his back and he crumpled up, howling.
I stepped up to him, tossing my gun aside. I daintily held my cigarette in my fingertips. I was glad to stop smoking it, smoking tasted like shit.
“You’re reign of terror is over, Garden Tool,” I said. “Never again will you prey on random high schoolers.”
Through his gurgling and writhing, I saw something slip from one of his eyes, as clear as day. A tear.
My heart fell. I wasn’t as badass as I would’ve liked to think I was, despite the despicable nature of the creature. I blotted out the cigarette out on one of the chairs and aimed the gun at Garden Tool’s head.
“Au revoir, asshole,” I said. It was the best I could do.
I ended up pulling Brewster’s dead weight by his foot. I had to bump the church door open with my back and drag him through, but as I was doing so the door accidentally closed on his head and he woke his a start.
He held the door open, sitting up and blinking groggily at me. “Dude…?” He suddenly snapped back into consciousness and jumped up, crushing me in a massive hug. “BRO! YOU’RE ALIVE!”
We pulled back. “I’ve never been more alive!”
Tears sprung up in his eyes. “And you saved me, bro.”
We fist bumped. “Hey, Brewster. That’s what I do best.”
We walked out from the church and to where Mildred was waiting outside, leaning against Brewster’s car. After taking a tour through more of the unsavory parts of Baltimore, trolling for explosives, she wasn’t exactly happy with me.
She sighed and cocked an eyebrow. “So, did you kill him? I thought there was supposed to be an explosion and you walk out of the church triumphantly.”
“He’s dead, but no explosion.” I paused, shrugging. “I really didn’t want to blow up a church. Also, I guess I’m not one for theatrics and death in the same situation.”
Suddenly, the church exploded behind me, filling the air with a massive boom and an upward rush of smoke and fire. The three of us jumped behind the car, watching the church’s frame burn and crackle.
My eyes widened. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”
Brewster patted me on the back. “Yo, dude, don’t worry about it. The Korean people can fix it.” Mildred glared at him.
We sat back against the car and all took deep breaths. I nodded at Brewster. “Well, buddy, everything turned out okay. Want to go back to my house and play some more Pokémon?”
“Most definitely, brother.”
So the three of us drove Brewster’s completely destroyed car back to my house, stepped through the busted-in front door, and sat down to play Pokémon. Even though our adventure amounted to several million dollars in damage and probably months of therapy for Brewster and I both, I had my friend by my side. And when it comes right down to it, religion or no religion, afterlife or no afterlife, good life or bad life, the people you love are all that matter.
At that moment, life was good.
I looked up from the Pokémon game for a moment to see Brewster on the other side of the room and looking out my busted up front door.
“Yo, dude,” he said, scratching his head. “Why is your neighbor wearing a suit?”

THE END

Credit To – Ellen Meny

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The Origin 2

April 1, 2014 at 10:00 AM
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January 7th 2007
I have recently discovered the story of a haunting in an old house. A poltergeist, it would seem. My fellow paranormal hunter associates were discussing the matter at lunch, saying how walkers by and neighbours heard muffled screams and growls coming the house, even though it has been abondened for four years. I naturally took interest in this ghastly-going on and asked the where-a-bouts of this haunted establishment. My friend said it was in Liverpool, an old house by a bunch of newsagents and smallish homes. I pondered the sceptic explanations for the stated paranormal events, and the ghostly. I shall do some digging about this house tomorrow.

January 8th, 2007
The fair amount of information I found strongly points to ghostly explanation of this manor. I managed to find out it used to belong to a once wealthy man, who once ran a popular and successful business. Mr Walter W. Parkerson. WWP for short. He married his beautiful wife, Mary. They bought the house after Walters phone shop opened, and two months later had a baby girl. However, when this girl reached two, Mary left Walter, due to his rather un-hinged personality. Walter was an angry man, and snapped whenever something went wrong. He was a loose cannon, bursting in a frenzied rage, unpredictable, scary, sometimes. Mary didn’t want to live a life like this, and left him with her child. Walter tried his best to look after his daughter, but also tried to commit suicide multiple times. He became very un-sociable and bitter, and eventually, he died of unknown causes.
Muffled growls and screams coming from this house suggest the trapped soul of WWP, and I intend to explore the house in a couple of days, first, however, I am to see his daughter, Jenny, tomorrow.

January 9th, 2007
I found out a lot more about WWP today, and went to Jenny’s house and discussed her troubled childhood. She is a fine looking young lady, long sandy hair, healthy body, and a pretty pale face. She seemed very nervous when discussing her father.
“Hello.” I had greeted. “Please, take a seat.”
“Th-, Thank you.” She smiled, sitting as she did so.
“I hear you grew up in the house that has become a paranormal phenomenon?”
“Y, yes, actually.”
“You lived with your father, after your mother left, may I ask how that felt?”
“He was a lost soul, tragic really. He loved me, and my mum, deep down he did, but he had a hard time showing it. Ever since my mum left he slowly went angrier and scarier every day, to the point where whenever he walked past I would flinch.”
She was pulling a half smile now.
“It also says on the newspaper reports that your father tried to commit,” I found it awkward to discuss this in front of her. “Suicide.” I gulped.
“Yes, 3 times actually. It was terrible. The first time tried to use chemicals, but opposed to killing him, it caused him great suffering, it nearly blinded him, and caused his skin to turn into a sickly green colour. The second was drug overdose, which, as you could probably deduce, also failed. It ruined his vocal cords and caused his voice to be deep and throaty, blackening his lungs, and his heart. The third, was hanging. He would have finished off the job too if I hadn’t stopped him in time. It severely injured his neck, bounding him to his bed, shouting out his demands, and would only come out if clutching his cane, stomping and clacking his way downstairs.”
“That must have been terrible.” I added.
“It was, Every day he slowly turned more and more into a monster. My friends called him ‘The Big Bad Dad’, and I had to agree with them. He was barely human anymore, more like a living, walking corpse! I would always try and sneak out the front door to meet friends and actually enjoy my life, instead of caring for my monstrous father, but he always heard me. He’d roar ‘What are you doing?’ I scramble the key into the lock, desperately turning and twisting it. ‘I’ll get you for this, wretched girl!’ My panic would be un-imaginable, as I heard his clacking and clumping down stairs, calling down his threats, and when he finally came down he would…”
She was fighting back tears, hands clenched, head turned. She rubbed a big scar on her arm, and I knew that sentence needn’t be finished.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Thank you so much for all your help.” I smiled hopefully.
“You’re welcome.” She then tried to change the subject. “I’m going on a date with my boyfriend tommorow.”
“How lovely. I’m sure whoever he is, is a very lucky man.”
She smiled. She showed me out and I ran over my notes. This story was getting deeper and deeper and more scary and exciting for the minute. I am to stay at the house tomorrow for the night, and monitor activity, if WWP does haunt his house or not, I’ll know.

January 10th 2007
As I am writing this, I am observing the house in front of me. It was large and dusty, and made up of red, fading, and crumbling bricks. It has a long, pointing tower at the top, but it is not that high. It has curved, dirty windows, 3 of them, all boarded up with rusted metal and planks of wood. A truly fascinating home. I am to step inside now.
As I stepped inside, the door creaked and dust consumed my sight. The corridor is narrow and the wallpaper is pale and peeled, to my right is a twisted, broken staircase. The house is dark, but not too dark, and a flashlight would fix everything. I shall explore now.
I have examined the whole bottom floor, and it is like a whole scavenger hunt of stories. In the kitchen, are smashed and foul smelling vials, which most likely held the chemicals that WWP had acquired. The cupboards were open and layered with dust, cobwebs and rats resided in it like parasites on human flesh. The surfaces were grimy and greasy, and the table was one feather weight away from falling apart into splinters. In the living room there was a dangling, twisted rope, the one that failed to kill WWP. The armchairs are beaten and battered, and the small television is smashed beyond repair. In the front room, there was nothing except an old pill bottle, and a dead rat, which had presumably met its fate eating the remaining pills, I shall explore upstairs now.
Oh my god. Oh my good god. My imagination is either over-active, or this house is indeed haunted. As I reached the top of the stairs, I turned round to look in the first of the three rooms, and just for a second, I saw a figure, illuminated by a dangling, dim light-bulb above. Brief, as its appearance may have been, it matched the description of WWP greatly. It had revolting, decaying green skin. It looked like a hellish mixture of dark green water-colours and vomit. It had, from what I can remember, twisted glasses and broken lenses, but no eyes to speak of. If anything, although this is a crude example, like Dr. Bunsen Honeydew out the Muppets! But sickly and deathlike. My heart is thudding in my chest, my breath fast and desperate. I shall see it again, I must!
I walk in into the room farthest to my left, and there is nothing except a boarded up window, a badly lit light-bulb and a phone. The phone itself, is covered in dust. I will walk towards it to get a better…
What was that. I heard a creek of the floor come from outside. My heart is beating faster, whether out of excitement or fear, I do not know. I walk slowly to the edge of the door, I shall look now.
Shit! He was there! He was right fucking there! He was walking slowly towards the room in the corridor. I got a better glimpse of him this time, he was wearing a purplish, blackish robe. I have leapt into the corner of this room, shaking and trembling as I write this. I hear another creak, oh no, oh no.
My god, he is walking in. I should be screaming and running, but I am frozen, struggling to breath. He is walking in towards me, no fear of me at all.
He’s raising a hand now, towards the light, I can barely write this. Oh god. I need to survive. People need to know.
CRAP! He’s just busted the light! Its complete darkness except his outline now, and a strange glue blow is forming by his hand.
He, is, he’s staring right at me. I can’t write. My writing is all jumbled. I cannot see my paper. I can’t see him. What, what’s happening? He’s breathing in my face. God, his breath is terrible. It’s a foul stench of decay and m ould.
Wh, what? My eyes are drooping, I’m, I’m falling asleep! I can’t, I can’t write much longer, he’s, he’s going towards the phone now. He’s putting his hand on the phone, the blue electricity forming around it, oh God. The phones working again now. What’s he going to do with that phone, his fingers are dialing, he’s ringing someone, who is he ringing, I can hear a muffled ‘hello’ from the phone, I can’t write, I can’t…

*****

So you’re making out with ur honey, Jenny, and the phone rings, you answer it, and the voice is, ‘What are you doing with my daughter…’

Credit To – YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE USERNAME!

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The Wrong Room

April 1, 2014 at 8:00 AM
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You get back to your apartment after a long day’s work and you want to get inside and rest. You were about to pull out your keys and unlock the door, but you notice it’s open. Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, You notice something different. You stand in the doorway trying to figure it out. then it hits you. this isn’t your room. As you turn and leave, something catches your eye. There is a man hunched over a dish of flesh, eating it with his bare hands, tearing into it as a wild animal would with its prey. Red dripped down the side of his mouth, and the smell that emanated from it was sickening. You were paralysed by the sight.
Unconsciously, you start cover your nose and mouth. This accidentally bumps your elbow against the doorway. You freeze. He stopped eating there was something wrong. Then he looked up and started searching for the source of the noise.
His eyes scanned the room till they found you.
Your legs start moving on their own, and you find yourself running, running away from that room, and the horrors within it.

~~~

The man silently stands up, locks the door, sits back down, grabs another slice of pizza, and mutters quietly to himself:
“Crazy vegans”.

Credit To – Walrus King

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Persecution

April 1, 2014 at 6:00 AM
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Johnny ran as fast as was physically possible. He avoided trees and jumped over rocks and fallen branches, moved purely by instinct. In other circumstances, he wouldn’t even think that he was capable of such speed and reflexes, but right now Johnny couldn’t allow himself to think about that. Right now, he could not think of anything besides running. Running away from his pursuer. Running to his salvation.

When he judged he should be at a safe enough distance, Johnny stopped and swiftly threw himself behind a large bush. He needed to analyze the situation, plan his next move and, above all, he needed to locate his pursuer. Not being able to see the one chasing him was quickly overflowing his mind with desperation, making it harder and harder to think clearly. The other one could be far away, close behind or even hiding somewhere, waiting to catch Johhny in a trap. He had to make sure that he was safe – at least for the time being – so that he could take the right decision.

Hidden behind the bush, Johnny looked for an opening between the leaves and branches from where he could look at the ground before him without exposing himself. He then began the desperate task of trying to find his pursuer.

Johnny did everything he could to look in all directions, but there was no sign of the other one. Sweat – caused both from the heat of the run and from the state of nerves that he was in – started to run across his face. His heart was beating faster and faster, to the point that it seemed like it would jump right out of his chest at any moment. He wasn’t there. The one chasing him wasn’t there. Panic began to dominate his thoughts. He was hidden. Hidden somewhere Johnny couldn’t see. Waiting for the right moment to make his move. He had him trapped like a cat playing with a mouse, having fun just watching his victim becoming more and more desperate. Maybe he was, at that exact moment, sneaking from behind him, just about to grab him. Johnny quickly turned, certain that there would be someone right at his back. But there was no one.

The silence was becoming maddening, so Johnny decided he would start running again, as fast as possible. But just when he was getting up, he saw, through the bush, something moving ahead. There he was, his pursuer, walking with a disturbing calmness. Nevertheless, Johnny felt greatly relieved and was once again capable of thinking rationally. Now, he had to decide his next move. Should he remain hidden, hoping that the pursuer didn’t see him when he passed nearby? Or would it be best to risk another run, even though the other one seemed to be far less tired than he was? Johnny’s body, after all, was still exhausted from the previous run. His legs ached and he still hadn’t fully recovered his breath. Still, he wouldn’t let that keep him from running miles and miles if it came to that. He wouldn’t give in to exhaustion until he was safe. Because if he was caught… but he interrupted that thought immediately. Being caught was not an option.

Slowly and calmly, the predator approached. Had he spotted Johnny’s hiding place? If that was the case, he was doing a very good act, because he was looking in every direction, apparently still searching. It was time to decide: remain hidden or run. Just then, Johnny noticed that the pursuer seemed to be taking another direction. Was it a trick? One way or another, Johnny decided to take that chance and get out of there. He had already planned his route: first, he would leave the protection of the bush and hide behind a large tree that was in an opposite direction to where the pursuer was going. If he succeeded getting there without being seen, he could run in that direction pretty much safely.

Johnny took a big breath and waited for the right moment when the pursuer was looking the other way. As soon as the moment came, he jumped from behind the bush and ran towards the large tree, as fast and silently as he could. He pressed his back against the trunk of the tree and, with extreme caution, turned his head to see if his movement had been noticed. The pursuer didn’t appear to have heard or seen anything and was still walking in the other direction. Johnny released his breath, full of relief. He was practically safe now, as it would be very difficult to spot him now. Before going forward, he looked one more time at his previous hiding place, behind the bush. And, there, he saw something. Right at the spot where he had spent those desperate moments, something was sparkling with the sunlight. He took a better look and realized what it was. Apparently, at some point, in the short time that he was there, his cell phone had slipped from his pocket and fallen to the grass. Without hesitation, Johnny considered his cell phone as lost. There was no way he would risk being seen in the attempt of getting it back. It was just a cell phone, after all, and a really old one too.

The pursuer was quite far now. It was time to make his triumphal escape.

He had barely taken his first step when music started to play. Music that, to his horror, Johnny recognized immediately. It was his cell phone’s ringtone. He turned to look again at the place where the phone was, still not able to believe that destiny could be so ironically cruel. There was his cell phone, blinking, vibrating and ringing at maximum volume, as if it were an alarm accusing his escape. He hoped that the other one was too far away to hear, but he knew that was a silly thought. In that silent place, the music seemed impossibly loud. And, sure enough, the pursuer had already heard. He turned to look where the music was coming from and immediately spotted Johnny, partially hidden behind the tree. And Johnny, even from far away, was able to see his predator’s expression changing from doubt to a mixture of triumph and malice. Then, the other one started running towards Johnny, who had become inevitably paralyzed.

With great effort, Johnny forced his body to start moving again and began a frenetic run. Running like he had never run before, Johnny felt a glimpse of hope. He could still be faster than his pursuer. He could still beat him. But his muscles, exhausted from all the exercise, would not let their cries be ignored without a price. A cramp paralyzed his leg, making him trip and fall to the ground. He knew he had to get up quickly, but the confusion and pain – both from the cramp and the fall – wouldn’t let him.

Few seconds later, a shadow came over Johnny. He needn’t turn his face to understand what that meant. It was all over. The pursuer had caught up to him. He tried to find some kind of comfort thinking to himself that he had played his cards well and, if he had failed, he had only bad luck do blame. Of course, as much as he believed that, it still didn’t change the fact that his pursuer was right above him now. Johnny remained facing the ground. He wouldn’t give the other one the pleasure of looking him in the eyes when he did what he was going to do.

He felt the other one’s hand in his back.

“Gotcha! You’re it!” yelled the one that until now had been the pursuer, just as he started to run away from Johnny.

Johnny got up slowly, brushed the dirt of his clothes and looked fixedly to where the other was running. The pain was almost gone now. It was time for revenge.

Credit To – Daniel Moises

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