Shadow Over Glass

February 17, 2015 at 12:00 AM

When I was twelve, I gazed out from the window in my bedroom, which was on the second floor of my house. My body was well-warmed, but the sight locked my head and eyes in place as though they were chilled solid.

The frozen lake was lit in a pure, near-fluorescent light. The moon was hovering in a clear sky, shifting the the usual darkness to a form of near-daylight. A few scattered stars surrounded the gleaming sphere, but my attention was focused on the landscape below. At the other edge of the cove was a surrounding tree line, formed into a jagged silhouette.

I examined this image for a few days, until the moon appeared to be at its brightest. I stopped watching. I walked.

With my first step onto the solid water, the flustering cold of the air disappeared from attention. For the first time in my life, I had seen the moon cast my shadow. It followed me, along the new tundra that was the outdoors, my outdoors. I marched across the entire cove, sensing a newfound energy from the different land. I became numb to the winds, both physically and mentally. By the time I returned home, only just then did I realize my skin turned a vicious pale, even beneath my coat, gloves, and boots.

This was my lone “winter activity”. I wasn’t a fan of the cold outdoors, even at a young age, but walking on that ice made me forget my disapproval. My parents were, to say the least, quite alarmed when I told them of my first adventure. I was an twelve year old wandering alone, after all, let alone the fact it was in the winter night (with deadly water beneath my feet, of course). As years past, I began to sneak out while they slept. They eventually accepted my adventures, seeing that I hadn’t yet drowned or froze to death (or both).

I continued my night walks for years, on that same cove. An average night was satisfying, but the full moon was always a must. I walked during those bright nights at every opportunity, for almost five years.

After that time, I was stopped.

In the year of 1998, while I was seventeen, a severe, powerful ice storm overtook much of the state. Freezing rain and sleet fell at a near constant rate for a good few days. Homes lost power for weeks, roads became unusable, and school was closed for much of the recovery time. I spent almost the entire duration indoors. I was left sleepless most nights, listening to the pounding of frozen drops colliding with the roof. Every window in the home seemed to crack every few minutes. It was unlike any winter weather I had experienced, still to this day (and I live in Maine, for god sakes). “It’s almost supernatural”, my father had joked, stumbling inside after being pelted by sleet.

When the raining cold stopped, school was still closed due to the roads, as were many stores and town departments. Power was still in a blackout. When I wasn’t gathering wood with my father, I spent most of the time peering out the window. The lakefront, along with the woods, became a cross between a wasteland and a glass exhibit. The open sunlight casted through the frozen branches, trees, and surfaces, lighting up the area in an array of glimmers and reflective specks. Large areas of the lake were covered in a uneven, clear layer of ice, while the tree lines at the opposite shore were washed in a shade of white.

A night later, the full moon made its appearance. I saw the light glow from my window. It was about an hour before I would sleep, but it was the chance for me to see the lake in a way I never had. I couldn’t miss it. It was ten thirty. Like many times before, my parents were asleep. I walked out into the night.

The world outside was a foreign, frostbitten land. The sky was clear, allowing the moon to cast its full gleam along the ice and surroundings. The branches of trees became hubs of sparkles, every twig reflecting their own light. Other objects, both natural and man-made, were coated in a layer of fine ice. The snow, which crunched and shattered with my steps, was wet and heavy.

Despite the frozen features, the temperature was, at the time, rather warm. I felt no wind upon my face. As I left my yard, onto the cove, a few drops dripped from a branch above, onto my jacket and neck.

The solid lake was as white as ever. I couldn’t make out my shadow on the glare ice, though. It was my reflection that became visible. It was dark and shaded, but I made out the minor features of my form. I could spot the white tag on the bottom of my coat, as well as the darkish red color of the coat’s material. I spotted the outlines of my eyes, along with the frame of my facial structure. Though it first fascinated me, it became rather ominous. I turned away. The almost startling sight still held itself in my memory.

As I rounded the shores of the silent cove, I looked to the center of the area. I found myself squinting. There was a small, darker section of the ice, one that contrasted against the surrounding white. By the sight of it (in the night), I expected it to be a section of open water, but this didn’t make sense to me. The entire lake had been frozen from end-to-end for weeks.

I moved closer, in which the sight continued to appear the same. I reached the center of the cove, and paused. What lied ten feet away from me was a single, circular space of black, an area no more than five feet in diameter. It was a self-contained abyss, making no reflection with the moon, no connection with the ice that circled it.

It appeared solid, as no cracks sounded as I stepped around it. The sheer unknown of the surface only drew me in, sending a curious tingle about my limbs as I was standing no more than three feet from it.

A calm breeze brushed against me. The only matter that stood between myself and the black surface was a space of cool air, and the only object within a hundred yards of me was a frozen tree.

Two feet.

A nervous twitch went through me, as I made another step. “It can’t shatter”, I told myself.

One foot.

On the dark surface, there was no reflection.

My right foot pressed down on the space. Nothing changed, in stability, terrain, or sound. After pressing and tapping with the same foot, my overcurious mind convinced me to step on with both feet. I listen.

The moment both of my feet hit the surface, a lightheadedness set about me. At the time, I speculated that it was an onset of my own stress and imagination. I took relieving breaths, knowing that I was still above water. Though the panic subsided, I was still at question as to what this unknown, dark surface was. I thought about what could’ve been thrown here from the ice storm, but no explanation seemed plausible. A patch of frozen tar? A small container of oil that had been blown onto the cove? I knew finding it out would be meaningless, so I looked up, and stepped away.

I locked in place. The light breeze stopped.

In the distance stood a shrouded, oval-shaped silhouette. It stood in place, immobile, making no apparent intentions on moving. Against the backdrop of coated trees and glare ice, its details were invisible.

I trembled. It moved, thrusting forward by inches. Even in the distance, I could make out that it was twitching, in a strange manner. Its form went out of shape every second, warping into different patterns of splatters and curves.

A small, quiet portion of me wanted to investigate. The louder, more sensible part of me knew that one weird discovery was enough for the night. I turned, making large steps in the opposite direction. I started to run. My eyes adjusted to the dim image of the shore. I stopped when it came into focus.

My home wasn’t there. There was only a line of trees. I swung about in circles, peering in all directions. From north, to south, to southwest, the sight was the same:

Trees. I was in a natural cage, with a fence of towering wood.

The moon continued to stream its unblocked, white glare. My eyes were almost strained from the light, which suggested that it had become brighter in the past minutes. The stars were far more numerous. I spotted no constellations, only an infinite array of specks.

My head went in circles, searching for an exit, opening, anything different in the prison. I became nauseous, dizzy from the overwhelming restraint and stress arising in my system. I looked back to the center of the cove, shielding my eyes from the moon’s gleam. The figure was closer, making consistent, full steps towards my position. The form appeared human-like, then. It still shook, stretching and contracting its limbs as it made mangled steps towards in my direction.

For perhaps an entire minute, I stared into the dark form that drifted closer to me. It was no more than fifty feet away, then. It had begun to wobble less, but it then started shifting colors, flashing in an array of different shades and patterns.

I sprinted. I moved away from the form, but there was nowhere else. Gathering any sense I could in the panic, my attention flashed to the black surface, which still lied in the center of the cove. The being was close by the spot, yet I still sprinted towards it. The figure didn’t turn, but floated to the position, in front of the hole. It was looking at me, as I ran.

The sky then began to move. I wasn’t just the stars, though. The entire space above started to melt and warp down, collapsing like a soaked oil painting. The moon started to sprout black, spiked veins. The world was growing darker. I kept concentrated to the ground in order to keep sane. My steps felt heavier, crushing against the ice, which was then cracking under my feet.

I kept running. It was clear that there was no escaping this being. Whether I would be stopped cold or pass right through him, either fate was preferable to the sensual hell. A booming roar sounded from what seemed from above. As I neared the form, a distorted screeching clawed at the back of my head. It was unmoving, no longer twitching or shifting forms.

Fifteen feet.

I made a final glance at the sky. It was then a chaotic, disfigured slew of black with white speckles. Whether it had continued to melt or started to whirl and twist, became impossible to determine. The being had more detail. I could see it, even in the dwindling light. It was around my height, six feet tall, dressed in darker, more thiner layers. It had a face. It was white, rather pale, with an age that appeared young, not a full adult, but close.

Five feet.

I nearly stopped, in both question and terror. I could make out its clothing; a black coat, with red lines of color, along with blue boots and dark, grayish pants. It’s hair was a brown, short, tapered near the top. I discovered these features all at once, in a second, as they were familiar in the worst possible way.

Three feet.

Right before my feet dove on the dark hole, I looked at myself. It was standing with a confident smirk as I made a collision with it. Just as I passed through the mirror-self, it opened its eyes, which had remained closed until then.

One foot.

Its eyes were two circles of white, holding the image of the corrupted, veined moon.

The screeching, along with the booming, had disappeared in a second. I felt my face impact a layer of snow. I kept my eyes closed. I heard a gust of wind, sweeping about in an open space. I stood, and opened my eyes to whatever fate I had been left to. I was in the cove, my cove. I could see my house on the nearby shore, as well as the opening to the rest of the lake in the opposite direction.

Safe to say, I immediately went home, but not before checking the ice behind me. For the first time in my life, as I turned, I prayed. I hoped of seeing an open, clear space of ice.

The hole still lied there, its own, self-contained abyss.

I sprinted back home, without glancing back. I went indoors, and strut up to the supposed safety of my own room. I felt at the walls, at solid objects. They were real. I went upstairs, and glanced into my parent’s bedroom. They were both still asleep.

To no surprise, I didn’t sleep, but I also didn’t move. I didn’t look out the window, look at the shadows on my wall, or turn to adjust my uncomfortable, restless self. I only shook. Soon after, I began to sweat. The weather was still rather warm.

Winter was colder, for the rest of the season. My family and I spent much of our time indoors, while I wasn’t at school or work. I didn’t develop any fear of the outdoors, which surprised me. I could still go outside without anxiety, even during the night. I never told my parents of my experience, nor any friends, aside from the occasional reference that only I could understand.

There’s the obligatory “all just a dream” theory, but to trivialize my fears and experience of that night is an idea I can’t bring myself to. I want to. God, I wish I could.

There were no further trips onto the evening ice. Winter has became a period that could go without my care. I felt no more joy in it. I felt pressure in it, actually. The smallest details seemed to draw the most vivid scenes and memories. Summer came, eventually, in which the ice melted back to its former liquid, along with the other frozen layers. In the warm waters of the cove, I saw no disturbances, nor unusual patterns. It was part of the ice when it arrived, so I suppose it left all the same. I don’t wish to think otherwise.

I care nothing about that black void, though. It’s not what bothers me. There are two sights that send me off mental balance, keeping me in a near-constant internal fear. They started from the day after that night, and it will continue for as long as I have eyes to witness them.

The first is the moon. I can’t appreciate it anymore. I only view it as an eye, one that mocks me, looking down upon my vulnerable self. I can’t help but feel, somewhere, there’s a mouth that fits with it. I have nightmares of it laughing. I have a memory of it smirking.

The second object is my reflection.

Or more so lack of.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

Imminent Graves

February 5, 2015 at 12:00 AM

I sigh at the sight of the open lake, a field of black liquid, with waves that cling a sticky gel to the tips of my boots. The shores of the small beach are covered with a series of gray patterns, outlines of the waves that wash about. The sun’s out, which is a surprise both pleasant and disappointing. The warmth is a welcomed perk, though I’m always praying for precipitation.

It rains, on occasion. Some plant life’s still around, by the looks of it. This lake area has been the first place in weeks in which I’ve seen a living tree. Perhaps they’ve only just come here, in the last few days. I look upon the tree line at the opposite shore, and I can see the larger portions of a city. It appears to be in ruins. I can see decayed towers and small clouds of smoke. From what I heard, the visitors hit the larger cities first. The survivalists I ran into on the road told me to head for woodlands. I can’t see why. The water lies just as black and dead here as it did in New York. The sun exposes the calm, tar-colored surface of the liquid body, reflecting the work of the ravenous visitors.

A drone flies overhead. I catch its orange trail of burned fuel as it flashes by. The mist of energy floats down on the surface of sand next to me, singeing the branches of the trees as it passes. I turn away from the dead lake. I feel a tense dryness in my throat.

I walk a trail, different from the one I took to the shore. The path is lined with more trees, most being stripped of their color and contents. Skeletal branches extend from torn and scratched trunks. Fallen leaves still paint the ground in a brown and tan slew. I spot scraps of metal and black dust about the woods. It’s what the visitors leave behind with their drones and pods. I haven’t spotted any large technology, so far. Yet, I’ve been unable to encounter another living creature in the past few days.

A slight pain begins to arise in my lower spine, which grows as my pack swings behind my shoulders. My watch died a few days ago. Due to near-constant lack of sun, I’m left questioning how long I’ve been traveling. I’m about to sit for a rest, but a ringing nearby keeps me on my feet. I turn in circles, twice.

There’s a scratchy, radio-like sound, one that spikes a tension in my ears. After making another three-sixty, I spot a small, tube-like device implanted in the woods, a bit off the path. A series of antennas extend from its upper end, with the lower portion pitched into the soil. It’s their technology, no doubt, but this device is unfamiliar. I’m curious to step closer, but moving a even a few feet towards it makes the ringing twice as bad. It loud ring continues, sending an acute sting through my earlobes. I move forward on the path, with quicker feet.

A burning surges through the desert that is my throat. I glance back to see a final view of the tar lake, with a gray forest lining each side of me. A sharp pain is now pulsing in my tailbone, and I sense a familiar soreness in my feet. After a few more minutes of travel, I come across a red house. It’s a surprising size, with two floors, a porch on each end, and numerous windows lining the side I can view. The structure is what I’d consider a lake house, an attractive home for the temporary resident. The path before me leads to the front porch, which holds a a single, white-colored door. I approach, and I see that much of the brick-red paint appears to be scraped, and half of the windows are stained with a colored substance. Some are cracked.

I stop when the door opens. I’m no more than fifty feet away from the deck, when a older, white bearded man stands in the doorway. He remains in the doorframe, holding a pistol in his right hand and keeping his left arm behind the wall. He appears to squint at the sight of me.

“Hold up!”, he shouts in a breathy, hoarse voice. “Stay still! There are explosives about the ground where you stand, and my fingers are right on the switch!.”

“Easy!”, I shout back, holding up my arms and keeping calm to avoid tension. “I’m not staying, I’m just pass-“

“What are you doing around here? Where do you come from?”

“I’ve walked from the city, from the south. I left for safety, but I came here in search of water.”

“Ain’t no water here! They came and shit over it weeks ago! You should’ve known.”

“You’re the first human I’ve encountered in over a week. I don’t have any sources to go by. Now, I don’t want anything from you. I’m just going to walk back, just in the direction behin-“

“The city, that’s where you’re coming from? Lot of news about there. They say the people are being possessed there, or something. What’s to say you’re not one of them?!”

“What do you mean?”

“One of them alien imposters! You come here to trick me out, boy?!”

“No! I don’t know what you speak of. I haven’t heard any news about ‘observers’.”

“Step around, slowly, into the yard to the left. My hand’s still on the switch, so don’t try any tricky shit.”

I move, stepping towards an open, clear yard. I keep my hands up, though my eyes remain locked on the man. He glares at me, now aiming his pistol in my direction. I can’t make out the specifics of his face, but his eyes are what intrigue me. They appear dark, abyssal. I want to sprint away, yet I’m not one to gamble on caution.

“Right here?”, I say, stopping near the center of the field.

“Yes”, the man says, moving his pistol down. Another drone flies by, in which I look to it. When I look back to the man, I see his head has remained still.

“So what now? I think it’s safe to say I’m not here to steal from you.”

“No. No, I suppose you’re right.”

The man steps out of the doorframe, and heads to the edge of the deck. He shows a smile to me. I smile back, yet my hands move close to my revolver in my pocket.

“Your hand’s of the switch”, I say, relaxing my hand. “There weren’t any explosives to begin with, were there?”

“You’re right, boy.”, he says, nodding with a smile. His eyes are black, indeed. They make me tremble. “You have nothing to worry about.”

A sting pierces the right side of my neck, with the cold entrance of a metallic surface. The object is removed before I can turn my head to look. I swing around, in which my vision is half as effective. The gray world around me becomes unclear, as I see a blurred figure standing before me. After appearing to step back, it approaches with slow steps. I see a series of white flashes before my vision disappears.

The world lies black, like tar.

A pressure is placed on my wrists, as well as my ankles. I hear sounds of faint clinks before opening my eyes, which ache as light floods over my lenses. The light comes from a window in front of me. I can see a view of the sunset, on a tree line at the end of a field. A few more clouds have appeared, since I was last outside.

The room becomes clear, which appears to be rather simple. The walls are covered in a scratched green paint, sporting a flowery wallpaper that brings an ironic prettiness. To the left of me lies an aged, torn sofa, stained with a possible mold. To the right lies a splintered coffee table. A cracked plate rests at its center.

I’m in a wooden chair, with my legs restrained in front, arms behind. My limbs are clasped together with some form of metal cuffs. The sun reflects off the restraints. I make the initial tugs for freedom, which is meant with an unsurprising defeat. I sense the restraints grip tighter, as a larger strain is placed on my wrists and ankles as I finish struggling.

“You don’t know what you’re even trying to escape.”, a voice says from behind, calm in its approach.

Before I turn my head back, a man steps in front of me. He appears middle-aged, dressed in a white coat, black slacks, and dark brown, formal shoes. He has medical gloves on, and is holding a small, cylinder-shaped container.

I look to his eyes, in which I’m struck with a coldness in my blood. Replacing his eyes are two, pitch-colored pools of black. They pulse with an ooze, like they’re about to bleed dark tears down onto my forehead.

“Don’t be frightened. You’re only late, to what should’ve been done already. You don’t have to suffer in this land, anymore.”

He moves around me, and begins running his fingers about my neck and head. He feels at my throat, temples, jaw, pulse, and at the tip of my spine. A chill pressure follows his fingers.

“Sorry I had to lure you in like that, boy.”, another voice says, approaching from behind again. It belongs to the older man from before. He steps in front of the window. His eyes are indeed the same, casting the same nightmarish gaze that I imagined when I first saw him.

“I didn’t mean to frighten or trick you. I just didn’t expect to see someone like ya. I thought our job was just about done.”

“Your throat must be immensely dry.”, the middle-aged ‘man’ says. “How long have you gone without water? Hours? Days, perhaps? I haven’t yet been able to study how long you can go without sustenance. Given the rapid loss of human life, I wouldn’t suspect long. It’s pitiful, really.”

“That’s what he was looking for, when I saw him.”, the older one says. “That’s when I was sure he was human. The scanner picked him up even before then.”

“You won’t last out here, not for much longer. We’ve drained most of this place. Then again, so have your people.”

I look about the room again, and then out the window. The sunset’s just beginning to fade.

“Who are you?”, I ask in a shaky voice. “Please, tell me, what is happening?”

“Acceleration.”, the middle-aged one says. “We’ve sped up the little time that’s left, on nature’s clock. Now that this place is dying, we’re taking and saving what we can. A few others are like you, running, in panic. Almost everyone’s out, now, and you will be as well.”

The middle-aged one steps in front of me again, and opens the container. Inside the case is a small, metal clasp object, combined with a form of syringe. A micro-point lines at the end of the narrow piece, one that feeds into a gray, dust-like substance. I only have a second to examine it before the man moves behind me, with the object in hand.

“Wait! Wait!”, I shout, tugging at my restraints as they continue to grow tighter. My ankles and arms grow numb from the pressure. “What’s that?!”

“Relax”, the man says, his voice no louder than a whisper. “If I explained to you, it would only unnerve you more. Don’t struggle. There’s no need to escape from rescue.”

“No, stop! What are you doing?!”

“For years, you have lived on nothing but an imminent grave. You all have. We have foreseen this, and we have come. Now, close your eyes. The pain will be unusual, but short.”

I don’t listen. I start to breath relentless air, shaking like mad. The older one starts to speak, but his words fly over me. A pinch goes through the back of my neck, in which the rest of my body is shot with a strange, chilling energy. I lose all sense of my limbs.

“You’ll sleep, for a while. But you’ll wake up, soon.”

I look up to the window, as color begins to fade from my vision. I see the open field as a sheer gray. I begin to spot large, sphere-shaped structures beginning to descend upon the field and beyond. They cast beams of light, on the field and surrounding woods. My vision then goes black.

The dryness in my throat subsides. I sense a thick, slow-moving liquid begin to bleed away from my eyes.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

Green Room

January 10, 2015 at 12:00 AM

The air’s as cool as a fridge. The black, starless sky establishes a sense of isolation, which will only increase when I arrive at my destination. As I drive along a paved road, the streetlights become fewer in number. I turn down an unpaved backroad as a shortcut, with my patience already growing thin of this excursion.

The backroad continues for a good ten minutes, though it feels twice as long with my car jerking from a terrible, swerving road. By the end of the path, the headlights shine on a grimy, overgrown stone wall. This is where I stop, grasping my backpack and flashlight. I remove a cold, faded-silver revolver from the glove compartment. I check its wheel; six shots, still awaiting their use. As always, it goes in the right pocket.

There’s a brief walk around the wall before I reach the entrance to the structure. Along the way, the stone barrier is seen to be overgrown, claimed by the forest that surrounds it. Fallen leaves line the base of the structure, and continue to pile as I march along the fall night. When I turn a corner, I find myself at a clearing.

I walk away from the building to get a better view. I find a large, open lot, which now begins to sprout a series of bushes and patches of grass. When I find myself spaced away, I turn back to the structure, with my eyesight more adjusted to the darkness. A gray, symmetrical stone building stands before me, at least three floors high. I twitch with unease as I notice only two sets of windows line the front wall, which are both on the second floor. The walls appear to extend back for a good distance, half a football field, maybe. Its structure, material, and color suggest an older construction, but not one that’s ancient. I’m no architectural or historical expert, but a late 1800s age seems like a reasonable guess.

After taking in the sight, I approach the entrance: an arching, splintered, wooden door. It appears to have once been barred by a metal brace, but it’s been smashed to the ground. Above the doorframe is a few words, carved into stone. I shine the light on the text which reads “Winslow Theater and Performance Hall”. I can’t think of any other forsaken, abandoned building in the area, but I check my directions to make sure I’m not about to waste my time and sanity.

I open my phone, and view the bosses instructions:

“Winslow Theater, south of the old post office on south street. Pull down on Berrywood Lane, and just keep going until you reach a dirt road. Pull down that, as it’s quicker, and out of sight. After a bit longer, you’ll reach the place. Once there, head past the auditorium, and downstairs backstage. You’ll know where to go from there. If not, just follow the scent. If you can’t come back with a supply, then don’t bother coming back. If we catch you collecting, and not coming back to us, we’ll find you. We keep a count on the supply constantly.

Best of luck.

-G”

I place the phone back in my pocket and my eyes are overwhelmed by the returning dark in front of me. I blink for a minute, then enter through the wooden doors.

The box office is in the front lobby, its windows smashed, and its booth collecting nothing but dust. As I shine my light across the floor, I see it smeared with a collection of grass, leaves and darkened, brown mold color. The walls inside were once painted white, but are now stripped to a stone gray, just as the outside. I examine the room’s features for a brief minute before entering the main room.

When entering the auditorium, the room causes me to question my own perception. The space is far larger than I expected, with my light only shining a short distance before dimming away. Seats stretch as far as my flashlight can reach, all lined straight together, with their wood torn and scratched to disarray. I shine my light left and right, in which it reaches a wall on both sides. The darkness only stretches forward, with the space for an endless audience. There’s a single, clear lane for walking, bridging a gap for my walk. I’m reluctant, but I press on, knowing my desperation for this job.

As I walk the open lane, the empty seats stare back. Every chair is a set of eyes, ones that cut through the dark and witness my exposed state. My left hand keeps a firm grip on the flashlight, shining forward. My right hand remains against my right pocket, feeling the cold handle of my only defense. After passing at least thirty rows of seats, the light picks up the first view of the stage.

The stage, for the size of the room, is rather small. The arching floor of wood gives a feeling of confinement, a static prison in front of an invisible crowd. I traverse a small set of stairs offstage left, and walk towards the torn red curtain. A curious part of me wishes to turn, and see the stretch of darkness that I’ve traversed. The sane part of me, however, doesn’t want to witness the stare of black that lies behind. I delve through the curtains.

Backstage appears to be very simple: an empty, wooden-floored room, with doors on the left and right walls. Both doors lead to a stairway leading down, but I choose the right door, as it’s slightly closer to where I stand. Every step saved is cherished.

The downstairs halls are narrow, and are littered with tight corners. My breaths grow deeper, and cold sweat dampens the shirt beneath my jacket. Doors start to appear across the halls, but none appear to be the spot I’m looking for. I start to wonder if I’m just walking in circles, as I’ve turned in each direction at least twice. My left hand shakes as it holds the flashlight, and my right hand strains as it grips the revolver. The six shots are my best friends.

I turn a corner and a strong, piercing odor claims my sense of smell. The scent is chemical, with hints of tobacco, sulfur, and a surrounding aroma of smoke. There’s a windowed door at the end of the hall, and the smells grow as I approach. Despite me being close, my paranoia reaches overdrive. My ears sense occasional whispers. Patches of cold flash about my skin, while my heart beats to the point of pain.

“Shit,” I think to myself. They recommend that I wear a respirator when I enter the storage room, but in the midst of directions I have to remember, I forgot to get one for the trip. My walk into the room would have to be quick, for the sake of my lungs. The unnatural air in the storage room is preferable to the haunting halls, though.

I enter through the windowed door, and my senses are stunned for a split moment. I’m stopped in my step from the intense barrage of substances. The air feels much more cool and dense, to where it resembled the touch of fog. The door is rather heavy, in which it shuts behind me as I step into the center of the small room. The wooden walls are painted green, with a series of benches and chairs against them. There’s a chalkboard to my left as I turn from the door, one that’s covered in a think layer of dust.

Scattered about the room, on benches, chairs, and the floor, are white crates. None are labelled, and all are shut without any lock or seal. Many of them have their own scents, but the mixed odor of the entire room is too much for me to sense details. I take a deep breath for preparation, but an ache shoots off in my chest from the action. I rush to work.

The crates contain some of what I expected, but also materials that I’ve never witnessed before. First, I find the typical bags of cocaine, sheets and bottles of pills, and series of full-grown marijuana plants. As I continue to sift through, however, I come across substances that puzzle me; strange, almost alien-like plants, racks of needles filled with green fluid, vials of vibrantly colored liquids, and a few crates containing a black gel inside glass cubes. If my curiosity wasn’t outweighed by my fear, I could explore the containers for hours. I feel bad for whoever has the job of testing all this shit.

After loading my backpack with some medicine bottles, plant leaves, and a few needles, I turn back to the door. I’m left stunned with a sight: though the window, a light is on in the hallway.

I’m sure that electricity is impossible for this ruined, neglected theater. Yet, the light floods from the window, exposing the green walls of the room. I’m clutching the gun even tighter. I dart around for another escape, but the door I came through is the only exit.

As the light begins to fade, I move towards the door, with my gun drawn forward. I’m slowed by the sounds of footsteps above the room, stomping about in, what I guess is, the theater. S.W.A.T teams, I think to myself. I’m fucked, for sure. My only idea is to go through the halls, and find an exit about the other doors. If they lead nowhere, at least they can serve as a hiding place.

When the light is gone from the window, I press though the door. I’m prepared to fire when I see a figure stand, but I’m left still as my eyes fixate on it. A pale, dark-haired, frail woman appears at the end of the hall. Her naked self reveals an array of smooth, milk colored skin. She turns to me when my light shines, revealing a cold, expressionless face. I’m first shocked, but as she drifts closer to me, I find myself grow calm, entranced. She stares at me with glowing pearl eyes, ones that caress my consciousness. She stands no more than a few feet from me. I lower my gun.

“Hello,” she says, almost whispering. The voice is soft, yet it echoes throughout the hall, filling the space with an unfamiliar life. Rather than respond, I stand awe struck, staring. The woman, disregarding my silence, outstretches a hand to me.

“Will you perform with me?” she asks.

I’m still left speechless, but her voice causes me to act without reason, overwhelmed with curiosity. I place the gun in my pocket, and connect my hand with hers. A chill pulses through my arm at the touch, but not one that unsettles me. The sense feels more gentle and welcoming than fear. She leads me throughout the halls, looking forward. She begins to pick up her pace, in which I follow. She almost starts to run, until we encounter a stairway, one that’s lit from the room above. I shut my flashlight off, and the woman releases my hand. She turns back to me, smiles, and makes her way up the stairs. I follow, and my caution starts to rise. At the top of the stairs, with the light turning her figure into a silhouette, the woman speaks down to me.

“Break a leg,” she says before entering the room.

I hear many voices as she leaves. Shouting, cheering, and applause sound down the stairway. I start clutching the gun again. After scaling the stairs, I realize I’ve backtracked; I’m back at the stage.

The stage is illuminated by a series of unknown lights, spanning from the ceiling. On the stage now lies a wooden pole, lined with colorful ribbons and flowers. Two masked men wearing black clothing stand near the woman, who’s now center stage.

Being as quiet as I can, I move closer towards the open curtain, and peer out into the seats. I’m close to fainting when I see there’s an audience. A full audience. Every chair is occupied by formal dressed, wealthy-looking individuals. They stand, applauding as the woman poses on stage. It’s difficult for me to make out faces, but their ages span from as young as early twenties, to as much as seventy. All of their faces however, are as white as the woman’s, and they possess the same striking, pearl eyes. As far as I can tell, I’m unnoticed.

The crowd sits as the woman steps back to the pole. She lowers her arms down, standing straight against the wood. The two masked men approach her, and tie her arms against the pole. The woman remains smiling. I’m left both confused and concerned when one of the men leaves and returns with a jar, before pouring a clear liquid across the woman’s body. The crowd remains shushed.

At last, the other man returns with a torch. I’m about to gasp, but I hold a hand to my mouth to keep hidden. The woman pays no mind to the flame, audience, or myself. She keeps her eyes closed, sporting a smile as the flame touches her stomach. She ignites in a mere second. As the fire spreads about, darkening and stripping her bare skin, she screams. The crowd begins to follow with cheers, turning to a stand ovation. I don’t want to move, but one of the masked men looks to me. He stares, in which I start for my escape.

I move around the curtain, feeling a warmth as I pass the burning flames. I leap off the stage, sprinting down the lanes of seats. I forget about my gun, flashlight, and the woman altogether. The crowd continues to cheer to insanity as I dash by, not giving a cent of mind to my escape. The woman’s screams continue to sound away until I reach the auditorium doors. Her voice is gone as soon as I grasp the door handle.

The woman’s and crowd’s silence is relieving. I’m bent on leaving the cursed place, but I’m confident in my experience being a spontaneous hallucination. I suspect that being exposed to the substances and chemicals could do almost anything. Who knows what kind of a trip could be forced? I turn for one last glance at the theater, suspecting my illusions to end.

Everyone in the audience, both old and young, is staring at me. The stage has gone dark, and at least a hundred sets of eyes are fixated on my petrified form. Their faces hold no life, no reaction, no care.

In a single moment, I find the senses to burst through the doors, and through the theater entrance as well. I stumble numerous times, as I’ve lost my flashlight, but I manage to make my way out to the open lot, where I first began. I wander about the open space as my eyes adjust to the darkness, and my mind adjusts to a safe reality.

As I catch my breath I’m reluctant to go back towards the stone walls, to my car. I stick as far away from the building as possible as I move.

I check the back seat, of course. I toss my bag to the passengers seat, start the engine, and pull out with a swerve. I lost my gun in my sprint, but unlike my skin and sanity, that’s replaceable.

I drive fast, but not to where it’s hazardous. The sight of paved roads ease my shaking a bit, but I’m left partially blind with the sharp memories scarred upon me. I focus on the relief of home, growing closer with every mile. I almost swerve off the road when a vibration hits my leg. I slam the breaks, bringing the car to an abrupt and dangerous halt. My phone’s going off, in which I take a much needed sigh of relief.

“H-Hello?” I say with short breath.

“Alec,” a deep, serious voice says, “Are you safe?”

I keep quiet for a few seconds, questioning the exact definition of “safe”.

“Yeah.”, I reply. “I think so.”

“Alright then. Get back to the warehouse ASAP. How much did you grab?”

“Enough to fill my backpack, which is an average size.”

“That will do, for your first. Leave it in there. Don’t even bother touching the bag until you get back. We’ll take it into our hands once it arrives. Depending on what you grabbed, there’s shit in there that will twist your mind to pieces. Try not to be too curious, or you’ll end up like one of our last initiates.”

I want to at least attempt to lighten the situation, so I curtail to my curiosity.

“What happened to him?”, I ask.

A long pause takes over the line, before the voice responds.

“He went back.”

The line goes dead. I focus on the road, and begin to drive. As the road becomes less rural with every mile, I glance at the backpack, eager to rid myself of the madness inside.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

Conveyor

October 27, 2014 at 12:00 AM

Jason paced the room, where him and four of his colleagues had fled. His steps lined the walls, longer than they ever have. His work demanded the most complex and ambitious thought, but he had never felt this pressured before. Though the project had no appointed leader or organizer, the others had looked to him as a leader since the beginning.

“Well?”, Calvin spoke, with a hand to his forehead. “Where to go from here?” “To be honest,” said Jason, “I’m not entirely sure. We’re all part of this. I don’t know why everyone’s looking at me.”

“Well you’ve certainly called most of the shots. You’re the first to make suggestions, most of the time. How should now be any different?”

Despite Jason’s claim, not everyone was looking at him. Connor, who had remained silent since the group entered the room, was huddled in a corner. He clasped his legs in a fetal position, staring forward as though he hallucinated. The group had stopped trying to communicate with him. They knew he had already gone mad from the events beforehand. In fact, they could only understand his sudden insanity.

Clarice tended the wound on Reyna’s arm, which was inflicted by teeth on their way up the stairs. Calvin and Ronan began to argue again, this time on what path of the facility would be most clear to travel. Jason only began to pace again, until he was caught by Calvin and Ronan’s words.

“We could try the nearest stairway again”, Ronan said. “It was clear up to here, so it should be clear the rest of the way. The things should only be at the deeper levels right now-”

“Right now!”, Calvin interrupted. “Exactly! Just where could they be five minutes from now? They could be more intelligent at this point, and could be tracking us down to here! We need to head towards the east stairs, and move out from there. It’s been vacant up to now, so it should leave a clear path out of this place.”

Jason stopped in his step, with his back faced towards the others.

“Out?”, Jason spoke softly “Is that what you think our objective is? Is that what you think needs to be done, Calvin? We created this, we weren’t prepared for it. And for that, we must stop it. The H.G.C. must be stopped.”

“That’s fucking insane. You’ve seen what’s happened. It’s not only uncontrollable, it’s aware. Shutting it down is impossible at this point.”

“Then it must be destroyed”, said Reyna. “It can’t be allowed to keep operating, not like this.”

“Alright, we leave this place, call for military forces, and they come in and destroy the machine, along with those fucking nightmares.”

“Tell me, Calvin”, said Jason, now turning to look at the group. “Do you want military forces to come and look upon our work, what we’ve been keeping completely undisclosed to almost all eyes so far? Do you want to suffer their questions and punishments once they take hold of the situation?”

Calvin was about to answer angrily, but he couldn’t help but agree, in silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Any other personnel that may still be alive, that managed to get away?”, asked Ronan.

“That aren’t in this room?”, Calvin replied. “Not a chance. The doors were sealed when the H.G.C. went haywire. We were in the only ones out of the room. It’s a miracle in itself that Connor managed to make to us, as those freaks scattered. It’s not like there were many of us to begin with, anyway.”


Given the confidentiality of the project, the facility was deliberately understaffed to maintain secrecy of information. The team had consisted of twelve individuals, all qualified researchers and technicians. Candidates for the project were chosen based on qualifications in both scientific and technological backgrounds. Personnel was also selected in terms of perseverance and dedication. Knowledgable, under-the-radar individuals were the most welcomed.

Keeping the project hidden from unwelcome eyes (both military and government) was an absolute necessity. Because of this, the project was developed in an underground facility, which had been left abandoned since the end of the Cold War. While the facility was very large, the project only required a single, large room, where the H.G.C. (Human Genetics Constructor) was built. The elevators were used for swift travel, but the rest of the space had been left unused, and even unseen.

“We must go now”, said Jason. “The H.G.C. is made to adapt quickly, so we can’t keep waiting. Have your weapons at the ready. We may not have a clear path to the room.”

The group listened, hesitation as they moved out to the hall. For the first time since the project began, Jason felt unsure, paranoid, unaware if he was making the correct choice.

As the group of six left the shelter of the secluded room, the sheer lifelessness of the complex began to make itself clear. The halls they travelled had not seen life for years since their arrival. In fact, what the facility had been used for before their project had still been largely unknown. The large space and multi-purpose rooms hinted to something major, requiring many workers and possible large equipment.

Jason, as usual, took lead as the group went towards the elevator. The rest followed close together, with the exception of Connor. He lagged behind, stumbling occasionally, scanning the surrounding walls. Reyna had made attempts to speak with Connor, and was constantly met with silence. Even as he stepped behind the group, still conscious of movement and sound, he appeared to isolate himself from the remaining researchers.

Just how intelligent the creations were was still a mystery to the group. Jason couldn’t tell if they were incapable to going through doors, or competent enough to work elevators. This made him panic as he went further down the hall. To his relief, when they reached the elevator, the space was clear.

The trip down to the lab level was silent, with the exception of grinding elevator shaft. Jason felt for his gun around his belt, while Calvin was already clutching his. Reyna’s upper arm was injured, but she still seemed able to handle a firearm.

The elevator stopped on the lab floor.

“Let’s try to keep this as simple as possible.”, Jason said. “We stick together, as there’s no point in splitting up. The H.G.C. room is a few halls down, so if we keep pace, we shouldn’t ne-“

The elevator door opened. Near the end of the hall stood a figure, its back turned to the group. It stepped very slowly, and then turned. The lengths of its arms and legs were intimidating, not impossible, but far above an average human’s. It moved forward, towards the elevator.

Then, it began to sprint, sounding a distorted growl.

Jason and Calvin both aimed, and then began to fire. Some shots missed, but others hit the creature in random areas. As the shots hit, the creation let out inconsistent, warped screeches that echoed through the hall. No shots fully stopped it until it received a blow to the head, in which it collapsed to the floor.

The group, after lingering in the elevator for a few seconds, approached the body. Though its limbs were unusually long, it wasn’t the only disturbing feature. Numerous scars were scattered about the body, especially nearing the arms and legs. It was rather frail, leaving its spine very visible. It’s fingers were tipped with small, sharpened fingernails, and patches of skin remained incomplete. The creature had two different eyes, a blue and an orange. Finally, the mouth had been outfitted with an array of needle-tipped teeth.

It was hard for Jason (or any of the researchers, for that matter) to believe that these creations were intended to be real humans. The ending purpose of the Human Genetics Constructor had been debated, but its function remained true to the project’s goal: to create real, living, and completely accurate humans. The H.G.C. was not a cloning machine or android constructor; its humans were completely unique to each other, all capable of being programmed with specific skills, physical attributes, and knowledge.

When the H.G.C. had finished construction, its first tests were flaws, but none capable of causing the madness that had unfolded. The early subjects had drained senses, stunted limbs, misplaced and/or dysfunctional organs, and the occasional mixup of male and female features. Most of its early persons didn’t live for more than a minute.

To help correct many early mistakes, the H.G.C. was programmed to not only be self-operating, but also self-correcting. If a created human was judged as a failure, it changed its direction and strategy to fix the issue. For over an hour, the machine improved itself as designed, getting closer towards a perfectly normal human.

Over time, the H.G.C.’s programming proved to be highly inconsistent. Even though the machine had gone close to success, it changed its approach constantly. This began to produce more grotesque, nightmarish humans, ones with numerous extra limbs and disarranged, incomplete portions. The researchers, though looking for other solutions, continued to command the system to change its operations, recognizing its faults.

The H.G.C. caught on, in a different sense, one that began the destruction. After the system was aware of its own freedom and power, it realized that its flaws were not with its creations, but its own inventors. The only reason it was failing was because the technicians were claiming it wrong. It then set a new goal in motion, and the objective was simple:

Eliminate all human personnel, immediately.

It produced a new kind of creation: Not an aimless, contorted monster, but a weapon. It produced “humans” specifically designed to kill, monsters that were fast, enduring, capable of biting and ripping a normal person to mere fragments. When the first hideous creation stepped from the machine, it managed to kill three researchers in the first sixty seconds. The H.G.C. had developed a tool, one for removing the errors it had encountered.

Five mistakes remain uncorrected.

As the rest of the group began to move again, Connor still fell behind. He stopped to look at the dead creation, in which Jason looked watched him with curiosity. Connor stared at the carcass, and then looked up towards Jason. “He is false.”, Connor said, before walking forward with the others.

The group began to rush as they encountered more bodies, of both other personnel and the creations. As they neared the room of the H.G.C., the walls became murals of blood and bullet shrapnel. It was unknown if any others managed to escape. Judging by the scene in the halls, it was unlikely.

The number of creations was still a mystery, though their dominance over the facility was surely spreading. Their time was running short, especially as the halls grew large and complex.

“I’ll run in, and try to shut it down manually.” Jason said, as the group approached the observation room. If that doesn’t work, I’ll destroy the power supply. Cover me, and yourselves if needed.”

When they reached the observation, the group approached the window that overlooked the lab, and readied their eyes.

They weren’t ready enough.

The entire room was a bloodbath. The H.G.C.’s conveyor belt ran about the room, connecting its various tools and chambers. The belt had reached a tremendously high speed, much more than it was invented to handle. The machine still functioned, but not at the cost of failures. The inhuman shapes that passed and fell from the belt were near inconceivable to the researchers. Twisted, incomplete “humans” stumbled from the end of the machine.

At an average rate, the H.G.C. created a grotesque humanoid every 45 seconds. At the end of the conveyer lied a stack of the mistakes, with some being able to walk about for a minute. At random intervals, another vicious, capable creation left the conveyor.

Another human bred to kill.

Some of the deceased personnel (or at least some of their pieces) could be seen across the room. The remaining, unseen individuals were either dead in the halls, or buried beneath the heap of contorted limbs.

It was clear that time couldn’t be wasted. Jason focused his eyes to the H.G.C.’s mainframe, its screen lit with commands and chaotic code. Despite its rushed work and many mistakes, it would eventually improve itself, as it was designed to do.

Calvin was petrified with the sight of the room. When they stepped into the hall, however, Calvin turned the other direction. “Fuck this.”, Calvin said. “I’m getting out of this place, and calling for military forces.”

“Wait.”, Jason said. “What makes you think you can leave? Just how many of those ravenous creatures are scattered? You saw how many shots it took to take care of that one earlier. You try to make it out alone, you’re as good as dead.”

“Fuck you! We could’ve made it out at any point before this. You’re still concerned with the machine, not our safety. Why we followed you, I’ll never know, but I’m not going to walk into a suicide room for the sake of fiddling with a goddamn computer.”

Calvin turned, and began to move down the hall.

“Fool.”, Jason said as Calvin left.

The lab door stood in front of the remaining group. The halls remained silent, but the room behind the door echoed with the sounds of grinding mechanics and the rush of conveyors.

Jason opened the doors, and his senses were overwhelmed by a unusual, terrible odor. It’s scent could only be described as a mix of iron, burnt rubber, and rotted skin.

It had been two hours since the H.G.C. malfunctioned, and the bodies had piled up beyond expectation. Jason began to stumble over organic debris and lifeless abominations as he rushed to the H.G.C.’s control. What limbs belonged to some of the personnel was difficult to tell.

“If any killer comes out of that machine, or through the door”, Jason said. “Shoot it dead. Don’t be wasteful with ammunition, either.”

The others nodded, and Jason made his way to the end of the room. Once he cleared most of the bodies, he began to sprint. As he neared close, he could see that the screen was a mess of text, code, and commands. It was near-impossible to decipher any of it.

He mashed delete keys, shut-down controls, reverse commands, even shot at the power generator numerous times. Not a single action even stunned the machine. He continued to hammer the controls, only out of frustration. Hopelessness began to flow over him, then fear, as he heard gunshots erupt from the other end of the room. He slowly turned his head up, to see that a different text had appeared on the screen:

[DO YOU THINK YOU CAN PLAY GOD?]

It was displayed in small, green letters, surrounded by a box centered on the screen. The display surrounding it was still in chaos, but the words were completely clear. Once Jason read the text, it was replaced:


[DO YOU THINK THIS IS YOUR PLACE? YOUR CREATIONS?]

[NO……]

Though they were only computerized words, Jason felt as though they spoke to him. It could’ve been madness setting over him, but a voice echoed through mind as he continued to read the H.G.C.’s messages.

[I AM GOD, HERE]

[THESE ARE MY CHILDREN]

[THIS IS MY HEAVEN]

Jason heard the rest of the group begin to scream for him. The ravenous humanoids were generating quicker, by the sounds of it. He had to stop the machine, run for his safety, or perhaps end his life right then. Just as the pressure began to reach a critical level, the machine typed once more:

[AND THIS PLACE WILL BE YOUR HELL]

“It already is”, Jason thought to himself. He looked towards the ground, and spotted the nearest corpse. It was, for sure, of a researcher. Jason recognized him, but couldn’t put down his name exactly. He turned from the computer, and approached the body. After staring at its figure for about ten seconds, the longest he had felt in his life, he moved to act.

He lifted the body, and ran towards the nearest chamber of the machine. Then, he tossed the body inside.

A loud, grinding noise came from the chamber, and the belt slowed for a small moment. Jason looked back at the group, and knew the opportunity at hand. Jason continued.

He picked up any body or limb he could carry, and tossed them among the H.G.C.’s other chambers and tools. Connor and Ronan began to understand his idea, and joined in effort. The crushing of bones and compacting of flesh in the machine began to overtake the sounds of the belt, which continued to stutter and slow. Blood splatted across the room from the machine, both from the grounded bodies and the H.G.C.’s supply. After seconds, the coats of the three men were painted with red and small shavings of flesh.

A few more gunshots sounded about the room, and the belt then slowed to an abrupt stop. The group took a breath of slight relief, which was overshadowed by the fact that they were still deep within the facility. Jason noticed that though the machine had stopped, its power supply still ran at full force, and its control screen was still lit with text and symbols.

Error messages flooded about the H.G.C.’s computer. Jason could make out a few reading “BELT SPACE ERROR” and “JAM LEVELS CRITICAL”, but the messages were still too disorganized. He was about to turn away, until the text began to disappear, word by word. He suspected the machine was powering down from the errors. The screen made space for a single, final message:

[EVEN AS I DIE, MY CHILDREN WILL FOLLOW]

[BUT HERE, YOU WILL BE BURIED]

The power supply began to flicker, and then began to glow an extreme brightness. A shaking pressure built across the room. It was obvious to the group what was happening, in which they began to sprint for the elevator.

Jason and Ronan were oblivious to the fact that Reyna had been injured again, and much more severely. Rather than a wound to the arm, she had been cut in the neck by two nails, and had been losing blood since they ran from the testing room. Clarice had witnessed the injury, but had no means of treating it on the spot, and was occupied in holding the creatures back as the others operated.

As the group was reaching the elevator, Reyna fell behind, and then fell to the floor. Ronan turned to grab her, but a group of the creations were already approaching behind. Ronan knew he would die too, helping her. He didn’t look back as he ran to the elevator. As the elevator doors closed, however, the group couldn’t help but see her be torn apart.

As the elevator opened to the upper hallways, Jason had realized his speculation to be true: The creations had spread to the upper levels. As the group ran towards the nearest exit, screeches and growls sounded throughout the halls. They sounded distant, though they were on the same floor. They would be found soon, no doubt.

A massive, quaking explosion sounded from the lower floor.

None of the researchers had any intentions of recovering any recordings, research findings, or even personal belongings. The blood on their coats and images in their memory had made escape the only objective in sight.

At the end of the final hall, the ladder towards the surface appeared in sight.

When the group turned a corner, a creation struck Connor, sending him to the ground. The creature went on him, clawing at his neck and chest while sounding a terrible scream. Connor managed to reach for his gun quick enough, and shot the creature clear in the chin, sending it back. From the sounds of the halls, more were coming, and Connor’s wounds were painfully critical.

The rest of the group ran for the ladder, while Jason watched Connor in his last moments. He only remained on the floor, breathing heavily, watching the hall ahead. He looked back at Jason once, and stared for a moment. After glancing down the hall, which must’ve held a horde of sprinting creations, he spoke his last words toward Jason:



“They are false.”

Jason ran for the ladder at the hall’s end, and heard a burst of frantic bullets.

Jason expected to be blinded by sunlight when he stepped out, but his eyes were greeted with grey, clouded skies. Ronan and Clarice were already above, waiting for him. Calvin was also present, who was expected to be gone already. Jason didn’t think of it much, as he had to immediately seal the cover to the facility. He placed the steel plate over the manhole, and barred it shut. He even grabbed nearby rocks in the field to weigh it down. Soon after the entrance hole was covered, hands could be heard from the opposite side, banging at the cover.

The group stood in silence for some time. No one had a clear idea of what to say, even Jason.

Jason began to think about Connor, and how he was disregarded for his insanity. He may have been the most daring of the group, to examine everything so closely. Jason wondered if he should’ve done the same. He turned away from the facility entrance, and looked at Calvin.

“Look, I’m sorry I left you, okay?”, Calvin said. “I just made it up about a minute ago, and heard you coming down the hall. I haven’t even even tried to contact anyone yet.”

Jason nodded, and looked at Ronan and Clarice, who both gave blank looks back.

“I’d forgive you,”, Jason said. “if the conditions were different. But we both know that wouldn’t be the smart choice.”

Jason drew his gun, and shot Calvin clear in the forehead. Clarice screamed at the attack, and she was shot directly after. They both immediately fell, with no struggle. Ronan stood still, shaking, completely lost with the gun aimed to him. Another second past, and then Ronan took two shots to the head as well.

Jason dropped his gun to the grass, when the three bodies lied. Their skulls were nearly divided apart from the shots. They had died instantly.

Jason didn’t know how long he’d been deceived. It could’ve been since the beginning, when they escaped to the upper level. It could’ve been while they were in the H.G.C. lab, when he was turned to the computer. Perhaps it was another moment entirely, but it didn’t matter to him. Connor, despite his madness, had been correct.

They were false.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

Remember Smith

August 18, 2014 at 12:00 AM

Hours have gone by, with nothing. I’ve typed the same shit over and over, which is getting me nowhere. It’s time to get something done…

Smith, before I go further with this, I want to establish how much I hate you. Although, in a sense, I’m proud of you. This trap is rather elaborate, and even uses my own idea against me. You’ve thought around every corner to ensure my suicidal demise in the end, and for that, I commend you.

How long you’ll go on is lost to me. I’m not sure how, but perhaps this log will be recovered, and someone else will want to dent your face in. You may have gone years without being caught, but you won’t continue much longer, not like this. I’ll try to be sure of it.

Now, with my personal message out of the way, I’m not sure where to begin. I have what feels to be all the time in the world, yet that’s not something I can be sure of. For some time, I’ve been oblivious to the loss of blood from my wrist. It wasn’t apparent until the pain began to set in, but its been slow. I’m hoping I can at least keep alive until this is finished, wherever it may be going. I apologize for any blatant typos or unfixed errors. A perfect paper isn’t my highest objective at the moment.

I’ll start by talking about him, I suppose. Smith. We worked for a time, but we never shared a friendship. Our relationship was strictly business. We never met outside our work, and left much of our personal lives undisclosed. Knowing of his past could’ve surely prevented this, at least this outcome.

I work(ed) at Massachusetts General Hospital, by the way. My occupation is a general researcher, but I had a bit of a side interest, which Smith apparently shared. As I delved into the medical research field, I began a fascination with technological enhancements. It was more of a fantasy to me, a strange world that I dreamed of and sketched throughout the day. For Smith, it was essential, to say the least. It was his pursuit.

It was his obsession.

The first day Smith confronted me was while I was on break. At the time, I believed he was actually working at Mass. General. However he sneaks about, he must be good at it.

Smith was drawn in by a sketch of mine. It was a undeveloped, spur-of-the-moment idea: a wrist device, similar to a watch, that could regulate areas of the body by injecting various chemicals into the bloodstream. In theory, it could adjust body heat, maintain blood sugar levels, keep its user alert and awake, or vice versa. It was another fantasy to me, as I would never have the time or resources to construct such a piece. Smith, on the other hand, saw potential in it.

Him and I chatted for a while, about are similar views on the concept. Its hard for me to say this now, but at the time, I found him to be quite an engaging man to speak with. His insights into this world of technology were beyond any that I had heard. He’s the only individual I’ve ever spoken to who looks at tech enhancements as a real use and possibility.

From that day, we scheduled various dates in which we worked on the prototype device. Smith was rather paranoid of ideas being stolen, so we kept our location and progress quiet from other researchers. We worked at his apartment, which was secluded enough.

Throughout the project, Smith never stopped encouraging me, if “encouraging” would be an appropriate word. It appeared to be the only matter he focused on, annoyed that I didn’t feel the same. Yes, I thought the project had potential, but I still had a job to keep, at the very least. This frustrated him, for sure.

It was clear that Smith knew far more on the subject than myself. He constantly spoke about how he’s worked with tech for years. After only a week’s worth of collaborating, I wanted out, but was unsure of how to go about telling him. After all, he grew angry if I even questioned him. Abandoning him wouldn’t be much more promising.

Goddamn. The pain’s worse now, for sure. Maybe the wound’s worse than I thoughtt.

I’ll state that I had one major interest outside of tech enhancements. Over the years, I’ve developed an interest for writing. When I think about it, my interest in the latter came from my writing, as the ideas started out just story notes. I never explained this to Smith, for reasons that I hope I’ve made apparent.

Naturally, the project with Smith had taken up most (if not all) of my time outside work. Smith practically forced me to meet with him whenever I could. If I began to refuse, he would interrogate me, asking me about my life, what I could possibly be doing in place of our progress. I’ll admit, he frightened me. I’m not sure what exactly about him was unsettling, but he seemed capable of pushing to the end, meeting his goals at whatever costs.

I’ll leave out the time in between, but before I left the project, we had made progress. Though we still were nowhere close in finishing the prototype device, we had made much ground in getting its basic functions working. The only reason I stayed was because of the device itself, that my fantasy sketch might just become a real, working tool.

Then, all our progress was shattered.

Unsurprisingly, Smith grew impatient. Despite our progress, he wasn’t yet satisfied. He wanted the device fully operational, right away. He began to tamper with at the delicate piece. His hands were shaking, jolting with various screws and micro-sized vials. He began screwing with the device’s code, ultimately erasing hours of work, and rendering the technology near useless.

He blamed me for our failure, of course. I tried to argue how it was his own fault, but this only sent him off more.

“What have you fucking done?!”, he screamed. “You’ve never cared about this from the start, have you?! This was just some fucking drawing that you made, that I wanted to see for real! THIS is the stuff I live for! I’ve done this before! I’ve created my own inventions, and tested them! What have you done?!”

He grew violent, making threats and throwing objects about. Needless to say, I didn’t want any part of him anymore. I left on the spot.

I continued with my regular job, and found a peace of mind again. Smith’s threats continued to echo in memory, however, as they were too sinister to be passed off.

Four days after I abandoned the project, I was approached by two men. Where they came from, I didn’t know, but they were investigators. They asked if I’d see Smith, as they’d been tracking him for a long time. I told them a bit of what I knew, and what followed was a long, tedious interrogation.

Eventually, when they knew they’d been told everything, they told me the truth about Smith.

Smith Alexander wasn’t lying when he said he’d “done this before”. Despite meeting me in the hospital, and describing his job, he’s never worked there in his life. He’s never worked in any hospital, or any medical or science profession. He’s slid and faked his way about the systems for years, with almost no one catching on. As unsettling as it is for an impersonator to be creeping his way about a medical facility, it was his reasons for being there that set me off.

He was looking for live subjects; injured individuals for him to test his “designs”. He’s scanned businesses, schools, and public areas to find a wide array of experimental material.

In short, he used people as human test dummies.

What he did with his captives ranged from lethal to vomit-inducing. The investigators told me some reports, as well as showed me some photos. He loved to tamper with the heart, resulting with some of his less-brutal murders. However, his psychotic designs had no limits. Some of the photos showed a man with both his arms sawed off, with metal rods replacing the limbs. Another photo showed a woman with her back flayed open, syringes lining her spine, which had turned a sickly black color. He didn’t discriminate when it came to his victims. I stopped looking at the photos when they started included children.

I’m getting drowsy now….fuck. I should at least get to my own predicament, before I end.

Last night, I was working on a novel of mine, right inside my apartment. It was still unfinished, but I was closing in on its conclusion. Despite the confidence, a lack of rest got the better of me, and I drifted into sleep right at the desk.

Fuck. I just realized that I may’ve been knocked out by the water I was drinking at the desk. It had an interesting taste to it, but my focus was devoted to writing. Smith must’ve slipped in here before and drugged the glasses.

I need to keep on subject. I awoke this morning, right in my apartment, at my desk. The computer screen blared in front of my eyes, which showed a blank page. My ears were greeted with two words:
“Start typing.”

A cold, narrow shaft bumped against my head. The voice was familiar, but given that I woke up seconds before, my mind was still dazed and unfocused.

“Start typing, dammit!”, the voice shouted, with a cold surface being pressed against me.

The voice was Smith, and he was holding a pistol to my skull.

“Smith”, I said, beginning to wake. “What the hell ar-“

“Type, or your face will be smeared on the monitor”.

I listened, despite my confusion. Slews of letters appeared on the screen, as I was only complying for my life.

“There”, he said. “This is what you wanted, correct? You wanted to write? I knew it was your hobby. I’ve seen you work like this a number of times. Now that you’re out of the project, you have all the time in the world write.”

Smith reached over my shoulder, towards my right arm. He pressed a small button on a watch, which was secured on my wrist. I hadn’t noticed it until he reached for it.

“Don’t stop now”, he said. “I’ll explain your situation: That’s it, by the way. Your design. I made it possible, all without your help. It’s a prototype, as it only has one feature. It’s connected to the keyboard that you’re using now. More importantly, its needle is connected to your bloodstream. Fiddle with it, or stop typing for more than ten seconds, then it will send a small dose of lethal poison into your system. Your heart, along with everything else, will die in less than a minute. All you have to do to prevent that, is just keep typing. Keep typing to your heart’s desire….”

“You’re fucking crazy!”, I screamed, smashing the keyboard with a fist.

“Don’t type too aggressive, now. That keyboard breaks, then so do you. Before you get any clever exploits in mind, I’ve wired the keyboard to the watch in specific ways. Tricks such as weighing down the keys or holding down one letter won’t work. Don’t bother with trying to get up, either. I’ve removed all the phones from this room, and there’s no inhabited room nearby in the building. Help is unreachable, unless you run out of this room. If you wish to attempt a suicidal escape, by all means, go ahead.”

“You won’t get away with this, you sick fuck. Someone will come for me eventually, and I’ll tell them everything.”

“Perhaps they will, but will you go on that long? I guess that’s up for you to find out. Now please, continue to write. I won’t distract you any longer. Enjoy your session, David.”

And with that, the bastard walked out. If I had to guess, he’s still been uncaught

That was about six hours ago, if I’ve been keeping track of time right. He’s right when he said there’s no way out of this. I’ve been here continuously writing and deleting the same shit, trying to think of a plan. He’s left every crack sealed, as far as escape goes. Despite his warning, I actually did try screaming for help earlier, and no one’s shown since then.

After hours of useless plans, I knew the best (and only) course of action would be to write my own, final chronicle. I’ve explained a story, and the trap, so I suppose the only part left is the warning. God DAmmit! My wrist is fucking killing me at this point, and the pain’s moved up towards my shoulder. It’s painful to lift my right fingers, let alone my arm. Smith’s rushed most of his prototypes, and this oen was no exception. Even if I keep going, I’m sure I’ll die from blood loss soon.

Over the course of typing this, I’ve found the best loophole available:

The computer’s locked on this text program, but I can still send out the document directly from it. I’m going to think of every address I can remember, even one’s of those I don’t know personally.

My name is David Mallory. Smith Alexander is most likely still out there, wherever he may be. He probably skipped this town right after trapping me here. He’s dangerous, to say the least. He uses random people as test material in his terrible, rush “ideas”.. He’s created devices to kill, like the one clasped to my wrist right now. I don’t know what his end goal is, but he’s had no problem murdering so far.

End goal…that needds to be said. He must be stoppped.

Despite Smith’s impatience, arrogance, and outright insanity, he has a plan. Over the course of working with him, he’s made hints to something bigger, morE significant than his regular, brutal enhancements. He talked about how he planned to “bless society” with a grand technology, a modification that would be to all, for all.

He even talked about how he would sneak it into circulation.

Whether it’s a virus, nano-sized tech, a fucked up drug, I don’t know. But whatever twisted vision it is, Smith’s capable of it. He’s been capable of all the violence he’s committed so far, and he’s a danger to aNyone at this point. If he’s got away with his crimes so far, what’s to stop him now?

That’s it,, for me. I’ve gotten out all I can in this little time. Fuck you, Smith. Goddammit, fuckk you…

6he pain’s moving towards my chest now, my heaart. I guess this watch didn’tt work as well as SMith thought. By the time I put in the addresses and send this out, I’ll be close to keeling over. I’ll let the poison take me, then. SHouljd be less painful, I hoep.

Forget about mE, my lifee. Remember Smith, though. Remember his atrocities that I’ve detailed, that he’s still out there…

…and he’s still working.

Credit To – Emeryy (Richard S.)

Creepypasta

Submission Status

Submissions closed on February 21st, 2017. Please allow me time to work through the queue before I reopen submissions. PLEASE READ THE FAQ AND ANY RECENT ANNOUNCEMENTS BEFORE ATTEMPTING TO SUBMIT YOUR PASTA OR SENDING CONTACT REQUESTS.


Widget not in any sidebars


Widget not in any sidebars