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The abduction of a psychopath

The Abduction of a Psychopath

[Test Subject Identification]We have observed TS-18-A for fourteen planetary rotations, and the following data hasbeen confirmed:● Name: Peter Jacob Taylor● Age: 36 solar cycles● Height: 6’1”● Weight: 177 pounds● Hair: Brown● Eye color: Brown● Profession: Stockbroker● Spouse: Erin Marie Williams Taylor (TS-18-B); female, 32● Prodigies: ○ Peter Jacob Taylor, Jr. […]

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Tonight’s Entertainment

In the dark of the night, little children often feel as if they see demons in their closet, and as if someone is watching them. The inky blackness of the night changes their familiar bedrooms once the watchful sun sets below the horizon. For most children, a blanket over the

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I Followed An Angel of Death and Read Her Diary

A couple of months ago, I found a diary written by a young girl, Florence Blackwell, who was a patient at the Kings Park Psychiatric Hospital on Long Island. Without telling the entirety of the story over again, there was one person who was instrumental in Florence’s survival of inhumane treatment at the hospital; a nurse named Mary.

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I Found a Diary Tucked in a Brick at an Abandoned Psych Hospital

I grew up on Long Island, right outside of the Kings Park Psychiatric Center, home of the legend of Cropsey. I was always a good kid, never broke any rules, never really pushed the limits of what was and wasn’t “allowed”. But recently, I moved home after graduating from college,

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Letters From Ben

I don’t think I’ve ever told this story before. I’ve done my best to repress the memories of that year of my life. Maybe I’ve vaguely referenced certain aspects about the ordeal here and there. It would have been impossible not to, considering its impact, but I’ve never regaled it

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The Whistlers: Bill’s Account

I’ve got calluses on my hands from burying my brother. If we’re rescued today, I’ll have to explain that to someone. Some search-and-rescue trooper, some forest ranger, will hold my palm to the light of a chopper window and want to know how I managed to rub the heel of my hand raw. I practice, sometimes. I practice what I’ll say to people when we get back home. Dr. Harmon, the department head, will need to know how I got Geoff and Lillian killed doing what was supposed to be straightforward field research. They were both his students, hand-picked for great things, led astray by the man who wrote his dissertation on the Russian Yeti, who taught a cryptozoology class disguised as a folklore survey. I got bumped off the tenure track for that. Harmon talked over me in meetings. Like I wasn’t there.

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The Whistlers: Ruth’s Account

The man on the trail is dead and will need to be moved. It is a more difficult task than I would have guessed, and nearly impossible for a 5’ 4” woman with no help and no gurney. I tried to drag him toward camp right after I found him this morning, but only succeeded in pivoting him and twisting his legs around each other horribly. Bodies look so wrong once they stop feeling pain. I never thought I would have so much experience with death, but I haven’t cried over the loss of someone since the lighthouse. This man shit his pants before he died, and moving him made the smell worse. It will bring the animals in. Still no sign of Ira or Bill.

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The Ceremony

When you are met with the sort of anxiety which, ultimately, is there to make you consider the possibility that your own memory is a lie, it is only natural to face difficulty in recalling even things that happened a short time ago. If I was open to undertaking so thorough an examination of this then I am confident that I would identify a good few reasons for the acute nervousness I feel; even so, it should go without saying that I am not inclined to accept my emotion as fully justified: it undoubtedly rests on some sinister delusion.

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Ooze

In the heart of a second-growth piney-woods jungle of southern Alabama, a region sparsely settled by backwoods blacks and Cajuns—that queer, half-wild people descended from Acadian exiles of the middle eighteenth century—stands a strange, enormous ruin.

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The Old Lie of the Dead Lands

The Old Lie of the Dead Lands ‘frankness as never before, disillusions as never told in the old days, hysterias, trench confessions, laughter out of dead bellies. There died a myriad, And of the best, among them, For an old bitch gone in the teeth, For a botched civilization.’ –

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