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’.
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!


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…
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 -
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.
>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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Succession Of Nightmares

August 8, 2012 at 12:00 AM
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We all have them, one time or another.

Everything has a dark side, our dreams were meant to be a place of jubilation, and contain our most wonderful fantasies.

This is kinda like an award. Some of us work our asses off all day long, and then come home to a nice cozy bed. Sleep by itself is a nice gift for our turmoils, but dreams make sleeping hard for us to want to wake up sometimes.

But there is of course a darkside…there is always a darkside.

Nightmares have a certain way of creeping up on us when we don’t want them to…its almost like they know…

Some may say that nightmares are our own fault. Watching scary movies, or reading scary stories can fuel our nightmares.

But….what if there are things out there…that can control our dreams?

What if there are beings who can purposely give us nightmares.

What if these things are there to drive us insane…to the point where we want to sleep forever.

Now is when I tell you about my nightmares…

A couple weeks ago I started to get really into reading creepy stories. All humans have this certain want of excitement…but sometimes we take it way to far. You know what I’m talking about. Surfing videos on the internet late at night, reading creepy stories, or making our own stories.

You know how it works. You sit there, tired in front of your computer. The room is dark, the voices in your head are telling you to shut off the computer and finally get some fucking sleep. But then it happens. You find a video that has a creepy description. Perhaps a video about a ghost encounter, or a video of aliens.

This is how my nightmares started.

My friend Zack has a youtube account where he plays video games and gives them commentary. You know, a “Let’s Play.”

But one day he decided to do something different. He narrated a story off of a website called “”

I have heard of this somewhere, I know I have. Its hard to surf the interent for so many years and not hear about something so popular.

He told a story of a man called “Slender Man.” Now I had obviously heard of this character. I’ve seen the MarbleHornets videos, and I’ve seen the fan art, and the so called “pictures.”

The story was interesting, and it made me want to read more, so I did.

Within a few days, I had read all the populare stories that this website had to offer. “Squidward Suicide” “Ben Drowned” “Dead Bart” “Jeff: The Killer” “The Tails Doll” “Smile Dog” And all the Pokemon hacks.

These stories…they give you a feeling of terror. You start to notice all the small things around you, all the creaks and moans. You look over your shoulder and think you see a shadow of some sort. Nothing…huh…silly you.

You finally get the courage to go to sleep, and then you start to understand the position you just put yourself in.

I understood what I was doing to myself…but I didn’t stop.

I saw them all…I saw all the creatures from those stories in my dreams.

I saw the Smile Dog try to make me spread the word…I saw Jeff telling me to go to sleep…Squidward staring at me with his bloodshot eyes…

Jerking myself awake everytime I encountered one of these freaks got old real fast.

But then, the nightmares begin to get so much more real.

No longer was I imagining the characters from the stories…but now…my nightmares were taking their own shape. Contorting themselves to make me even more uncomfortable.

One night, I was laying soundly in my bed. It was almost like an out of body experience. You see, I had a bird’s-eye view of myself. It was as if I was laying on the ceiling. I was laying on top of the covers, and my eyes were closed. I must note that I was not breathing. No snoring, no indication of my stomach rising and lowering. In fact, I was utterly motionless.

My room was pitch black as it usually is when I fall asleep, but I could see myself perfectly. Its as if I had some type of night vision, but it wasn’t all green and shit like it usually is.

Then my eyes shot wide open. It startled me a bit. I just stared up at the ceiling. It seemed as if he was looking at me, like I really was on the ceiling.

A drop fell…a ruby colored drop of blood fell onto my face. Then another…and another…and another…
The drops began to fall slow, but then they picked up speed, similiar to when rain begins to fall.

The version of myself laying on my bed then begins to smile. The blood soaks his teeth, and started to drip into his eyes. But he did not blink or close his mouth. Just let the blood fall on him.

Suddenly, the view switched to me being on the ceiling. Now I was the one laying on the bed.

On the ceiling…was a bloody, mangled, wounded version of me. My eyes were missing, and my teeth were missing as well. But I had the same smile as the version of myself on the bed.

My hands and legs were pinned to the ceiling…almost…as if I was being crucified.

Then the view began to slowly zoom in on my face. Blood still fell, and my view was being distorted. I wanted to see what was going to happen, so I tried my best to see. The view then zoomed in on my face at an alarming rate, and then I spoke.

“I am your God now.”

I woke up. Breathing fast and hard. I felt paralyzed, like I was stuck.

I felt liquid around me. Did I really just piss the bed from this nightmare? Or….or was it blood? I quickly jumped up and found out that I had knocked over a cup of tea in my sleep, and I was laying in it.

Sometimes when I have dreams I feel as if the interactions of objects in the real world affect my dream. In one dream I was being stabbed repeatedly in the arm, and I could actually kinda feel it. I awoke to my friend obnoxiously poking me in the arm with a pen. I thought that him poking me in the arm made the stabbing from the nightmare be all the more real.

Since dreams and nightmares are derived from our brains, we can experience things in our dreams that seem real. When you eat something, you can taste it. This is because you remember how the object tasted.

This dream made me not want to sleep anymore that night, so I didn’t.

But that wasn’t the end.

I had this same nightmare over and over again for a few days. Happening the same way everytime. There wasn’t anything I could do. I couldn’t change the dream even if I wanted to.

This nightmare scared me everytime. You think I would have got use to it…but I didn’t.

I began to think about ways I could avoid this nightmare. This was my first thought.

I can’t remember ever having a nightmare while I was napping during the day. So my frist plan was to sleep during the day, and stay up during the night. Hopefully this would work.

First day, no nightmare. I was relieved. I thought that I had found the solution. I had no problem sleeping during the day, I didn’t sleep much as it was already.

Second day, my plan failed. The same nightmare happened again, but this time. There was no smiling from the body on the ceiling…actually…there were no emotions at all. My head was missing…more blood fell quickly this time making the dream end faster. My body laying on the bed looked down, and my decapitated head was laying in my lap. And it was smiling.

I’m pissed now. What, I just can’t fucking sleep anymore? Fine, I won’t. I’ll stay awake! Yes, that will work. I’ll stay awake until I pass out from exhaustion. I won’t encounter the nightmare unless I absolutely have to!

I wrote this…quite a while ago…back when the nightmares first started. It’s been about a week since I decided I wasn’t going to sleep.

I’m so tired…I don’t think I can stay awake anymore. My bed…sounds so heavenly right now. I guess my plan didn’t work how I thought it would…

I’m going to go to bed now…I think I could stay up for a few more hours but…I don’t want to.

I want to see my smile…I want to see my bloody body hang from the ceiling…It sounds so interesting to me now…Oh how that blood felt so refreshing cascading on my face.

I have a bottle of pills…extra strength…I’m going to take them all with some alcohol…

I don’t want to be awake anymore. I’ve been awake for a couple days…and I now realize how horrifying it is.

I’m seeing all those creepypasta characters in real life now…I’ve gone completely fucking insane.

I know they won’t be there in my dream…they were never there before.

I’ll sleep forever…so I can look and smile at my God for the rest of days.

I just swallowed the pills…I’m going to have a quick drink, then I’m going to bed.

Why not join me?

It will be your God soon enough.

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April 14, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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There are no more happy endings.

The forest across the canal loomed towards him. The worst ice storm Detroit had seen in a century had done its work well, transforming the entirety of the park into frozen sculptures. The trees seemed to grasp at the air as they swayed in the howling wind. Many of their branches had already broken under the weight, falling heavily onto the icy stream below.

He eyed the forest, standing on the other side of the worn stone bridge, hands buried in his pockets. He’d seen the bridge before in pictures and its utter mundaneness came as something of a surprise. The stones embedded in the concrete were ancient, stripped of the snow that had recently covered them by the wind. Whatever handrails had once guarded the edges of the bridge were gone, long since rusted away. Except for the thick, slushy trail of blood that ran up the center of it, there was absolutely no indication of what he knew was waiting for him on the other side.

He had an idea who the blood on the bridge belonged to. Lucille Gale had been the last of seven young adults who to have disappeared in a month. The first six had been found already, their bodies discovered in various locations along the bank of the Detroit river.

The first of them had his skin completely removed, expertly flayed off. The second was so badly ripped apart that it had taken a week to identify her. The third was found lying in an alleyway with lungs full of water and seaweed, a full hundred meters away from the river.

It wasn’t until a fourth teenager was found with her skeleton missing that his organization took interest. They’d swooped down onto the case overnight, so desperate to get him onto the scene that they’d sent him there via translocation. From the moment he emerged from the Detroit alleyway, shaking off the horror of what he always saw when he translocated, it had been nothing but investigation with the local police and terrified locals.

The FBI got involved when two more children turned up dead (exsanguinated and strangled with their own intestines, respectively) Federal agents were always the most difficult to deal with. They were suspicious of his badge, despite it being completely authentic. They were suspicious of how massive he was, towering over most of them, easily broader than any. They were suspicious of how much he already knew about the case, despite having arrived only a few days before they.

What made them more suspicious then anything was how quickly their bosses told them to shut up and get out of his way. The men who ran the Bureau from their offices in D.C. had no idea who he was, and none of them were interested in finding out. They had all heard the legends from those that had led the Bureau before them. They knew what happened when men like him showed up on the scene of a crime too terrible for words. The problem stopped, and it was better to not ask questions how. Any federal involvement was quickly terminated, and the assigned agents reassigned somewhere else.

They’d remember this case for the rest of their lives. They might one day have colleagues who had similar encounters with men like him, and endlessly discuss what organization he might have represented. Theories ranged from an obscure Homeland Security cell to the CIA Special Operations Group. They would jokingly refer to men like him as ‘The Others,’ ‘Those We Don’t Speak Of,’ ‘The Activity,’ or even as ‘The Men in Black’ if they were feeling sarcastic.

His organization knew all of this. There wasn’t much they didn’t.

The man took a reading. The palm-sized device lit up, whirring as he placed it on the ground. He stepped back, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. The twin marbles of glass atop the reader spun faster and faster, the silver liquid inside them catching the bright blue light shining from the dozen or so diodes that covered the front and back of the device. After a few frantic seconds the marbles were spinning so fast above the device the man could no longer see them. A moment later the reader gave a frantic shriek. The globes exploded in a puff of powdered glass, the liquid flying through the air but evaporating before it touched the ground.

He sighed and lit his cigarette. “Initial readings suggest an unusually high breach in the Jovlin-Knight Barrier,” he said. “The presence of the remains of Lucille Gale confirms initial assumptions that she did not survive the hosting. Extreme weather patterns indicate the presence of a Midnight-Level Event occurring within the confines of the breach.”

He put his smoke to his lips again. The cherry flared brightly, a tiny speck of light burning defiantly in the darkness. The FBI and the police might not have a clue what the missing teens had in common, but he had known it the moment he had visited the morgue and seen their tortured bodies.

Each of them was psychic. Very, very psychic, and Lucille Gale most of all. He doubted that any of them were fully aware of it. Perhaps they had experienced vivid dreams that later came true, or had wondered whether or not they were at fault for the power outages that followed their every outburst. If left to themselves they would have grown exponentially more powerful, most likely to the point where they would have been targeted and killed by his organization. There were very few like them that managed to make it into adulthood, and none of them managed to die of old age.

Even at their nascent stage, however, they possessed more than enough raw ability to be of use to something on the other side. Something was trying desperately to come through, something that had no place even in a nightmare. The other six teens had proven unsuitable as doorways, but judging from the cataclysmic storm that had engulfed half the county, the man guessed that Lucille Gale would prove more than adequate.

Inhale. He felt the smoke burn a trail down his lungs as he considered his next words. “I still plan on crossing,” he said. “Regardless of what’s fueling the breach, I’ll ensure sufficient distraction or damage to allow Aegis translocation into the target area. Upon loss of communication, I stand by my original recommendation of an immediate kinetic on my last known position.” He paused. “Not that you ever listen to what I have to say.”

His answer was the howling wind, and a voice that spoke directly into his mind. He would have smiled at the response if smiling were something he was capable of. Instead he drew Jovlin’s gun from its holster on his side, the massive revolver fitting snugly into his equally massive hands. He squeezed the rubberized grip, fingers caressing the raised knotwork that adorned the barrel. The man took one last drag on his cigarette, flicking it away as he strode purposely onto the bridge, careful to keep his steps within the trail of Lucille Gale’s remains.

Normally crossing over required a tremendous amount of concentration and no small amount of luck. His repelling tattoos would burn so bad they’d singe his skin, and the tiny nodes lining the center of his brain would overload with static. Wearing an Aegis made it a bit easier, but even the best protection his organization could offer didn’t keep out the visions. He’d been there when Jovlin had died, and it was that memory that was returned to violent life every time he translocated.

This time there were no visions, no screaming ghosts from decades past. He simply stepped out of here and into nowhere, the symbols that were carved onto his flesh flaring briefly beneath his heavy clothing. The ease of the translocation confirmed his worst fears. It took a lot of power to rend such a huge hole in reality. Whatever caused this had been very old and very, very angry. For the first time, he wondered bemusedly if he’d been right to turn down assignment to an Aegis unit.

Regardless, he was relieved to see that the trail of human remains provided him a clear path through what was otherwise a land of absolute madness. Whatever thing had nested and birthed itself in the mind of Lucille Gale had not been kind to her. The thick, black-red smear on the ground led deep into the forest which now towered thousands of feet up into the air. He thought he caught a glimpse of something massive above him, moving in the storm clouds, its barbed coils swaying lazily from the sky. The frost-covered branches of the trees were all screaming with a woman’s voice, weeping and sobbing, crying for a mother and a father and the safety of home. He assumed the voice was Lucille’s.

He started off down the trail, booted feet splashing noisily in gristle that seemed to grow deeper as he walked. Around him the world shifted and rearranged itself at random. The trees exploded, sending ice shards the size of buildings crashing down around him. Something massive fell out of the sky, its leathered wings curling around its dead form, crashing to the earth behind a distant mountain range that abruptly forced itself out of the frozen earth. The wind intensified, and on it he could hear a name being whispered over and over again.

He didn’t recognize the name. He wondered if it was his.

The further he went along the trail, the more twisted reality became. He wondered how deep into the forest he was actually going in the real world. On more than occasion he had traveled for days inside a breach, only to find himself a step or two away from where he had started upon crossing out. Time and distance could have very little meaning in the Veiled World. Mercifully the laws of physics (usually) held sway, but those laws were easily bent or broken depending on what was causing such an awesome disturbance.
There was a place, he knew, where physics simply didn’t exist. Even as he walked he could see it, far on the horizon, a thin line of shadow that seemed to swallow up even the darkness. Calling it oblivion wasn’t accurate. There were things in the Nothing, things that made the horrors he dealt with on a regular occasion seem downright pleasant. He’d been to the edge before, watching reality and un-reality disappear into the howling claws of whatever waited for men and demons on the other side of existence.

Men smarter then he surmised that whatever it was had no power to enter or affect the world he sought to protect. He supposed this was true; it was hungry, and would have long since devoured the third dimension had it been capable.

The ground beneath his feet shook, and he suddenly found himself standing in a clearing. The storm-wracked sky was gone, replaced with a peaceful canvas devoid of any light save that of a full moon. The wind stopped abruptly. Snowflakes fell slowly through the air like the inside of a tumbling snow globe. A vast clearing spread out before him, the smeared remains of an overly ambitious psychic a vivid splash of red on the virgin snow.

There was a child in the clearing at the end of the trail. The boy was sobbing, his knees drawn up to his chest. The man approached him slowly. He tentatively took a step off the pathway and into the snow. His feet sunk into reassuring solid ground. The man began circling the boy, trudging through snow that came up to his shins.

“Go away,” the boy sniffled, burying his face in his arms. “Go away! I just want to be left alone.”

The man didn’t say anything. It was better to not talk to them if you could avoid. They’d played the game for eons; any word you spoke could be used against you. Instead he kept circling, trying to see the child’s face. He didn’t understand why this was important, but that was irrelevant. Gut instinct had kept him alive up to that point and he trusted it to take him further.

“Why did you follow me?” The boy screamed, kicking his feet into the ground. “I want to be left alone! Leave me alone!”

The world around them trembled slightly, and the man cursed under his breath. “You aren’t alone,” he answered. He had to buy himself more time. It needed to be tricked into revealing its true self, or it might simply push him back out into reality out of annoyance. “You’re with Lucille. Lucille Gale. Remember?”

Face still buried in his arms, the boy laughed. “Lucille. I remember Lucille. The other ones all ran, but Lucille wasn’t afraid. She stayed. She told me that she wasn’t afraid, that she wanted to help me. She held me so close…” His voice changed in an instant, becoming a tone no human vocal cord could ever hope to produce. “She’s rotting inside me. I cannot be bound. I cannot be harmed. I am eternal.”

“You might be eternal, but your son wasn’t, was he?” The warding tattoos on his skin started to prickle. That was a good sign. It was getting angry. “That’s who you’re pretending to be right now. Your son.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy sniffed, his voice that of a child’s again. “I’m just a little boy. I’m just a little boy, all alone out here in the woods.”

“No, you’re not. Your name is Claude Lachay. You killed your wife and son here, before it was a park. Before there were many people here at all. You started running, and when you couldn’t go anymore you killed a family that tried to help you. You ate them. Do you remember? You ate them, but even that couldn’t keep you from starving. You nearly died from hunger in the wilderness a hundred miles north of here.” The man cocked his head to the side, and decided to push the issue. “You pissed yourself when the wolves came. You screamed for your mother when they started eating you, like you screamed for her every day in Hell.”

The child exploded in a shower of blood. His face landed on the snow next to the man, steam pouring from its eyes sockets and laughing mouth. Where the child once stood was what his organization would call a ‘Class I-IX Paranormal Entity,’ unveiled in all its horrific glory. Its three heads sprouted from between its shoulders, each of them gnashing on a tongue that flickered like a snake. A pair of arms sprouted from between its legs, their fingers ended in leech-like mouths. The skin on its bloated stomach was stretched so far it was nearly transparent. Inside it he could see the tortured face of Lucille Gale, her hands pushing desperately to get out.

The thing that was once Claude Lachay, the first serial killer to walk American soil, thundered with laughter. Its voice echoed around the clearing where it had committed its first crimes nearly three hundred and fifty years prior. “I cannot be bound. I cannot be harmed. I am eternal. I am…God!”

The first round fired through Jovlin’s gun put an end to such boastful nonsense. Lachay roared as the round tore a fist-sized hole through the center of one of its heads. It clapped a massive hand to its face, reeling in agony. The man fired again and again, moving towards it at a flat-out run. While the danger of being forced out of the breach was over, he now faced the equally real threat of death at the target’s hands. Jovlin’s revolver was a powerful weapon against the denizens of the Veil, and the fact that it had already proved ineffective told him everything he needed to know.
He’d never survive a direct fight. Lachay had dragged itself out of the pit, and the mindless hate that allowed such perseverance had twisted it something wholly inhuman. Every heaving breath it took was the scream of a dying man; every guttural curse was the wheeze of lungs filling with bloody clots. It was a lord of death now, a corpse god, the grave incarnate.

The only way to finish this was to destabilize the breach enough to allow armored translocation. The only way to destabilize the breach was to kill the soul that was fueling it.

Each of the bullets he fired found their mark. By the time he had reached the target the man had already reloaded. He fired at point blank range, aiming at Lachay’s bloated stomach. A massive, scaled hand moved to intercept the rounds. The same hand struck him hard, tossing him through the air. He fired as he flipped head over heels, managing to keep the target at bay as he rolled on the ground. It was on him by the time he righted himself, choking as its tongues whipped towards his torso and legs.

He thought about evading, considered his options, and calmly decided against it. The barbs bit into his flesh and tensed, digging into his skin. He grunted, pain dampeners flooding his system. The venom hit him a second later. He vomited, body shuddering in the throes of a seizure as the poison reached his brain. The receptors in his skull were shrieking, fighting off both the toxins and the terrifying psychic power Lachay was unleashing through his unwilling host. He caught brief glimpses of the monster’s past; the last, confused looks on the faces of the Chippewa family he had butchered, the taste of human flesh in his mouth, the awful, maddening climb out of the bottom of torment back into the world of the living.

The man felt the barbs tense, followed by a violent jerking on his left leg. He looked down in time to see it come clean off, ripped away at the knee, disappearing down Lachay’s gullet.

He saw his leg floating inside Lachay’s bloated stomach as he fired into it again and again. Distracted, the target had no chance to defend itself. Its immense stomach popped like a blister, spewing digestive juices over the frozen earth. It dropped him as it stumbled backwards, yelping, its hands clapped over its stomach. Between its massive fingers, the half-digested form of Lucille Gale spilled out. She writhed in the snow, screaming through a mouth that had fused shut.

Lachay reached for her desperately, but it was already too late. The man fired a single shot. The high-caliber shell blew her head clean off.
The clearing was completely still for a moment. Then there was an earth shattering roar that sounded all too familiar to him. The breach shuddered and tilted. The whole world sloped at a downward angle, making Lachay stumble and fall. Both monster and man went tumbling head over heels towards the edge of the forest. The man’s fevered mind screamed at him to make sure he landed on the bridge. At the last second he reached out, his hand slapping down into the trail of blood, arresting his fall as he held tight to his only line back to reality.

There was another roar, and Nothingness came howling up towards them. The world below him almost completely vanished, the trees and the mountain ranges swallowed up by a mouth made up of nightmares. The power of Lucille Gale, wielded ruthlessly by Lachay, had been the only thing that had kept the breach open. With her death, the thin barrier between the Veiled World and what lay beyond came crashing down.

He saw Lachay land in the trees below. The monster leapt back into the clearing, scrabbling to find purchase in the snow. The man calmly fired his remaining rounds into the target, watching as each bullet hit home. With one last howl, the monster lost its grip and fell down into darkness.

The man didn’t have any time to feel satisfied. The breach was collapsing, shaking apart at the seams. Like a rising tide the Void came up to greet him, laughing and screaming. He could make up indistinct shapes as it came on; shapes that reminded him of Jovlin, the smell of her hair and the sound of her voice when she told him

I’ll love you until the day I die

and the look on her face when she fell, when she let go, when she LET GO! LET GO! LET GO!


“Agent Hauser.”

The man looked up into glowing blue eyes. The Aegis was only a few feet above him, standing with its steel feet planted firmly in the bridge. The dying light of the breach cast strange shadows over its black armor and menacing weapon arrays. It reached out to him, its fingers strangely slender for such a massive construct.

“We haven’t much time, sir,”it said. “Please take my hand to initiate translocation.”

Hauser didn’t hesitate. He holstered his pistol in a single fluid motion and reached for its hand. Half a dozen ports on the Aegis’ back popped open with a pneumatic hiss. The construct’s translocation generator came online, emitting brilliant white light as it drank in the otherworldly energy of the breach

“Translocation imminent,” it intoned. “Brace for impact.”

Hauser looked down. Nothingness looked back at him, smiling. Reaching.

“Brace for impact. Brace for impact. Brace-“

He hit the snowy ground so hard it drove the air out of his lungs. He gasped, rolling onto his side. The wind that had been howling moments before seemed to calm by the moment. Soon it had disappeared entirely, the snow it had been driving left to tumble lazily to the earth. The entire world seemed to have become still and silent.

His eyes were drawn to the cigarette he had flicked away before entering the breach. It was inches away from him, still burning. He’d been gone only seconds in the real world. He reached for it with a trembling hand, the cherry flaring brightly as he inhaled. It was almost too damp to smoke, but he’d never tasted anything better.

The Aegis was already working on his leg. Hauser felt a brief twinge of pain as it spread anti-septic paste over his wound, spraying it from a small retractable hose attached to its hip. The paste quickly turned to a murky red gel as it stopped the bleeding. In a few seconds Hauser’s entire leg went numb, and he could feel the pain dampening drugs in his system start to recede.

It turned to look at him, the center eye of its forehead turning a bright green as it scanned his vital signs. I apologize,” it said. “I arrived as soon as translocation became possible. I had hoped to get there in time to assist you with the entity, and prevent such damage from occurring.”

Hauser managed a weak laugh. “Killing the psychic was the only way to make translocation possible, and this…” He waved his hand at his stump. “This was the only way to get close enough for a clean shot. I’m still glad you came. If it had finished me off, someone would have needed to finish the job.” Hauser paused, squinting up at the construct’s expressionless face. “Who is that in there?”

The Aegis gave a metallic laugh as its visor slid back. A female face stared back at him, pale and young and covered in scars. “You might not remember me, Agent Hauser,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. “I was in training for the Aegis program when you were sent on your last assignment.”

“I remember you. I was there when you were initiated and picked your name. Bellona. Agent Bellona.” He took another drag on his cigarette, staring up at the stars. She’d had fewer scars then. “Damned pretentious name, if you ask me.”

He heard the sound of her visor slide shut as a response. “Recovery units are en route,” she said in the sexless voice of a machine. “They will be here within the minute. Since he is certain your receivers have almost certainly shut down as a result of your psychic trauma, Agent Dolos has asked me to extend congratulations to you on his behalf.” Bellona cocked her head to the side, and Hauser could sense her smile even behind the impassive face mask.“He also says he would never have authorized the kinectic strike, even if we’d lost track of you within the breach. He said he will always give you a chance to find your way out.”

Now it was Hauser’s turn to laugh. “He wouldn’t say that if he had seen what was in there. One of these days, something is going to come through and we’ll have to blow the breach to kingdom come. One of these days, I’ll be right.” He leaned his head back into the freezing snow, letting it cool his head. The static from the destroyed receptors inside his skull was giving him a pounding headache. Taking one last inhale, he tossed the smoke away from him for good.

It landed solidly on the grisly path Hauser had taken into nothingness. Drowned in blood, surrounded by darkness, the light of the cigarette quickly faded and died.

Credit To – IlluminatiExposed

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April 5, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Allen hurriedly gulped down the last of his milk when he heard the doorbell ring.

“Mom! Chad and Mike are here, I’m leaving for school,” he shouted at the ceiling of the kitchen. He grabbed his backpack off the counter and headed for the door.

“Wait!” His mother rushed down the stairs, half stumbling in the process, stopping him just as he grabbed the door handle. She looked haggard and a worry line creased her brow. Red rimmed eyes gave testament to the fact that she had been crying for some time. His mother absentmindedly adjusted Allen’s scarf with a nervous, shaky hand. “Remember to hurry straight home today, okay?”

“I know, Mom. Mary’s coming today.” At the mention of Mary a choked sob escaped his mother’s throat. Not wanting to see her so distraught Allen tried to cheer her. “Look, why don’t I just stay home today?” he ventured.

“You can’t, honey. You know the rules,” she managed to squeeze out, fighting to quell even more tears. “Now hurry and go.” With that she gave Allen a quick hug, and opened the front door with a sharp jerk, much like yanking off a Band-Aid so as not to prolong the pain. With a forced smile she ushered Allen out into the cold. As she shut the door behind him her sobs returned unbidden. She collapsed against the door, unable to support her own weight. She slid slowly to the floor, the whole time murmuring through her tears, pleading, “Please don’t forget…please don’t forget…”


The brisk fall air sent an immediate shock to Allen’s system. He pulled his coat tighter around him, watching his breath curl away in wispy tendrils before turning his eyes to his fellow 3rd grade buddies.

Mike was wearing his usual cocky grin and the ever present glint of mischief was in his eyes. He was the trouble maker in the trio, and as such he was always up for an adventure. By rights of being younger (“Only by a month!” as he was always quick to point out) he was the defacto second in command behind Allen.

Then there was Chad. The kids at school had many names for Chad. They ranged in creativity from “Stupid-head” to “Chard the Tard”, but they all expressed the same point. Chad was slow. Allen’s mother had once told him the technical term for it. To the best of Allen’s recollection it was “high function-something idiot something”. The kids at school chose to focus on the idiot part. What mattered the most to Allen and Mike was that of all the people in Willow Falls, Chad was the most sincere, the most innocent. They took care of him like a younger brother.

“Chad…your shoes are untied again, man!” Allen cast an exasperated look towards Mike. “Why didn’t you help him out?”

Mike, looking hurt and indignant at the same time, responded, “I tried, but you know he only lets you do it.”

Allen let loose a sigh that clearly stated how heavy the burden of the world weighed on his shoulders and bent to tie Chad’s shoes.

“Loop once, loop twice, and it all looks nice!” Chad sang his shoe tying song as Allen went about the work. “Friends to the end,” he rhymed again once Allen had finished. Most people found Chad’s chosen manner of communication irritating, but to Allen and Mike it is was one of his more endearing qualities.

“Chad buddy, you really need to learn to do that on your own. I might not be around to help next time.” Allen’s gentle admonishment was met with a warm smile and enthusiastic nod of Chad’s head. “Alright, Triumphant Trio, off to school!”

“I’m not a fool, I go to school!” chimed Chad as he fell in with the others.

Together the three youngsters made their way down Birch Lane heading for Willow Falls Grade School. Willow Falls was a quaint little town, no more than 100 families, and thus the walk from Allen’s house to school was relatively short. The boys made good time, all the while chatting about whatever it is that interested boys of their age. Chad would chip in with a well-timed rhyme causing all three to laugh. Considering what day it was, the boys were in rather high spirits.

“…and that’s when I pulled her hair!” Mike was in full story telling mode as he regaled his two friends with his latest misadventure involving his neighbor Sally. Arms swung and hands gestured to emphasize every point by pantomiming his actions. Despite the cold, he was working up a nice flush in his eagerness to relate the tale. Allen listened intently, nodding sagaciously. Chad, not fully grasping all the nuances of the story, took his cues from Allen. “Then she got this weird look in her eyes and started leaning tor-,” Mike stopped talking abruptly.

Allen looked up to see what had made his friend pause. He saw it immediately. They were coming up on the gate. The malice emanating forth from the gate was so evident that even Chad was able to recognize it.

“Chad hate bad gate,” he stated in a choked whisper. Both Allen and Mike nodded their agreement to Chad’s simple assessment, but words failed the other two boys. This was The-Gate-That-No-One Opened. Standing 8’ tall, the gate loomed over any who passed by it. The truly intricate details that went into the ironwork were only visible upon close inspection, most however, never got that close. Even Mike, the brave one, would not come within more than a few feet of it. The hinges on the gate had long since rusted, and the gate had looked ready to topple over for years. But it had not. Instead it maintained its constant vigil, forever standing sentinel to that which was behind it.

On the other side of the gate a worn cobblestone path ran straight for 15’ or so before rounding a bend and disappearing behind the giant hedges. No one knew exactly where the path lead, for on the other side of The-Gate-That-No-One-Opened was The-Park-That-No-One-Entered. Located in the geographical center of Willow Falls, the true name of the park was lost in the annals of the town’s history. In the middle of the massive park, rising above the hedges and sitting on the crest of a hill, stood the willow tree. Some quirk in the lay of the land made the willow visible from anywhere in town while the rest of the park lay shrouded in secret behind the surrounding hedges. The town founders had likely seen the tree and named the town after it. That was just speculation of course, just as it was general consensus that the path behind the gate most likely led to the willow tree.

With an unspoken agreement the boys hastened their steps, eager to escape the unnatural silence and icy dread that overcame all who crossed the gate’s path.

“Maybe we should just go back home today.” This from Mike, the brave one.

“No, we have to go to school,” answered Allen. “You know the rules. We all do.”

“Yeah, but…” he let his protestation trail off and instead turned his attention to stepping on every dead leaf that came within reach of his feet.

“School’s the rule,” Chad intoned with his head hanging and hands in his pockets, the walking picture of dejection. The boys continued down Birch Lane.


It had been another typical day at WFGS. At recess some of the other 3rd grade boys had devised a new game. They thought it would be funny to stuff a sock down Chad’s pants and try to get him to chase his “tail”. Chad, always hoping to please, had gleefully complied. Misunderstanding their teasing laughter for encouragement had caused him to try all the more enthusiastically. If there was one talent Chad did have, it was his ability to completely focus on one task to the exclusion of all else. This only lent fuel to the laughter as he doggedly spun in circles, determined to catch the sock. Mike and Allen were quick to intervene. One of the boys was sporting a growing black eye where Allen had punched him. Mike, fresh from the principal’s office (“My second homeroom,” as he liked to call it), already had his name on the board.

“At least it wasn’t Pin the Card on the Tard again.”

“Yeah,” agreed Allen. “Hey don’t look now, but they’re at it again!”

Ignoring Allen’s advice, Mike whipped his head around just in time to catch Sally and her group of friends peeking his way. They quickly ducked their heads back together and returned to hushed whispers laced with intermittent giggles.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with Sally,” Mike said with a look of consternation on his face. “Ever since yesterday she’s been acting weird and looking at me funny. Maybe I-“

Mike was cut short as the 3 chimes of the P.A. system declared an upcoming message from Principal Ladsen. Ms. Shoemaker, with her stern hair bun and horn-rimmed glasses immediately set to shushing everyone. Due to what day it was, quiet and attention were quick in coming. The eyes and ears of the twenty-three nine year olds in her class were focused on the loud speaker in the corner. The same was true for every classroom throughout WFGS.
Some slight feedback was followed by a hiss and a pop, trailed by Principal Ladsen clearing his throat. Finally he began to speak.

“Alright everyone, listen up,” he commenced rather unnecessarily. “We all know what day it is, so I need you all to go straight home. Don’t dally in front of the school, or stop on the playground. As soon as the bell rings, in about 5 minutes or so, you children get right back to your houses. That’s all.” Three chimes indicated the message was over.

The principal’s proclamation had set a noticeably somber mood through the halls of the school. In the back of the class, a small, timid hand raised slowly in the air.

“Yes, Stewart?” Ms. Shoemaker was slightly taken aback to actually have some form of interaction from the normally withdrawn Stewart. “What is it?”

“Ma’am, um…if it’s so important we go home right away…I mean…um…why can’t our parents just come pick us up?” His voice quavered quite a bit.

“Because,” she said around a sad, understanding sigh. “It’s not allowed. You all know what the Town Charter says. You know the rules, straight home.” As if to help punctuate her answer, the bell chose that moment to ring. She had to raise her voice to be heard over all the scooting chairs. “Now remember, children! Straight home!” Her voice had become shrill as it chased the children out the door, “Don’t forget!”


The halls of WFGS were eerily quiet. The chattering and general hubbub of an entire school’s worth of youngsters were replaced by grim looks and muttered whispers quickly hushed. The clatter of hundreds of shoes was supplanted by hesitant, slow steps, heading for the exits. Allen and the other members of his threesome followed along swept up in the silent, inexorable tide. Even Chad seemed to pick up and reciprocate the mood.

No one stopped at the playground. The usual groups did not gather at their usual spots. The hopscotch area was forsaken, children walking past it without a second glance. The words of the principal were heeded. The children had been trained well. They were prepared for this day. Within 5 minutes the school yard was completely deserted. The only sound came from a squeaky swing as the wind slowly pushed it back and forth.


The Triumphant Trio turned onto Birch Lane. Few words passed between them. Heads ducked, a few furtive glances exchanged. Every now and then a chilly fall breeze would whip around them, carrying a few leaves across the sidewalk. Other than that, the boys walked in silence.

Almost as if they could sense its presence, and all of the same mind, the boys crossed the street in order to skirt the gate. Despite his better judgment, Allen risked a glance. In the distance, on the hill, the willow tree danced in the wind. Its massive low hanging branches skipped across the ground. Allen imagined that he could hear the branches clacking together, even over this great distance, and to his young ears the noise sounded like macabre laughter. It gave Allen the impression that the tree was eager, full of glee for the upcoming events.

A shiver ran itself along the length of Allen’s spine, and he quickly jerked his gaze back down, staring at the pavement as he placed one foot in front of the other. He wished he hadn’t looked.

Soon, not as soon as they would have liked, the trio were outside Allen’s house. The air had already grown noticeably colder, and the light was starting to wane, fading faster than usual. Shadows of streetlamps and trees began stretching across the pavement, long skinny fingers searching, searching.

Mike, the brave one, barely looked at his friends as he gave them a perfunctory wave. He quickly turned on his heels and high-tailed it to his house across from Allen’s. Allen couldn’t blame him; he felt the urge to run home himself. He turned his attention to Chad.

“Alright, buddy. Remember, head straight home, okay?”

“I won’t be late for my dinner plate!” Allen couldn’t help but smile despite the situation.

“Straight home, Chad.” Chad gave Allen his usual grin and enthusiastic nod before turning and heading home. His house was at the end of Birch Lane, on the other side of the curve, just out of view. For a while Allen stood and watched, torn between walking his dear friend home and heading home himself. He had just made up his mind to escort Chad when his attention was drawn by a frantic banging.

He turned and looked at his house to see his mother pounding hectically away on the window. When she saw she had his attention she began forcefully gesturing, and the look in her eyes left no doubt about her intentions. Allen regretfully put all thoughts of chasing Chad from his mind and bounded up the stairs to his porch and into the safety of his home.

If Allen’s mother hadn’t gotten his attention in that instant, if he had just kept watching Chad as he rounded the curve, if he had looked a moment longer, he might have seen his best friend trip.


Chad had skinned his hands in the fall. It was okay, though, he fell often. He was used to it. His shoelaces had come undone again. They were the culprits behind his loss of balance! He looked around expectantly, waiting for Allen to tie his shoe for him. Then he remembered what Allen had said this morning. Allen wasn’t here to help him.

A fierce light of determination began to glow in Chad’s eyes. An idea began to formulate in his slow mind. He would tie his shoes himself and make Allen proud. With his giant grin on his face Chad eagerly set to work.

“Loop once, loop twice…”


Allen’s mother reached through the gap in the door and pulled her son into the house. She hugged him tightly. After she had satisfied herself that he was indeed real and home safely she pushed him out to arm’s length and glared at him.

“What in the world were you thinking?!” she demanded. “I told you to come straight home!”

“I was just going to make sure Chad got home and then I was going to run right back!” he protested.

“No Allen! No! You know the rules!”

“Okay, I’m sorry! I got it. Mary’s coming.”


Throughout the town of Willow Falls all the preparations for the night were the same. Doors were locked, curtains were drawn, and parents gathered up their children. They huddled together in whatever room they felt the most secure, hoping the events of the night would pass quickly. It was no different in Allen’s home.

He and his mother sat in the living room, lights dimmed. She hadn’t let him out of her sight since he’d gotten home. Every few seconds she looked his way, verifying he hadn’t disappeared.


Sometime between the late afternoon and dusk, Willow Falls changed. The cold deepened even more. Darkness seemed to envelope the town, bringing with it an unnatural silence. The wind slowed, and then eventually petered out altogether. No birds chirped, no squirrels squeaked. It was as if the town was a void, no sound, no movement, and at the epicenter of this lifeless black hole stood the willow tree.

In that dead, deafening silence, the town waited. In that silence, the heavy, oppressive silence, Time itself held its breath. And into that silence came a squeal. The cry of tortured metal reverberated throughout the town as centuries old rusted hinges were forced to grind against each other. On and on the sound came, setting nerves on edge and jaws to clenching. After an unbearable amount of time, the squealing thankfully stopped. The gate was open.

For half a heartbeat all was deathly still again. Then the whistling began. A slow haunting tune that carried on without end. A horribly unnatural sound that never paused for breath. It came under the doors, through the walls, found its way under pillows and through fingers, found its way in despite all efforts to keep it out. A ceaseless barrage of a nightmarish melody that searched out every soul, eroding strength and engendering despair. The whistling was the herald. Mary had come.


Allen and his mother clung to one another. Eyes were squeezed tightly shut against the terrible, incessant whistling. The tune blotted out all else, muted all thought, leaving only the desire to cower in fear.
When the first footstep was heard on their porch they both held their breath. Slow, even paces took the steps one at a time, not in the least of a hurry. One by one the heavy steps came closer to the door and stopped.

The knock came, causing his mother to jerk and let out a little scream. She squeezed Allen to her all the tighter, rocking back and forth, whispering “No no no…”to herself over and over again as if it were her mantra of protection.

Another knock, not at all ungentle, almost shy.

“Please…” came the voice, a little girl’s. “Please…let me in. It’s so cold, and I’m hungry.” It was a pitiful plea that tore at the heart.

A third knock.

His mother was in tears now as she pressed his head to her chest. “Just go away, Mary.” She quietly pleaded.

“Please, it’s so cold. I’m hungry.” A fourth knock. “Please…”

“Leave us alone!” his mother shouted, fear lending power to her voice. On the other side of the door came an infinitely disappointed sigh. The weighty footsteps turned and slowly receded back to the road, leaving them to their isolation. Allen and his mother shared a look that communicated much. They were relieved that their trial was passed, but they knew they were not the first, nor would they be the last.

The ritual was repeated again and again throughout Willow Falls. Always the timid knock, followed by a heart-wrenchingly pathetic plea for shelter from the cold. And always hungry, always so hungry. The whistling continued on.


Success! He had finally wrestled the tricky laces into a knot. Chad was extremely proud of himself, and he couldn’t wait to tell Allen. Chad stood with a rare smile of self-satisfaction. Few and far between were the moments when he accomplished something on his own.

It was then that he noticed the whistling. He had forgotten! His mother, the principal, Allen, they all had told him to go straight home, but he had tripped. He had been so focused on tying his shoes that he had lost track of time. His house was only two doors down. He could see his mother in the window screaming through the glass, willing him to get his feet moving. He could still make it home, he still had time.

He took a step. Too late.

“Please…” the voice came from behind him. He could see the despair in his mother’s face, hands clutched to her chest. She was sobbing. He knew he should run. He knew it, but he couldn’t make his body work. Fear paralyzed him. “Please look at me.”

“N-no…” he stammered. His heart raced in his chest. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, matching his mother’s.

“Look at me please!” the voice beseeched.

“I’m not supposed to. I should have gone home.” No rhyming now, he was too terrified. His eyes watched his mother through the window. Her face drained of all blood, her eyes rolled back, and she fell out of view. “Allen told me to go home. My momma is w-waiting.” By now his whole body was trembling.

“Look at me.” Not a plea anymore.

“Allen told me…” His slow mind, dimmed further by terror, barely registered the warm stain spreading down his pant leg.

“Look at me!” The final command sapped the last of his meager resistances. His body was no longer his own. He managed a few whimpers as he was forced to turn and look at Mary.


The whistling was different now. Still haunting, yet a subtle undertone was different. Something had changed.

Allen’s mother noticed it just as he had. She scooted to the window and pulled back the curtain just enough to peek out. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Oh poor Martha!”

Martha? That was Chad’s mother! Panic filled Allen’s heart. Before his mother could react he yanked back the curtains so forcefully that they fell from the rods. There! Mary was just out of his field of vision, but he could clearly see the small inert form that was being dragged behind.

“Chad!” Allen beat his fists against the glass. “Chad!” Logic and reason were forgotten in worry for his best friend. He raced for the door, prepared to charge out into the cold. His mother was faster and tackled him from behind.

“No! Stop, Allen! You can’t help him, baby!” For a moment they wrestled around, but she used her superior weight to keep him pinned to the floor.

“I told him to go home! How did he forget?” Guilt and shame drained Allen of any energy he had left to fight his mother. “I should have walked him home! How did he forget?”


Somewhere in the middle of The-Park-That-No-One-Entered an innocent, simple-minded boy began to scream. It was a scream of anguish, a scream of terror, a scream of pain. The scream carried on until it was drowned out by another scream. This was the scream of tortured metal as the gate once again began its harsh journey. The whistling stopped. The gate closed, not to open for another year.

The wind began to blow, leaves began to skitter. Birds chirped and squirrels squeaked. It was as if Time began to breathe again and life returned to the dead void.

Somewhere another boy sat, lost within himself, lost to his grief. His eyes wide open, staring at all, seeing nothing.

“How could he forget?”

Loop once, loop twice…

Someone always forgets.

Credit To – The Fox God

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The Mound

March 16, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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The ground shook. It pulsated. But that was what it always did and nobody paid any attention to it anymore, just as long as the sacrifices were made. The very earth beneath one’s feet would fall and he would be extinguished if not for the sacrifices. All of the dirt, the ground, was alive, and controlled each and every aspect of every villager’s life. Every twelve years, eighteen sacrifices, eighteen innocent people, were demoted and removed from the village and redirected to the Mound, a pile of dirt and rocks and things that was riddled with tunnels and labyrinthine mazes and dead ends. Any who entered never came out, because once insanity is reached or a person starves or dies, the ground is fed.
On one such day, there was mourning and wailing, and women ran into the streets and fell upon the ground and wept, for the earth would only chose children, for the flesh was more alike the ground than those who have lived long. The streets were muddy and the houses were made from earthen bricks and thatch and wheat stalks. The townsmen were poor and ate the dust and rotten apples that fell from the trees.
Only the greatest troublemakers and least valuable children were chosen to run into the Mound. All the children in the slum would line up and the earth would rise up around a chosen child. He then went to the shack outside of the boundary of the Mound. There they ate well and were made fatter, to appease the earth and grant fruitful crops.

Sephtis was one such child. He rarely went outside, for all have a fear of the earth, but he would never even set foot on the ground. So, he fashioned thick-soled shoes.
He was bone-thin, and his face was gaunt and pallid, and his eyes were sunk into his head. He had long, wispy white hair and an abnormally wide nose.
On the morning of when the earth chose its children, the bell in the crude steeple rang out through the town, and all the children lined up on the left side of the street. The priests and magi filed out of the church, with their staves in their hands, and beat the muddy ground and called to the earth,
“O the earth, come, choose your disciples!” The congregation was low in voice and their song was haunting. The clouds hung to the ground on that day, and the sun was gone. There was no joy in the people’s eyes, no light. There was no escaping the earth, for it was ubiquitous, always underneath.
Suddenly a scream echoed down the line of children. The earth had chosen its first victim. A small girl, underfed, disappeared under the raised hump of dirt. Terrifyingly loud bawling continued. Strings of earth slithered around the children, as though snakes or some small animals were burrowing under the ground. But that was not the case. The living earth weaved in and out of the lines of children and many of them cowered in fear. Sephtis was indifferent. He knew what was to come, and he knew what he would have to do if he was chosen. There was no expression on his face, and he looked down at his feet, waiting for this to end.
His feet were wet. Mud was gathering at his feet. In a short panic, he looked to his right and his left, but none else had this happening. Then walls and columns of soil erupted from the street and encircled him. His eyes were closed and the earth washed about him and he was gone.

“God! Wake up!” An old, wrinkly man struck Sephtis across the face. He was lying in a cot in a long room. He was the last of the eighteen sacrifices. Sephtis groaned and swung his legs off the bed and with a little pain in his stomach, got up. The old man must have been a priest, for he wore a lengthy robe of green and brown and silver cloth.
“Go with the others.” He pointed towards the end of the hall, where a door stood. He watched the child stroll down the room on the soil. The priest turned and went the opposite way. The old doors creaked open and both shut equally loud.
Seventeen children greeted Sephtis with blank stares, not being impressed with his physical appearance. They were all sitting at one long table, and each had a large plate of food. He took his place at the end and began to eat. Between bites he looked around him at the building. The walls were of earth, but wooden crossbeams and columns stood to support the heavy thatch roof. A large opening in one wall led to a smaller room full of beds, but these beds looked to be more comfortable than those in the first room.
He finished the meal and followed several others into the bedding room. This room had high windows in the walls and he saw that it was night. He also saw that he was leading a train of children and he broke off and went to one of the beds.

For weeks life was like this. But Sephtis remembered what he had to do. Instead of sitting on his bed and becoming fatter, he sat on the ground and exercised, or he would jog around the rooms, or he would not finish his meal.
Due to the good food and exercise, Sephtis gained some muscle in his arms and legs, and he became stronger and not short of breath such as he was in the town.
Soon came the Mound and not a soul was spared.

The entrance was low and Sephtis had to stoop to get in. The earth brushed onto his back and he had to shake it off. There were some crude earthen stairs that descended a few steps into the ground. The cave was dark. A little light was brought in by the entranceway, and a little was supplied by the small torches lining the walls that split off from the main room. The air seemed thick and was musty and humid. Puddles of mud and waste were scattered around.
The old man was behind the crowd of children. He shoved them into the cave opening and without even taking a glance at them; he closed a large, heavy door and locked them in. Through one of the cracks he saw the man turn and leave, and on his face was the expression of sadness.
Now the time had come. Sephtis turned and saw the other children looking about. They were confused. He was not. Without any hesitation he meandered from the steps to the pathway that split off from the first room in the center. The sacrifices looked at him and waited to see if he had anything to say.
He had nothing.
“To the death.”

There was a stick and some rocks and from that, Sephtis fashioned a makeshift knife. There was nothing to eat, just as there had been for days. His thick-soled shoes were wet and muddy. He crouched in a corner of a junction of paths. None of the sacrifices he had seen were living, and he longed to hear someone’s voice. All one could hear was the hunger pains in his stomach. Any color that had been put in his face by the good food and jogging and exercising was gone, and in its place was left the face of fear. Sephtis’s ears picked up at the sound of a scream. Slowly, he stood.
He did not want to venture out from his corner, for it was the unknowing of what lied ahead that terrified him the most. His grip on the dagger was sweaty but strong. The mud squished beneath his feet, and several times it felt as though he was sinking.
He continued cautiously down the tunnel, being as quiet as possible so as not to draw any attention from anyone who may be near.
The pathway, after getting narrower, widened out into a sizable room. It was vacant, but several other paths branched out from the walls. The sound of a raspy and low gasp emanated from the earthen walls. Sephtis jumped when he heard this but his heart did not skip any beats, because being on edge was a thing that he had gotten used to.
A body staggered from one such path. Its head was down and it caught itself on one of the walls. The clothes it was wearing were torn, and it was still.
It had long hair covering its face. Blood was dripping down its leg. Something red was in its hand. The body was quivering but silent; it was not cold in the caves, but still one would shiver in fear. The body must have been a girl. She raised her head to see, for she had heard Sephtis. But she could not see- she had no face. The only facial features that he could recognize were the muscles that skin should have been covering. She opened her mouth. Blood trickled down the flap of flesh that resembled a chin and she did her best to beckon to Sephtis. In her hands was her face. It was mangled and stained in dirt and blood.
With a disgustingly horrifying sound, the girl put the skin to her face. Without warning, she screamed in pain. Some madman had ripped off her face. Sephtis ran as fast as he could in his shoes down a path that did not contain such a horror as the girl. He looked behind him to see if she was following her, but he had to keep an eye in front as well.
When he thought he had ran far enough, he stopped and squatted in the dirt and tried to think of what to do next.

Droplet after droplet of murky water dropped on Sephtis’s sleeping face. He sat up and jumped to his feet. There was mud in his hair and in his clothes. He sighed, frustrated, and anxiously looked around for his blade. He splashed in the mud, looking for it, but it was gone. Something had happened to it. Either someone had taken it, or the earth had swallowed it up.
There were a few rocks lying around near him, so he hurriedly began to search for one that would make a suitable weapon. He found two or three that could be used.
There was a fork in the pathway near Sephtis, and because he knew he needed to keep moving, he took the left path. Still clutching the rocks, he stalked down the hall. It was perfectly silent.
After a while of twists and turns and forks and such, he came to a string of several dead ends. He decided that he must have been near the edge of the Mound. As much as he wished to break through the wall or start to dig, the earth would not be pleased. So he turned and went the opposite direction. This needed to end.
He shouted as loud as he could, but being without water and food for a few days had made him weary, and so his feeble shout could not have been heard by many. The sudden feeling of being very thirsty came upon him. He kept walking. By now, he had noticed that on his way from the edge of the Mound the earthen path had been sloping down a tad, and the puddles of vomit-brown mud were trickling slowly down with him. Surely if he followed this stream there would be some reservoir at the end.
Along the way, he passed several soggy twigs and branches that somehow made their way down into the soil. Using his rocks and other strips of thatch and wheat stalk he formed two other creations that could vaguely resemble knives.

Sephtis stopped. There was a gaping chasm in the ground where the floor opened to some great cavern. The drop must have been hundreds of feet, yet that was where all the muddy water was flowing. A single, small torch was illuminating the ground below. He then took a step back, for fear that there might have been an overhang into the cavern and his weight collapse it.
The squish of his shoes in the mud was drowned in the sound of a man’s heavy breathing. He jumped, truly surprised, and looked around. There was no one behind him, but on the other side of the hole in the floor was a large young man. The man was stooped, probably from the low ceilings in parts of the Mound, and his eyes were a reddish hue, possibly from getting the mud in them. As far as Sephtis could see, there were no weapons in this boy’s hands.
The young man stepped back and put himself into a stance as though he was going to jump. He pushed off of the walls of the path and in two long was strides was in midair. Impossible! He was not going to make the jump, Sephtis knew. The span must have been ten, twelve feet. The man grabbed the edge of the cliff and tried to pull himself up, but Sephtis rested his foot on the boy’s head and pushed him off the slippery, wet surface.
A few moments later, a defeated roar echoed from the pit. The light from the torch down below had been extinguished. Sephtis trekked on.

He picked a substantially large puddle to fill his needs. After taking a few sips of the murk, he spat the last out. In his hands was a small grub. He reeled back, not so much because of the discovery of the worm, but because of the disease that one received from being so close to one grub.
His thirst was quenched, though.
“This is the end.”

He staggered from wall to wall, a terrible pain in his stomach. He felt something different on his chest and he looked down. The skin of his abdomen had changed from human to the skin of that of a grub or worm.
Soon the pain was gone and he was able to walk unimpaired, but it was noticeable that he was slowing down from the lack of food. He could have eaten the grub, but he would be dead right now. His chest was that of a grub. It was slimy and smooth, and two of three pairs of tiny legs had sprouted from where his ribs should have been. It disgusted him but he could not get away. Even as he walked, his arms swung back and forth and brushed against the feelers.
A girl was crouched in a room ahead and she saw him. She had made a large weapon and, in fear, reached for it and stood and held it in front of her.
“Stay away. Please.” She said, in a whisper, tears rushing down her face. Sephtis held his hands out as well as a sign of peace. His shirt was just a wet rag clinging onto his body, but he tried to hide his deformity. He hesitated, but dropped his blades into the soil.
She had a lovely voice. It was a great sensation as her words rushed to his ears. Possibly too great was his want of a friend, and he rushed too quickly at her. She backed up and her blade went right up at his neck.
Sephtis backed to an opposing wall. Her façade of innocent helplessness was gone and she hulked toward him with her sword in hand.
A great pain arose in his legs. He dropped to the ground and put his head down. He ran his hands up and down his thighs, and to his horror, they were now insect-like, just as his chest was. The girl stopped advancing. They waited, in the silence, for a moment or two. The pain slowly mitigated and because Sephtis knew that the girl was still ready to skewer him, he pause and prepared to jump her.
He jumped up and pounced out of the way of the first blow the girl dealt. His grub-legs were great on the muddy floors, and with inhuman speed he knelt and swiped the girl’s feet out from under her. The fallen blade was snatched up by Sephtis and he held it to her nose as she scooted back to the wall of the room. He drove the blade into her head and heard her skull crack as the sword passed into the earthen wall.
Warm blood spurted out at him.

His arms and stomach were as a grub. His eyes were yellow now, and there was blood in his cough. Hopefully, this would all soon be over. Scurrying down the corridors on all fours, he held the blades he had accumulated in his extra appendages.
It was then when he was running that the transformation was completed. A pain like a lightning strike bolted through his head. A terrible migraine began, and he felt his lips dissolve into silky tentacles and his eyes divide and he saw things a thousand times at once. His ears were gone, and his neck had swelled and become flush with his back. His nose fell from his face and burrowed in the sand. He lay on the ground curled up in a perfect circle and he died.

He was the last person alive and the last to die. The ground engulfed him and he was gone.

Credit To – Chandy and Gart

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Siren Song

February 17, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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It is on a cold November night that I wander into the café, exhausted, but unable to sleep. My hands are shaking as I pass my change to the bored cashier. Of course, I manage to fumble about half of it on the floor. My face burning, I bend to pick it up. As I am crouched on the floor, gathering my spilled coins, I turn, and she is there. My hand bumps hers, as I stare, mesmerized into her eyes. The first thing that strikes me is her beauty, her flashing green eyes, so vibrant against the dark flame of her hair, her lips full and red, against her pale skin. So pale, is the second thing, and cold, like ice. “Poor circulation” She explains, incorrectly guessing the reason for my shock, “It gets so bad in the winter.” I continue to gape, and she smiles, standing up gracefully, eyes dancing. She is tall, almost my height, and slender, quite fragile looking. She gestures toward the counter and asks me if she can buy me my coffee, and if I have time to stay and chat. I say yes to both, cheeks still flaming, and excuse myself to grab us a table.

Finding one near the electric fireplace, I settle in, and stare at the chipped table top until a laugh snaps me back to reality. Sitting down, she slides my cup to me, and asks me my name. “Matt”, I reply, “Pretty generic guy name. What’s yours?” Another laugh. “I’m Clara, nice to meet you Matt.” I chance a look up at her, and her eyes catch mine. I could swear I see her smirk, but when I try to speak, to ask what’s so funny, she leans closer, and the words die in my throat. “What brings you here tonight?” She asks, and her voice is like bells, pulling me in. Suddenly, I am falling, sinking into a mist of green, and there is nothing else, nothing but her eyes and her voice, filling my head like a dream. I can feel something wrong, something off about my consciousness, an uncomfortable wriggling sensation, something that doesn’t belong. The shock, the feeling of violation is so profound, I whimper aloud, and in that instant, I am myself again. “Something wrong Matt?” Clara asks, amusement plain in her voice. I’m embarrassed again, this time beyond belief. My insomnia must have caused me to micro-nap while sitting right here at the table. I feel groggy, and can hardly keep my eyes open as I mutter an excuse before fleeing the coffee shop. Her laughter follows me out, tinkling in my ears like wind chimes.

At home, I flop into my bed, ready for the tossing and turning that is my nightly routine. Instead, the girl, Clara, fills my mind, her voice whispering unintelligibly, and I fall asleep within 5 minutes, My dreams are full of her, everywhere. Her eyes staring out at me from fathomless darkness, glittering though there is no light. Her hair, a curtain around me, dragging me into icy waters like a net, her pale slender hands grasping my arms, tearing into me, fingers sharp like knives. I wake tangled in my sweat soaked sheets, gasping for breath. The light in the room blinds me, and turning towards the clock with growing dread, I see that it is precisely 3:00 pm. I’m over 4 hours late for work. And, despite having just slept for more time in one night than I sleep in a week, I am absolutely exhausted. I fumble for the phone on the nightstand, knocking it to the floor, and I hear it. That laugh, like bells. I straighten and whip around, but no one is there. Shaking my head I scoop the phone off of the floor and shakily punch in the number for the office. Ringing. A voice. My boss, asking if I’m ok, and I answer yes, but he can hear the exhaustion in my voice. “Take a day off Matt. Take 2 if you need it.” He’s a nice guy, and knows all about my insomnia. “I actually slept longer than I ever do last night”, I say, and he chuckles. “Well, maybe you’re finally getting over your issue. You do have a lot of catching up to do.” This idea is a revelation, so I mutter an affirmative and we say our goodbyes. Click, and dial tone.

I sit and stare at the phone in my hand, and then toss it aside. An urge is growing, the need to find this girl, just to see her again. I try to shake it off, to put the idea aside and rest for the day, but I can’t stay in bed.I find myself wandering, absentmindedly to the door. It is only when I find myself outside that I am aware that I have put my coat and shoes on, and my keys are in my car door. Sighing, I relent, and drive to the café where I had seen her. It is like Clara is waiting for me, sitting at a table outside in the snow, and I park, not taking my eyes from her. Click, and the door’s open, I’m out, and I head straight across the street, not bothering to walk to the cross-walk. Cars honk, and swerve, I pay them no heed. There is only her, like emeralds, dark fire and pure white snow. She’s smiling, and beckoning, and I go to her. There is no option. Her lips part, and her bell-like voice rings out, clear in the icy air. “How did you sleep last night?” I study her face, and can tell that Clara knows. “Like a rock”, I say anyways. “Want to go for a walk?” She nods, the laughter gone from her face, asking quietly if we can walk by the river. “It’s the prettiest right now, all white snow and black ice.” I agree, though there is a feeling inside of me, growing, making my stomach heavy. We walk, silently, and I can’t shake the feeling.

Before I know it we are there, at the river. Trees around us block out the fading winter daylight, and all at once, I recognize the sensation. Fear, deep and terrible fear, like an animal caught in a trap. The words are out of my mouth before I can consider. “What are you?” Laughter again, this time slightly mocking. “Well, I can’t resist terrifying you, so I’ll give you a hint. You may be sorry you asked though. It would have been more peaceful not knowing.” I can’t look at her, I won’t, but I have to. It’s like an invisible hand is lifting my chin, turning my head, forcing me to look into her eyes. I can see with a clarity I did not possess before, and behind their glimmering emerald surface, her eyes are cruel, cold and black, pupils like the depths of oblivion. She sighs, twirling a lock of hair around one pale finger, and begins. “Well, for one, my true name, my given name, is Sorcha, and I was ‘born’ in..” Her eyes hold me, and I cannot speak, but she answers the demand in my mind. “Oh, alright, we’ll skip that. Men these days, so rude.” Her voice is like steel, and, too late, I regret the interruption. “What am I? Well, I’ve been called many things. Siren, kelpie, drowned folk, faerie, Berberoka, dryad, the ‘Pipers Daughter’, Rusalka, mermaid”, More mocking laughter, “A mermaid, can you believe it?” I can’t, and I feel like laughing, except somewhere in my mind an alarm is ringing, deep and primal, the urge to run. “Don’t even think about it”, Clara says, and looks away from me, out over the icy river, and continues, telling me that humans have lost touch with the Earth around them, with the deities they once worshipped and sacrificed to. And the deities in return have agreed to give reign to the creatures of nightmares, the ones once warded away by offerings to the gods. Clara turns back to me. “There are so many of us, it’s better not to fight. Now come.” I follow, helpless, as she vaults over the fence lithely and dances off through the snow, leaving no prints. Her feet are bare, I notice belatedly. I stumble behind her, sliding on the ice.

We are near the estuary, where the ice thins and the river meets the ocean, and soon I begin to hear the ice cracking under my feet. I beg and plead with my mind, tears freezing on my face, but she doesn’t look back. We walk, and I expect to fall through any minute, but then Clara stops, and turns to me. “Oh, my poor baby, don’t cry. You are the start of something special. The dawn of a new era”, she says, pouting at me, taking me into her arms and cradling my head as I slump downwards. Clara is sitting on the ice, so thin you can see the water rushing underneath, and she takes her jacket off and wraps it around me. “You comfortable?” I look up, unthinkingly, and see that she is in nothing but a thin slip of a dress, as black as night. My teeth chatter, and I nod, because what else can I do, and she smiles, showing sharp teeth. Clara glances up at the sky, and as she looks up, so do I. The sky is dark, the stars are out, unreachable spots of cold light through the dark. “Soon, Just be calm. Remember, there is nothing you could have done. It was your destiny to be the first”, she croons, and begins to sing. The words are in a different language, beautiful, terrible and sad. A thump, from beneath the ice, and I jump. She hushes me, and continues singing. Her voice is enchanting, and somehow, I feel safe. My terror has be consumed by a mist of calm, and I cannot feel horror or sorrow for whatever is to come. Clouds swirl above, lightning flashes, and the snow falls faster.

The ice breaks beneath me, and I plunge into the water, the frigid shock jerking me suddenly back to myself. I surface, gasping for the air to scream, but my scream is cut short. She is there, standing before me on the ice, and her smile has vanished. All pretense of humanity, of Clara, is gone, and she pounces, diving into the cold water beside me. There is a moment of silence, of pure terror as I panic, trying to escape the icy water. I scramble for the edge of ice, but it just keeps breaking, tearing at the frozen skin on my fingers. The wind has whipped the snow into a blinding screen, and I can see nothing of the shore. A noise behind me, and I stop struggling, not wanting to turn around. A splash, and a cold hand caresses my face, forcing me to face her. “Shh, shh, you are our beginning” she whispers, “This won’t hurt for long.” Her hand slips around, cupping the back of my head, and I am kissing her.

She tastes of the sea, of night and death. I can’t breathe, her other arm locks around me, and we go down. Down into the frigid water, and her hair is all around me, my eyes are open and I can see her eyes, a predators eyes, savoring her kill. She pulls her face away, and I wonder how I could have ever thought Clara was human. I should have never left the house today, or yesterday. I should have gone to work, or told someone. I don’t believe in fate, or destiny. It’s so clear, as her teeth tear into my throat, and I float into murky darkness carried along by the currents in the water, that maybe it is better to die now anyways, before the darkness consumes the land. My very last feeling before my consciousness fades, is a deep pain for the sorrow and terror humanity will soon know. For the world of nightmares our ignorance has unleashed upon us.

Credit To – Danielle Elizabeth

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