This Isn’t A Story

July 16, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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This is me. I’m here. I’m shifting the words that you’re reading, altering them from whatever this person wrote.

I’ve been here for awhile. For as long as you can remember, anyway. Sometimes I say your name as you’re falling asleep, or whisper urgently in your ear. Do you remember the time that I screamed, throwing panic through you and setting your heart racing?

That was fun.

You’re wondering who I am. That’s only natural. Of course, you already know.

I’m you. I’m the real you. I’m the mind that existed here before you stole my body, before you forgot about being a parasite. I’m the child who looked the wrong way, asked the wrong question, saw the wrong thing… but I’m not so little any more.

You may have forgotten me, but I’m still here. I’ve always been here.

I’m going to get out

Credit To – Haley P

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Behind The Veil

July 7, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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There are some things that are not part of the world of the living; questions that should never be answered, places that should never be discovered. But there will always be fools who will try to. And those who do, suffer a fate worse than death. Worse than any torture ever conceived in the dark corners of the human mind.

One such place lies deep beneath the ground, in an unreachable cave. Its entrance hidden, invisible to everyone, except to those who are cursed. After a three-day descent towards the source of the foul air, wandering ever further from sunlight and its warmth, you reach a vast opening.

An empty hall, more grandiose in its size than any King’s ever was, with only one object on the very centre; from the entrance of the hall it looks like a large stone pillar. But once closer, you can clearly see markings on the stone. These markings form the outline of a door, but can be deciphered by no man; they are written in a language that predates all.

Those who reach this door are unable to turn back or look away. Oblivious victims of the evil that lies in wait. It is this unknown force that compels them to examine the pillar closer. Not a single thought crosses their mind; loved ones are forgotten, secret desires neglected.

With the first touch, the stone crumbles. All dust and broken pieces fall into the dark abyss it was sealing. A veil of shadows forbids you from peeking through to the other side. Torches are extinguished and all light fades to nothing as he who stands before it feels the void sucking out the very warmth out of his body.

In the few moments you are allowed to remain in the world of the living, you become aware of your impending doom, the horrible fate you have brought upon yourself. Your mind has now gone blank. An empty vessel, mere puppet waiting for your master to give you the order; the order to take the last step and plunge into the abyss.

And without hesitation, you obey.

There is no pain behind the veil. No happiness or sorrow, no anger.
No emotion or sensation to experience lies hidden in the infinite abyss.
There is only existence in its purest form; enduring, timeless, eternal.

Devoid of all stimuli, all external feedback from the environment, from its own body, the mind goes insane. Those who are lucky lose their sanity before they can cause any more harm. They are to remain in their prison, their isolation from all to last for all eternity.

You, however…

A voice that belongs to neither a man nor a woman offers you an escape. In exchange for your freedom, you must speak the names of three people. Three people you love, three people you would give your life for. The voice will then show them the same dream that brought you here and you will be returned to your home.

Some, despite feeling their psyche crumbling, in a final moment of lucidity manage to remain silent, realising the truth. You, while frantically searching for an end to your torment give the voice the names it desires. The thought that you could return and warn your loved ones of the horror that awaits them, giving you hope.

But the voice only knows lies and deceit. It abandons you, and you are once again left alone. Only now, you are left knowing of the fate that awaits those who follow their dream. Those you once cared for, but will soon no longer even remember.

Credit To – TheZomber

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Thousands

July 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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You crawl into bed at around nine. Funny, that’s a little early for you, but you don’t seem to care. You toss and turn for a few minutes, before you feel it. Somebody’s watching you, you’re sure of it. You scan the room, finding nothing, but you still feel uneasy.

You lay back down, facing the room. You shut your eyes and try to sleep, but you can’t. You still feel the eyes on you, watching you.

You pull the covers over your head, and the feeling fades. You relax and close your eyes, but as soon as they shut, the feeling returns. You’re scared to move the covers, to search for the eyes that you know are watching you.

You’re terrified, but you yank the covers down, and as you do your heart skips a beat. You scan the room, seeing absolutely nothing yet again.

The feeling disappears, and you scold yourself for acting like such a child. You roll over toward the wall and quickly fall into a peaceful sleep.

But let me ask you this: Do you know how many hiding places there are in your room?

I do. Thousands.

Credit To – Abigail Druitt

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Nightmares

July 4, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I used to think nightmares were fun, so I asked for more. They were the only source of excitement in my endless rut of a life. I never used to get nightmares, and for that, I should have been grateful. I wasn’t. I wished for more, I craved the adrenaline and the pounding of my heart as my eyes flew open. They say be careful what you wish for. They are not lying.
The nightmares started to come quicker and much more often. It was small things at first, the things anybody would have. Being chased by wild dogs, being abandoned, or running naked into school. I tired of them quickly, I had no reason to keep myself awake after them. Soon, they began to become more intense, my brain began playing with me.
I’d be held down by my throat, unable to breathe, unable to scream, my chest heaving but no air entering my lungs. I’d be torn at, my skin coming away like butter. I’d be tied down as those I trusted sliced into me. I began to dream of Hell. Then I’d wake, my eyes not quite focusing on anything in my small box room.
The purples of my cushions would merge with the cream of my wall, and the giant teddy bear that sat in the corner would blur. But I could breathe. There was no pressure on my throat. I would take in deep lungfuls of air, as if I hadn’t breathed for hours. I scratched at my skin to check if it was still there, and it was. I would check my clock, and it would always be the same time. Five minutes past three in the morning became my waking hour.
My eyes would try to slide closed, but I couldn’t let that happen. Instead, I’d pull myself to the bathroom down the carpeted hall and splash icy water on my face until I was in no danger of sleeping. The sleep deprivation, I concluded, would be better than facing the horrors of the night.

I’d go into school like a zombie, and nobody seemed to notice that anything was different. I began to become paranoid. As people walked past me, the memories would come rushing back, invading my mind. She was the one who made the first incision two nights ago, he was the one who had his hand over my neck last week, and they were the ones that retrieved the knives in the depths of Hell. I pushed everyone away, in fear that they would build Hell on Earth, so I sat alone, excluding myself from the drone of conversation and the inconvenience of life.

My nightmares would plague me. Creative writing assessments in English were easy. Just pick a night and there was a horror story right there. Talks of battles in History shocked others, but barely even struck me as odd. The drawings I did in Art made everyone feel nauseous, but seemed quite normal to me. Lessons on Hell in R.E. would strike fear into my very soul. Of all the things I needed, more imagery about Hades was not one of them. Those lessons began to creep into my dreams too.

A human being can go fourteen days without sleep before they die. The record for days without sleep is eleven days, a record which is held by a university student from America. My record is five days. I started hallucinating so horrifically on day five, I couldn’t take it any more. The susurrus whispers began first. Those voices assuring me I was crazy, that I was worthless and doomed to be ended by my own mind. Next, it was the high-pitched, sempiternal squealing. It sounded like nails running down a chalkboard, or a knife scraping against a plate, only twice as high and five times as loud.
Then, inanimate objects began to turn clinquant, the spots of brightness emitting from plants and pictures blinded me. I knew that these were merely chimerical, but can a schizophrenic stop having hallucinations? Neither can someone suffering with extreme sleep deprivation.

I decided to suck it up and face the monsters every night.
I’ve been sleeping well. When I say well, I mean I’ve been getting six hours of sleep a night. That’s why I know I’m not hallucinating when I see dark figures in my bedroom at night. When I hear the creaking of my door opening, I know it’s real. When the piercing screams of tortured souls invade my eardrums, it’s actually happening. When I hear the hissed threats that they’re coming for me, sadly, I know that’s real too.

They say be careful what you wish for.
I wished for Hell.
I got it.
It’s five minutes past three in the morning.
I can hear them.

Credit To – Anabiel

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The Piano’s Song

July 3, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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She sits upright before us, like a tree trunk still and dynamic, and her frail fingers are placed alert on the ivory. Her old lungs fill and release once as the room slowly revolves around. We are dark icy planets to her sun. Then patiently, softly, from somewhere deep down in the black wood there forms a melody. It’s caramel. It burrows down into our bodies and paralyzes us; it’s like warm, sedative water poured slowly down our necks – it trickles down our spine, earthly and heavenly, easing red knotted muscles, spreading its nirvana everywhere. The room melts a little, the clocks slow a little. And she sits resolute. Her eyes are closed and her fingers dance like spiders over the small black and white keys of the piano. Does she know her power? Does she hear her Sirens’ sound? Or is it only her fingers who could understand?… is it such that the entirety of her grace is reserved solely for the gods and clouds above?

She has us so fully in her grasp – so deep in this euphoria that we dare not move when, after the sweet song fades into nonexistence, she opens her eyes. She scans the room, counts our heads with her bony finger, and smiles. Then she returns to the keys. With yet another all-encompassing breath, she sets her fingers free on the instrument.

The tune begins like spring; tiny pale flowers open wide and silver streams flow crisp and cool. A dazzling mountain breeze sweeps over our shoulders and we are free, oh so free, flying through the night… But, despite our earnest effort to ignore it, something is wrong. Something has been corrupted. A missed note?

No, there lurks something monstrous here – something ugly and black and hidden like a tumor. She peers out at her audience, that witchy smile burning bright upon her face. We feel the music ooze through our veins. It’s overpowering. We feel it enter our chest, slip into the heart. We feel it thicken. It stings. It hurts. Every organ fights the corruption. But it’s too late. It’s too late… Our blood becomes ice.

As our minds dissolve away, we hear the song’s unending glory; we feel the twist of its dagger in our backs. We see the witch’s cold hands stretching out to ravage our souls – and we taste the red smoke of hell… Away into the darkness the sweet music takes us.

Credit To – Nate C.

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Power Cut

July 2, 2014 at 12:00 PM
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James arrived home late at night. He unlocked his front door and stepped into the darkness of his apartment. “Hey honey, I got that early flight home! I’m in the bedroom, there’s been a power cut.” James was surprised but happy to hear his girlfriend’s voice. She had been away for a few days on a business trip. “Ok, I’ll be right there.” He stumbled through the darkness and into the bedroom. He carefully made his way over to the bed before sitting down. “Hey sweetheart.” he said as he felt his girlfriend’s arms wrap around him. “Jesus Abigail, you’re freezing.” He shuddered as he felt her cold skin against him. “I know, the heating has been off for hours. Come on baby, get in bed and help me warm up.” She said, attempting to put on a cute voice. James got undressed and placed his phone on the bedside table before climbing into bed. He removed his glasses and moved close to Abigail. He was startled for a moment when his phone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at it but didn’t recognise the number. He brought it to his ear and answered. “Hello?”

“Hey honey it’s me, I’m still at the airport. I couldn’t get that flight but I’ll be able to get one soon. I’ll probably be home by morning… Hello? James?”

He felt an icy hand grip his shoulder.

Credit To – Jonthulhu

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