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The Song

May 28, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Come, Traveler. You are weary. Rest a while here, it’s perfectly fine. Take a load off your feet and get something to eat; you look like you could use a good meal. You are a wanderer, far from home, am I right? How did I know? Well, everyone who comes through here is like you. Why else would you come to a place like this, except if you were on the road, lost, seeking… something. But what is it you seek?

My name? My name doesn’t matter. I’m just a simple old woman who enjoys giving travelers such as yourself some comfort. But if you insist, you may call me Lydia. And while you rest, Traveler, let me tell you a story. I’ve seen much of the world, as you yourself hope to one day, and I’ve collected some good ones.

Do you know of those the Greeks called the Sirens? Those three enchantresses, gifted and cursed with the voices of angels. Their singing would consume a man entirely, and drive him to his own destruction. Few know their song, of course, for anyone who hears it is doomed never to tell if its beauty, at least in this world. The ultimate mystery–a sound that is lethal! How can one discover what such a song sounds like? Even the dread Gorgon’s gaze may be dared through a mirror, but a sound is either heard or not, and to hear it is to hear no more forever. But I know it.

What about Odysseus? Yes, he did listen to the song and survive. But he was never able to reproduce it. No mortal could. And as he entered old age, his mind forgot its details. He never passed it along. In fact, Jason and his bold crew also escaped the clutches of the song, but only because the music of Orpheus overwhelmed it. He alone, of anyone before or since, had a skill in music to rival those three. But none of his crew heard the notes coming from above.

Where was I? Oh, right. Many of the great bards of old have claimed to know the song. They have said it was about knowledge, about power, about beauty. One of your more recent poets claimed the Sirens sang of weakness, and that only the sailor to whom they sang could rescue them. And they were all wrong. And they were all right.

See, one cannot know the words to the song. One cannot know them, because there are none. The song of the siren is a tune. A melody. The oldest–

I can’t tell you how I know, that would spoil the surprise! I can tell you that what I say is true. You’ll just have to trust me for now. I’ll explain later. My, my, you are a curious one. That’s why you came here, though? Why you came to this place, this dismal corner of the world? To learn, to seek knowledge? To see the things that stare at you from the darkness, to know what goes bump in the night? Well, I can tell you. But you’ll have to listen to me first. Just come along, and I will give you the knowledge you seek.

The song is nothing but a melody. The oldest, saddest, sweetest melody ever heard on this earth. It works into your head, takes your desires, your hopes, whatever you most long for, and uses them to draw you in. It promises redemption to the guilty conscience, love to the lonely heart… and knowledge to the hungry mind.

The minds of mortals are wonderful things. They are powerful enough to take this tune and thoroughly convince themselves they are hearing words, and that those words happen to fulfill even those desires they cannot admit to themselves. And yet, at the same time, they are feeble enough to be sucked in by their wants, to lose sight of all else, including their own impending destruction. But can you really blame them? Can you really blame yourself?

No, I still can’t tell you how I know; all in good time. But I have so many other stories to tell. Just keep walking with me. Follow me, and I will fill your head with such wondrous tales, your thirst for truth, for knowledge, will finally be satisfied. Just a little farther. So come along, Traveler, just one… more… step…

Credit To – Tiberius

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A Haunted House in Sialkot

May 27, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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This story comes from my dad and he was around 18 at the time of this particular incident. It was summer time so he went visiting relatives in a city called Sialkot. His maternal family was based there, living in a few houses in a small cluster. A few of his cousins and one of his uncles, Uncle Arshad, who was also quite young (being around 25 at the time), also joined him there. During their stay they heard a few stories of a house their family owned.

It was located two houses down the street and was unoccupied house at the time. Its only utility was that the courtyard (which was open to the sky) was used as a gym of sorts by the local bodybuilders during daytime. One of the stories they were told was that of a local bodybuilder named Manna. Manna was alone lifting weights there one day, and one time after getting up to stretch after lifting something particularly heavy he was patted on the back and told ‘Well done’. Only, he knew there was no one else in the room. He had stopped being there alone after that.

My dad and his uncle were quite excited after hearing all that and being ‘Young and foolish’ they decided to spend a night there. They were warned against it, a few of the elders including their maternal grandfather calling them fools for meddling in ‘things you do not understand’ but their minds were set. In the end, they decided that they would enter the house after dark, a little before midnight, and sleep there leaving just after daybreak. Since the house was not in use they decided to sleep on the roof on charpai’s (which is a traditional woven bed in the Indian subcontinent). They also instructed their watchman to lock the main door after they had entered to ensure no one else could enter after them and to come open the door immediately after daybreak. Apparently the watchman laughed after hearing this and told them he would keep the key ready because they would be calling him long before that.

The next night before they were supposed to go to the house one of their elders told them to try something. He told them to set up a carom board in the courtyard and just leave it there, untouched, and check it sometime after. They set it up in the house as instructed, and carried their charpai’s to the roof after that. It was difficult doing all of it in the dark, since they house did not have an electric supply. Their only source of light was an oil lantern, and the light it cast was dim and yellow, but they were still happy for the lack of ghost sightings.

They spent the first hour playing cards and nothing seemed to happen. Much more relaxed about the house, they began to wonder what everyone was on about. And then, during one of the rounds, they heard the unmistakeable sound of the hand-pump in the courtyard being worked, and the sound of water flowing. They were four floors up, on the roof, but that sound still sent a shiver through them. They tried to ignore it the best they could, but the hand-pump continued pumping water on its own. Much quieter now, they tried to keep playing cards but around 1 am they just gave up and decided to sleep instead.

My dad slept on one of the charpai’s on the edge, and slept like a rock till he was woken up by someone shaking him. He got up to the frightened face of one of his cousins. He pointed to Uncle Arshad who had been sleeping in his boxers on the far edge. It was then that he noticed that he seemed to be writhing in pain, clutching his throat. They tried to shake him awake, but it took a whole minute filled with the fear of what was happening to wake him up. Uncle Arshad woke up breathing heavily and still clutching his throat. He looked at them and said, “We need to leave this place, now!”

“It is 3 am already” one of the other cousins said, “We only need to wait an hour or so more and then—“

“I want to leave this place NOW, and I will jump from the roof to do that if I have to!”

They were even more frightened after that. They decided to leave but remembered that the house entrance was still locked. So, they started shouting to get the watchman’s attention. Soon enough though, they got the attention of my dad’s grandfather instead who had been sleeping on the roof of his house anticipating something of the sort. After a few choice curses he sent for the watchman and told them that he would be waiting for them downstairs.

They still had to climb down the stairs though. Four flights of stairs, in pitch black darkness, with nothing but the dim light of the lantern to guide them. They climbed down slowly and with much arguing about who would climb down first, and who would be at the rear. They kept their eyes nearly shut and tried not to look around them, since they kept imagining things in the dark, looking back at them, or perhaps one of them being dragged off. And Uncle Arshad was still clutching his throat; the image of him writhing still fresh in all of their heads. When they finally got to the courtyard they went past the carom board, and all of them noticed that all the pieces were now in the pockets.

When they finally got to the door the watchman was waiting for them, with a large smile on his face. “So are all you young ones done here? Has your warm blood run cold yet?” he said, laughing at them.

After they were out of the house, they asked Uncle Arshad what had happened, but he refused to tell them anything till he was out of the darkness. So they took him to a street lamp and they sat under it till he calmed down and stopped shivering with fear. And then he told them his story:

“As I fell asleep I dreamt that I was in the house. I walked down to the courtyard and in my dream I started urinating there. Just then, an old man with a long beard and terrifying eyes came and grabbed me by the throat. He shouted ‘How dare you defile this sacred place?!’ and lifted my up in the air with one hand. I was helpless, kicking and gasping for air when all of you woke me”

After he told them the story he finally took his hands off his throat. Even in the lamplight they could clearly see the bloody blue mark of a hand right across his neck.

Writer’s note: This particular story comes from my father and has always been one that took my imagination to places I did not want to visit. I could have taken my father for his word but for the sake of keeping this account ‘factual’ I tried to confirm its details from two different people. During my attempt to validate it I found that not only is this incident and the haunting of the building in question real, but there are people living in that house today who deal with this sort of phenomenon on a regular basis.

(This is a part of a collection of real life horror stories and memoirs currently being collected and compiled by Salman Shahid Khan. For more, please visit and follow the writer’s blog at http://compulsivetypist.wordpress.com )

Salman Shahid Khan

Credit To – Salman Shahid Khan

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Ouija

May 26, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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This is actually a true story, something that really happened to me and my friends when we were in high school. It was very traumatizing for the four of us, and we each are still affected in some way to this day.

To give some background information, our town is surrounded by old Civil War battlegrounds, and quite a few of the houses are from that time. Some of them were even old hospitals that were used for the soldiers. So clearly the town just naturally has a creepy feel to it and it was common to hear of weird things happening in people’s houses. Like this one guy I went to school with, when he and his family moved in they found an old doll that had been left there. They put it back in a closet but the next day it was sitting at the top of the stairs. This went on for a long time, no matter how they tried to get rid of the doll it would always wind up back up at the top of the stairs so they ended up just leaving it there. I could go on and on with all the stories but I was always indifferent towards them, nothing had ever happened at my house.

My best friends were sisters Amy and Denise and they had grown up in one of the houses that used to be a hospital. When they were kids their dad actually found some old hospital supplies in a basement alcove and made a good bit of money off them. There were times throughout the years that they would mention strange occurrences, but these girls were too logical and hardheaded to believe in anything paranormal. I can think of a few times when I slept over at their house that I would get a bit freaked out, especially in their upstairs bathroom. I would feel like I was being watched and there would be little noises, like someone was in there with me. I told myself every time it was mice.

I was incredibly surprised when Amy came to me during school one morning and said, “there’s something in my house.” She went on to tell me that the night before she heard knocking on her wall in the corner by the floor, and then it moved to another part of the wall. After a minute it moved again a few feet down the wall and the knocks continued to go around the room, sometimes moving up by the ceiling. She finally got the courage to get out of her room and wake up her parents. They went and sat in her room for a little while but the knocking didn’t come back. They told her it had to have been something outside or a mouse in the wall, not to worry, and they would call an exterminator.

Amy was absolutely not convinced it was the wind or rodents and I could see how terrified she was. This wasn’t like her; she’d lived in that house almost her whole life and this wasn’t the first time something weird had happened, but this was the first time she thought it could be a spirit. She never believed in that stuff, and neither did Denise but about a week later the same thing happened to her. Denise woke up to the same knocking, going all around her room. Again the parents were woken up, and again they gave the same explanation, but Denise accepted the explanation unlike Amy had.

The knocking kept happening over the next couple weeks though, and after an incident in the bathroom Denise became convinced there was something paranormal going on. She was in the shower when the curtain was suddenly jerked open, forcibly pulled all the way over to the side. There was no one in the bathroom when she looked out, and the door had been locked anyway. She came up with some excuse as to why it happened, pulled the curtain closed, and continued her shower. Then it happened again, and this time she completely freaked out and got out of there.

Their parents didn’t really take them seriously, even though they admitted to strange things happening in the house themselves. Amy and Denise became really curious about whether or not their house was haunted so one Friday night when their parents were gone to some event we had the not so brilliant idea to use a Ouija board. Denise’s boyfriend Sam got one from his neighbor and at about 10:00 pm we set up a table in Amy’s room and laid everything out.

The three of them weren’t really serious about it; they didn’t actually think it would work and considered it more as just something fun to do than to prove their house was haunted. I, on the other hand, felt really uneasy about it and believed Ouija boards were not something to play around with. But I was curious too and they kept insisting I join, assuring me that the board was just a harmless kid’s game.

We set the “Ouija board mood” as Denise put it and lit a candle and turned off the lights. We got around the table, put our hands on the planchette, and asked the first question.

“Are there any spirits here with us?”

We waited, completely silent, for about five minutes without any movement at all. Denise asked the question again, and there still was no movement. We kept waiting and I remember Sam making a joke, and we all were giggling when the candle went out.

It was unsettling to suddenly be in complete darkness, and because there was nothing that could have caused it to go out. Nothing we could think of anyway. It was sitting on Amy’s nightstand, nowhere near the closed window and there wasn’t any air coming out of the vent across the room. But candles go out and we just relit it.

Again we got settled at the table and put our hands in position. This time Amy asked the questions.

“If there is a spirit here let us know. Who has been knocking on our walls?”

This time the planchette almost immediately started moving. Of course we all questioned each other, but we all swore we weren’t moving a muscle. I know I definitely wasn’t, and I had no reason to believe the others were either, with how skeptical and serious they all were.

It moved first to the letter ‘H’ and then to the letter ‘I’, then stopped. Hi. It was a response that made sense but it didn’t necessarily mean anything and it could have been one of us that had moved it. Amy continued on.

“Um, hi to you too. Are you a spirit? Have you been knocking on our walls?”

After about thirty seconds it started slowly moving. Again we questioned each other, and again we swore we weren’t doing it. This time it spelled S-H-O-W-R-1-5.

We didn’t know what the heck that was supposed to mean. We discussed the possibilities but couldn’t come up with anything that made sense. Then we noticed Denise had gotten quiet and was just staring wide-eyed down at the board. She reminded us, in a frightened voice, about her experience in the shower and told us to look at her shirt. It was a fake jersey with the number 15 on it, which of course we had seen before but didn’t connect it with what was said on the board. And then the S-H-O-W-R, could that have meant shower? Had we actually contacted a spirit and it was telling us it was the one who opened the shower curtain on Denise?

Denise, the most skeptical of us all, didn’t say anything more and just sat very still with her hand on the planchette. I was getting pretty terrified too but I think we were all a bit mesmerized by what was happening. Amy again asked the questions.

“Were you in the bathroom with Denise, is that what you’re saying? Can you tell us who you are, give us a name?”

Again it moved slowly. S-C-A-R. This made us even more creeped out and we asked for a name again. M-I-C-E-L. We thought maybe it was supposed to be ‘Michael’.

“Is your name Michael?” Amy asked. “Ok Michael, why have you been scaring us? Why knock on the walls?”

This was when the first of two horrible things happened that night. The planchette started moving incredibly fast. Denise actually couldn’t even keep her hands on it and it was too fast to see all the letters being spelled out. Then the table started shaking violently. It was like it was being picked up and slammed back down repeatedly, and we had all been kneeling around it with our hands on the planchette so there was no way one of us could have been moving it. After we realized this we bolted to the door, ran down the stairs, and ended up on the front porch shaking and confused as to what just happened. We tried to make sense of it and tried to come up with something that would logically explain things but we couldn’t. We really made contact with a spirit, and it wasn’t a very nice one.

There was no way we were going back in the house. Sam waited with us on the porch until Amy and Denise’s parents called and told us they were on their way home, and then he left. When the parents got home and found us on the porch we told them everything
and we were so upset that they believed that we legitimately got terrified, but they tried to convince us that we had subconsciously moved the planchette and that it was most likely Sam who was shaking the table. They weren’t there and they didn’t experience it or they would have known that none of us was responsible for any of it.

We followed them inside, well aware that the Ouija board was still in Amy’s room. We made them turn all the lights on, and when we got to Amy’s room they had to go in first. The table was on its side, the board behind it, and the candle blown out. We didn’t remember any of it happening, but it was possible one of us had knocked the table over when we ran out. It didn’t make sense how the board got behind the table though. The parents just kind of laughed it off, and told us it was our own fault that we were so scared because we had the dumb idea to use a Ouija board. They were right, it was really dumb, but they just didn’t understand what actually happened.

There was no way we were keeping that thing in the house, and we took it outside and threw it away in the neighbor’s trash can. We didn’t care that it belonged to Sam’s neighbor; he could explain to them what happened. Denise got grounded for having a guy in the house while her parents weren’t home so she wasn’t going to see him for a while anyway.

We decided to pile up in Denise’s room for the night, and we had all calmed down a good bit. Maybe it was knowing that their parents were home, or that just maybe they were right and we had caused everything to happen ourselves. We were able to eventually fall asleep with the light on.

The second horrible thing to happen that night happened when I got up to pee. It had to have been really late, or really early depending on how you look at it. I laid there for the longest time trying to ignore it and go back to sleep because I didn’t want to go in the bathroom after all that happened. I considered waking up Amy or Denise but I knew I was being ridiculous, it would only take a minute. I got up, thankful that the light was on in the room and went out into the hallway. I turned the hall light on before making my way to the bathroom and when I got to it I reached my hand in first to turn that light on before going in. I was so freaked out that I kept the door halfway open.

The door must have closed while I was washing my hands because I didn’t hear it. I just knew that I hadn’t closed it. It was such a heavy door that it didn’t seem like it could have closed on its own, but I thought maybe the hinges were messed up or something. I would have told myself anything at that point to make myself feel better because when I saw that it was closed I was terrified and had to get out of there.

I turned the knob but it didn’t move. I tried to stay calm, telling myself it was an old door and they get stuck sometimes, but I kept turning and pushing and pulling and the knob wouldn’t even move, like it was locked. It couldn’t have been locked though, because I hadn’t even closed the door when I came in and I could see the lock on the knob and could tell it wasn’t locked. There was no lock on the other side either. It was like someone was holding the knob so I couldn’t turn it. I kept trying to open the door, getting more desperate and frantic with each passing second.

Then there was a knock behind me. It wasn’t loud but I definitely heard it and I began pushing at the door even harder, not caring if I broke the thing. Then there were more knocks, going all around the bathroom and the shower curtain started rattling and I knew there was someone in the bathroom with me. I could even feel that there was a presence and to this day I can remember exactly what it felt like, it was like the air had gotten really thick and darker.

I completely lost it. I threw my body against the door over and over, kicking it and beating on it with all my strength, while crying hysterically and screaming at the top of my lungs. It couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes but it felt like an eternity before I had woken up everyone in the house and they came to my rescue. The dad opened the door. He just turned the knob and pulled and it easily opened. I came sprawling out onto the floor and was too upset and weak to move. My knuckles were bloody and bruises were forming on my arms. Amy and Denise stood back in horror as their mom hugged me against her and rocked me back and forth, trying to calm me down.

When I got a bit calmer they took me downstairs and I told them what had happened. They had never had a problem with the door before. As sympathetic as they were I think they believed I had accidentally locked the door on myself and gave myself a panic attack since I had gotten so frightened earlier that night. If that was the case then why was the dad able to open the door so easily? And I distinctly remember leaving the door open and seeing that it wasn’t locked after it had closed. I heard all the knocks and I saw the shower curtain moving. Amy and Denise completely believed me and they insisted that their parents do something. They promised that they would look into getting the house blessed the next day and drove me home.

They did get the house blessed a few days later, or something similar to it. It was a while before I went back over to the house and it was only after they all assured me that nothing had happened since that night. I only spent the night one other time but that was mostly due to the fact that I grew apart from Amy and Denise as we got older, especially when I switched to another school. We were still friends but we had outgrown the sleepovers.

I still see them, and Sam, sometimes and we talk on Facebook frequently. We all have nightmares about that night sometimes and we are very anti-Ouija boards. Their parents still live in that house and Amy has told me that strange things still happen there, but her parents believe that if it’s a spirit it’s a benevolent one. After my experience I disagree, I don’t think it’s kind it is a kind spirit at all.

Credit To – hollylion

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Admin Asks 5/25: I Need Feedback!

May 25, 2014 at 9:35 AM

Hey everyone! I have a couple things that I wanted to get community input on, so let’s get right to business.

First: When is summer break for most of you? Just like last year, I don’t want to reopen submissions until everyone is finished with final exams and all the other end-of-the-school-year business. If you guys are even a quarter as distraction-prone as I was during school, I figure it’s just better to not have “I need to get this story finished before submissions close!” as a temptation or excuse to put off studying. I’d appreciate some idea of when school lets out this year for most of you as well as when it starts back up at the end of summer. Thanks!

Second: Would anyone be interested in a summer “inspiration” book club in addition to or as a replacement to the monthly discussion posts? I’m not thinking of just reading famous scary books – more along the lines of having us read books together that could help inspire ideas for new Creepypastas. To be frank, a lot of the rejected pastas lately are being declined not because of poor writing, but because so many people are rehashing the same basic plots over and over. Mirrors, Jeff, Slenderman, dolls, etc. We’re seeing a lot of “haven’t I read this before?” in the comments and while sometimes it’s because the author has in fact posted their work elsewhere, often I think it’s just that the basic premise and tropes are being too frequently revisited to the point that these stories are running together for the people who consume a lot of Creepypasta.

I was thinking that we could read books together that, while not being outright or obviously horror, might serve to widen people’s pool of possible story inspirations. I know that might sound kind of weird, so here are some specific examples of what I’m talking about.

For example, Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer – it details the 1996 Everest disaster from the POV of someone who was actually there. The way I see it, readers could get a look into not only a real-life frightening/tense situation, but also exposure to how all the people the author was with reacted during the tragedy. There was a pretty wide range of reactions to the disaster amongst Krakauer’s team, and given how often we deal with trying to believably write people undergoing terrifying situations in our stories, it might be useful. Another example would be, perhaps, a book on cryptozoology or mythological monsters, to help people interested in creating the next big “creepypasta entity” some background on both what already exists out there as well as recurring themes that tend to be effectively frightening. Or maybe a book on supposed lost civilizations or conspiracy theories – you know, just broadening our knowledge of all the weird/interesting/creepy things that exist out there (even if it’s just legend or pseudoscience) to help try and jump-start the community as a whole out of the “mirrors, serial killers and Slenderman” rut that a lot of the aspiring writers seem to have fallen into lately.

I hope that gives a better idea of what I mean when I say that I would select the books for inspiration purposes rather than just having everyone read Stephen King or ghost story anthologies.

Obviously this would be pretty casual – probably just selecting and posting a book or two per month and giving you guys a post where you can discuss the ideas and themes that you’ve pulled from the book(s). No book reports or requirements to write a pasta based on that specific book or anything!

Does this sound like something any of you would be interested in seeing happen?

Thanks in advance if you weigh in on either of my questions!

 

Memory Archaeology

May 25, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I’d like to advise that I don’t condone repeating the efforts I’m about to detail. I can’t stop anybody from acting upon curiosity, but my actions haven’t done any real good for my well being. I wouldn’t expect another individuals experience to fair much better. I’ll get back to that subject later on, but I’ll first give you my actual story.

There’s a feeling that I’m sure many have experienced, even on a small scale. Before one is about to sleep, there’s a sensation in which the body feels like it’s sinking downwards, falling into nothing. This has been simply named a “falling sensation”, or at least I’ve never heard by another other name.

I’ve always had a large fascination of this sensation, to where I looked more into it. I studied the feeling down to its specific, and even learned how to prolong it by a few minutes. Aside from my strange amusement, my efforts did present a positive: The feeling could disperse my stress very quickly, leaving me more than relaxed.

There was a growing issue, however, that eventually led me to stay away: Every time the feeling was finished, despite my body being calm, there was a evident pain in my chest. This never happened at other parts of the day, or any time before or after sleep. I was concerned if I was causing damage to myself, so I made the sensation less frequent. They almost stopped altogether.

There came a night where my stress was through the roof. Since leaving high school, I was paranoid about having no money, so I worked three jobs at the time. Adding on the other obligations of my life, I needed a quick escape from reality. The feeling lightly came over me, so I grasped the opportunity.

I envisioned myself falling through stars as I usually would. My body began to follow my thoughts, as it felt heavier. I kept it consistent about a minute, as I usually would do. I never wanted to go overboard, so I typically opened my eyes and stopped it after that time. I did the same in that moment.

When I opened my eyes, nothing changed. When I say this, it means that I still saw nothing but darkness, as if my eyes were still closed. I thought this was the case, until I continued to feel myself blink.

I still felt myself falling, faster than I had seconds before. My body was paralyzed, still feeling weighted down as I continued to drift. The speed was building, and the thought that it was a dream came over me. It all felt too sensitive to be a dream, though. I could feel as though I was awake, yet blind to the world around me. The falling had progressed to a flying, plummeting towards the ground. My body began to ache, as it would when I would fall for too long.

The falling stopped, leaving my body floating in a pitch-black void. I couldn’t lift my head to see if the rest of my body was visible. My eyes only looked up, remaining still. Not long after I stopped descending, an image flashed across my eyes. It was quick to the point where I couldn’t pin any details down. It was bright than the void, for sure. I remembered it covering my entire vision, like I had been briefly transported to another place.

Soon, pictures flashed for longer intervals. They came one after another, with an occasional frame of darkness. The pictures included places and people that I recognized. There were my friends, workspaces, family members, but sometimes of individuals unknown to me. It wasn’t impossible that I could’ve seen them at some period of time, but they were a stranger to me in the moment.

An image passed that stayed longer than the rest. It was of a young man, perhaps in his twenties. He was looking directly at camera, or whatever was used to capture the moment. His hair was a short brown, and his smile suggested laughter, the kind that came after telling a joke. I knew him well. His name was Leon.

To bring some knowledge to light, Leon was my best friend for at least five years. We knew each other since my senior year in college, and we continued to be close after graduation. I say “was” because he disappeared three years ago. From what others told me, he had vanished overnight when walking home. I came under the impression that he had left the city for another life, not saying goodbye to make it easier on the transition. Even if this wasn’t the case, I liked to think that way, seeing as I could never contact him successfully.

A few similar images of landmarks and people rapidly flashed in my eyes, some of which I identified, but all of them felt familiar in the least. Finally, a realization reached me:

They were the sights of my own eyes.

They were my memories.

Most of the images beyond that point didn’t feel like major memories. They weren’t significant scenes in time, but pictures of places and people that I might have seen at some time in my life. There were still memories of people I knew, but they’re expressions were not one’s I recalled. Their faces were lifeless, holding little emotion. Their stare suggested no anger, happiness, or sorrow. Only emptiness.

There were some figures in the memories that didn’t seem complete. They were partially faded, appearing blurred or otherwise transparent. I suppose the best way to describe it would be comparing it to “spirit photography” one can find on the internet. I didn’t want to think of the figures as ghosts, but they did become more numerous as I seemed to fall deeper. There was a partial hand grasping a man’s shoulder, as well as feet on a completely empty, dark street. In an image of my mother, a pair of eyes appeared to hover next to her, staring forward.

The last of what I saw was more concerning. The final images were very limited in their view; There was a twisted, bruised leg. A wrecked car, its front flattened against a tree. A trail of blood on a dirt road, leading off-frame.

Piecing the images together, I associated them to be of a car crash I had been in years before. The crash had damaged my head, and its memories of the event with it. Others at the time explained that I had lost control of my vehicle, specifically a steering wheel malfunction. I had always thought the car had some potential dangers to it, after long use without maintenance. I had just been too much of a cheap prick to get them fixed. After the crash, that didn’t seem to matter.

After pictures of the crash I snapped back to reality, still lying in my bed, sweating. My chest was pounding harder than it ever had. It ached with every breath, delivering pain to my head as well. My body felt strained, like its muscles had withstood pressure for a long while.

On the subject of time, I glanced at my alarm clock to see how long I was subjected to the whole event: I had been under the state for nearly four hours. I lied awake for a while after, with my body being in too much pain to rest. When the aches degraded, I was exhausted enough to quickly fall asleep. I don’t recall dreaming.

During the next day, I was far more conscious (and maybe cautious) of my surroundings. I took mental notes of everywhere I went, and compared almost every sight to the images I witnessed. I studied people, locations, daily sights. Maybe entering the state had heightened my senses in some way? Regardless if it was correct, the idea brought curiosity.

I will say here that I take sleeping medication, which has occasionally yielded side effects (though they were all bodily based). I say this because, throughout the entire day, I would occasionally hallucinate for only seconds. I would be speaking with someone, and almost swear to see small parts of them…change. Portions of their skin would look more pale and aged. Their eyes would turn a gray, empty shade of color. Their teeth sharpened into an array of jagged, intimidating thorns. These disturbing appearances were brief, leaving with the next blink of my eyes.

The sights and thoughts by the end of the day left me in a madness. Trying to make sense of everything only worsened my confusion. The the idea of the memories was the worst of it: I couldn’t put them out of my mind, even if what happened the night before had been a dream.

While driving home, I passed a construction site. It was in it’s first stages, where the foundation was being excavated for space. The sight brought an idea to my mind about the night before, about everything that I was stressing over:

The falling sensation could be brought to a level to where one “falls” into deep areas of the mind, where memories themselves form into visible images. There are many thoughts and sights of life that are forgotten, whether lost from the pass of time or other external causes. In this mental place, the unprocessed memories are free to be examined, and therefore recovered. It was a sort of “archeology”, where the deeper the soul falls, the more buried memories it can uncover.

The idea was insanity to me, but it also presented an undiscovered opportunity. The potential to see distant, shadowed areas of my life was enough for me to continue focusing on the experience.

It was enough for me to try it all again.

I was prepared to start the following night, where my next day was free. I remembered that after the last time, my chest was in an alarming pain by the end. The risk of this being worse almost made me back off, but I thought about what I could find through the struggle. Even if there were no significant answers to be uncovered, the discovery of the phenomenon was enough to tell about.

I laid down, relaxed, and imagined the same feeling as before. It was only a few minutes until I began to feel it build. Typically, I would need to concentrate for as long as an hour to bring the sensation to its highest intensity, but it only took minutes with my concentration.

My eyes closed, and tension began to spike throughout my muscles. I tried to imagine the peaceful stars, but I was more focused on preparing for whatever uncovered memories would be recovered. The speed of the fall increased as it did before, and my body abruptly stopped, and began to drift.

I was back.

At first, I expected the same images as before. It wasn’t long until the image of Leon appeared. It took a moment to recognize it as the same image, because it had become different in ways. His smile appeared more menacing, filled with malicious intent. His eyes were more empty, soulless, grey with no flicker of life. His smile revealed teeth, sickly sharpened. This transition continued as more images of people passed. They were unrecognizable because of the changes, almost appearing as an entirely new picture.

The faded, intruding figures were also more significant. They were positioned in new spaces, reaching out their ghostlike hands to whoever was also in the picture. They’re faces were still too dark to decipher. I felt uneasy, nauseous as their blurred eyes locked towards me. Because of the assailment of altered memories, a new pattern had passed unnoticed:

The beings were in every image. As if they really existed, each figure had found home in the memories, beginning to change the rest to fit their appearance.I tried to contemplate why these creatures were in my mind. Thinking of them only seemed to bring more into my sights, an expected trap of thought.

I snapped back to my objective of discovery, specifically of what might have happened to Leon. For all I knew, the answers to his fate didn’t exist in my memories. He could have disappeared in an event unrelated to me, and I could’ve been wasting my time. My past closeness to him still got the best of my efforts.

A repeated memory appeared for longer than the rest. It was one of few that I recognized from the earlier night, my last time falling into the void. There was a view from inside a car, on a dim, unpopulated road. I made a connection to the image of the wrecked car, the accident I experienced years ago. Finding an explanation for that alone would be worth the effort, even if I was watching punishment for my ignorance.

The view was still from the drivers seat, looking forward. Because it stayed in my vision for a longer moment, I was able to examine it more: The image was distorted, blurred to a degree. The other difference I could find was a hand in the lower corner of the view. This wasn’t another another faded, phantom hand like the rest. It belonged someone else in the car. The next image looked to the right, and it confirmed whose hand it was.

It was Leon’s. He was in the same car.

I wanted out right fucking there. I wanted to snap back to consciousness and forget all the progress I had made from that point. I had an idea of what was about to be seen, and I wanted no part of it.

The images went on without stopping, like a rapid flip book. Every page moved more towards despair. Whatever this void really was, it wanted me to suffer. It wanted me to see the event happen steadily, in its best detail. Leon had an overjoyed, excited expression. He raised a large can, and I raised my arm towards his, holding the same object:

Alcohol.

More fear began to grow in my shaking, dropping soul. If I could’ve opened my mouth in the moment, I would’ve been screaming in self-anger and hatred. The car crashed as it swerved off the road, colliding with a tree ahead. Leon was ejected from the vehicle, cut apart from broken glass and the force of impact.

There were no more images, as the entire final scene played out as a first-person video. I stepped out of the car, stumbling from both my drunken vision and injuries. I walked towards my best friend’s body, who was crawling away from the scene. Blood was flowing from his head at a critical rate. Dragging forward with all his lasting strength, he collapsed into a limp sprawl.

Leon’s last moments of pain will be forever embedded into my thoughts. What will be forever scarred into my soul was the look of his face, as it looked back at mine. It was a look of defeat, hopelessness, regret. It was an expression that spoke “it’s not your fault”, but I knew the terrible choice I had made.

Nobody had ever told me the reality. Nobody ever told me Leon and I had made such a foolish, suicidal mistake.

Nobody ever told me that I caused his death.

Just as his face was looking into mine in the memory, it flashed with a hideous facade. The sorrow in his eyes turned to malice, an inhuman stare. The scars on his face multiplied until it was a mask of scrapes, and his mouth turned to a vicious smile.

I knew that this was not the reality of the memory itself, but my mind being possessed. Memories were shattering away into horror, from what waited in its depths. They had been waiting for a curious, ambitious soul to wander down, looking for answers. They gave me what I was looking for, and now they were looking to keep me there.

They wanted me to be trapped.

I was internally screaming, desperate to wake back to consciousness. I had no knowledge of how to leave the place. The only action I was capable of was thought. This guided me to different memories, twisted by the demons inside my head. No amount of mental concentration seemed to bring me to freedom.

I felt a pressure begin to build in my chest. In the moment, I had hoped it was the feeling of my heart stopping, killing my brain and ending the nightmare. There was a tug, jolting me upwards. Each pull was overwhelming, painful from the motion. This didn’t matter, as it still felt like I was moving upwards towards freedom.

Despite the hopeful situation, tainted pictures were still being forced into my vision. They were no longer visions of my past, but depictions of human torment. I saw the people in my memories continuously mutilated, sucked of life, burned to ash. The people in my mind had been turned to a canvas, being used to create pieces of repulsing, psychotic artwork.

The last sight I witnessed in that place was a blur of red, which covered my whole sight. When I think of it, it reminds me of what one would see when closing their eyes to bright, direct sunlight.

I gasped awake, if “awake” would be applicable. My entire body pulsed with aches, but there was a weight on my chest that made nearly every breath impossible. Attempting to get up for help was useless, as my energy was better spent keeping air in my lungs. I laid in the same place for two hours, with my heart screaming to shut down. To my surprise, I heard sirens approaching from the street, an ambulance. I was confused about the arrival at , but I learned a few days later that a neighbor of mine had heard terrible noises nearby, and called the authorities: In my unconsciousness, my suffering was audible, enough for a different home to hear my screams.

I stayed at a hospital for two days, as I had suffered a near-fatal heart attack. My examiners found the event rather surprising that a man as healthy and young as myself could fall victim to such a severe occurrence. They asked a few questions relating to my lifestyle, and potential medications, but I never mentioned anything about my recent experience. I was too tired to go through the entire story, or to be judged as insane.

Once I was released, I had the idea of speaking with others. Maybe my friends would tell me why they lied, especially about someone so close to me. I decided against it. I’m sure others were mourning enough without me trying to bleed explanations from them.

All I have left to do now is think how my last few months could have gone differently. I think about what it would be like if I had never discovered the ability to fall, into what I believe to be an undiscovered section of the mind. My life continues as much as it can, but I find it difficult to concentrate with those burning images in my thoughts. There’s so much guilt inside me now that I don’t see old friends anymore, or even family. I can say that I’ve had ideas of suicide, but only time will tell if I become that desperate.

Now, with my story concluding, I reach the part where the reader begins to associate themselves with the experience I had. With such a discovery comes the idea of it being used for personal desire, or even just reckless adventure.

I reach the part of the story where you think about trying it all yourself.

And with this comes the part where I try to warn you. Based on what I’ve described, here’s the best explanations I can give for what went wrong:

I’ll first present the notion that we all forget certain memories for a reason. There are parts of our lives that seem to fade from our minds, that we run to again. There’s an idea that in knowing everything, especially about ourselves, we are brought to a level of peace. Humans weren’t born to have a constant peace of mind, as much as we wish for it. In looking for all your memories, the only feelings you’ll find will be regret, anger, and frustration that you caused something that can’t be undone.

But your life’s not bad, right? You’ve had nothing but good memories, nothing but events that you only wish could be replayed. I’ll present you with another idea:

We’ve all felt negative emotions, dark states of thought. There are everyday occurrences that create fear, sorrow, dread, many unpleasant sensations. These don’t leave once their brought about. They’re only stored away, placed in the deep caverns of the brain, where they sleep.

That is, unless you decide to bring them back up. When awoken, they’ll gladly rise from the pits, taking their forms of the “ghosts” I’ve mentioned. Once they’re free, they will start placing themselves in other frames, infecting your memories one-by-one. Their possessions will continue, until their revolting forms are all you have left to remember.

I still see them. I still see their eyes in the people I see, walking by me or looking at me through windows. They stay there for longer, not just seconds like they used to. I can hardly stand living with them haunting me, but I know that my results could’ve been worse: I could still be trapped in the passages of my thoughts, left to whatever sadistic pictures they wished to place in front of my eyes. That was their goal, after all. The possibility would still exist for you.

I know I’ve said a lot, but if all I’m saying are warnings, what was the point of explaining the story at all? I may have discovered this on my own, but that’s not to say I was the first. What I experienced was at first an accident, which then grew to a mistake. The “falling sensation” is a common phenomenon, felt by hundreds of humans every night. There are people who die in their sleep, whether from heart conditions, strokes, or other causes. I shudder to think how many may have been somewhere else in their mind before then.

I know there will be those who be unable to keep away from the opportunity, and will seek to understand more. Despite all my words telling them to stay the fuck away, they will continue with their efforts. They’ll probably wonder how I made it happen, though I’ve already explained it:

Just lie down, relax, and begin to imagine yourself falling. You’ll start to feel it come over slowly, but keep concentrating. If it’s anywhere the same as it was for me, it won’t take long to arrive. You’ll see your memories, and the only thing you’ll be able to do is go deeper.

Your mind is the site, your soul is the shovel.

Lower yourself down, and start digging.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

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(My Attempt at) Two-Sentence Horror Stories

May 24, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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While up late working at your computer, you see one of those disgusting, many-legged house centipedes skittering around on your floor, and resolve to kill it before it gets away. Wielding a rolled-up magazine, you chase the centipede under the bed; but as you stick your arm and head into the dark void beneath the bed skirts, you are seized with a sharp, sudden dread and quickly withdraw back into the brightly-lit room… only to discover that now, they are everywhere.

Tanya awoke to the sound of some talk show murmuring unintelligibly from the half-muted speakers of her alarm clock/radio, and reached across blearily to shut it off. It wasn’t until her hand brushed over a cold, clammy something resting on top of her nightstand that she remembered she was in a hotel room, and it didn’t have a radio.

Someone had told Jason that if he put a small animal in the microwave, it would explode, and Jason (having always been a little bastard) tested this claim on his older sister’s pet rabbit; however, though he watched for nearly an hour, all that happened was that the rabbit became more and more frantic in the enclosed space, until an exasperated Jason sullenly opened the little door to return the rabbit to its cage. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), no one had told Jason that you had to turn on the microwave to achieve this effect, or how deeply into a tiny, exposed wrist a pissed-off rabbit could bite.

Brandon stayed up until 3am playing on Xbox Live with his friend Dustin, both boys chatting, yelling, and provoking each other over their headsets the entire time. The next morning, when Brandon called to arrange a playdate, Dustin’s mother answered the phone and tearfully informed him that Dustin had died choking on a wad of bubble gum – at 9pm the previous night.

Suzie received a realistic, talking baby doll as a Christmas gift from her father that year. However, try as she might, the doll couldn’t fill the void left behind by the baby that Suzie’s father had killed and buried in the basement after discovering the seventeen-year-old’s unplanned pregnancy.

Over his car radio, Marcus heard the DJ announce that a serial killer with short blond hair and a skull tattooed on his right cheek had recently escaped from a nearby prison. He frowned and anxiously placed one hand on the pistol he kept at his hip, as the young woman in his passenger seat gazed at his profile with mounting terror and prepared to do God only knew what in her panic.

Don’t think of a pink elephant: it’s the oldest trick in the book, as soon as you read that phrase, a pink elephant immediately pops into your head. Now, don’t think of a sanity-devouring psychic parasite attached to the back of your mind like a shadow: what little time you have left will be more pleasantly spent forgetting that one of those just popped into your head, too.

Credit To – InfernalNightmare333

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