Sometimes The Nightmare Inducment Thread Comes Back For More! - Electric Boogaloo

Page 5 of 107
#162
Quote by red157
I remember that'n.

Odd dude. Penchant for sitting on your bed.

I wonder who'd win in a fight between The Rake and Slenderman...?


Certainly not my inner-child lol
Slappa tha bass
#163
from creepypasta, i posted it in the old one. i found it kinda amusing more then scary


Doors

I was adopted. I never knew my real mother; rather, I knew her at one time but I left her side when I was too little to be able to remember. I loved my adopted family though. They were so kind to me. I ate well, I lived in a warm and comfortable house, and I got to stay up pretty late.

Let me tell you about my family real fast: First, there’s my mother. I never called her Mom or anything like that; I just called her by her first name. Janice. She didn’t mind at all though. I called her that for so long, I don’t think she even noticed. Anyhow, she was a very kind woman. I think that she is the one who recommended my adoption in the first place. Sometimes I would lay my head against her in front of the television and she would tickle my back with her nails. She is one of those Hollywood mothers.

Second, there’s Dad. His real name was Richard, but he never really liked me much so I began to refer to him as Dad in a desperate attempt to gain his affection. It didn’t work. I think that no matter what I called him, he would never love me as much as his own child. That’s understandable so I really didn’t press the matter. The most notable attribute of Dad was his unmoving sternness. He was not afraid to pop his children when they did something wrong. I found that out before I could use the restroom properly. He didn’t hesitate to spank me. Well, I’m in line and it’s because of his methods.

Lastly, is my sister. Little Emily was really young when I was adopted, so we were about the same age, but she was slightly older. I liked to think of her as my little sister, though. We got along better than any sibling could possibly get along. We would always stay up late together and just talk. Well, she did a lot of the talking; I mostly just listened because I loved her. It was a great setup that we had! We were short on bedrooms, so- because I didn’t want to sleep in the living room by myself when I was littler- I had a pallet set up for me next to her bed on the floor. This is where I have slept since. But it was cool with me because I enjoyed being with her and I had always felt pretty protective of my little sis.

Everything changed on a horrible Wednesday night. I was at home taking a nap when little Emily opened the front door. The sound of the door opening pulled me to a state of consciousness and I walked from the room down the hall to the living room. That’s when I first remembered it was Wednesday. I was never any good at keeping track of what day it was. Actually I’ll just go ahead and say it: My sense of time was HORRIBLE! But nevertheless, I knew it was Wednesday because Emily had just come home from her Church’s youth group gathering. She walked in the front door and hugged me, and then was followed in by Dad and Janice.

“You have a good nap?” Janice said teasingly as she ruffled up my hair. I just shook my head away and snorted in a manner that clearly expressed that I was teasing back with her.

“Don’t you snort at your mother like that!” said my father gruffly with authority. He shut the door behind him and hung up his coat.
“I was clearly joking…” I growled under my breath. He must not have heard me because I didn’t feel him smack me. Emily then proceeded to our room and I followed. She started telling me about her day. You know… usual teenage girl stuff. But I listened so that she would feel better. After her summary she suggested watching TV and I obliged and jumped onto the couch as she was going for the remote. She rolled her eyes at my little-brother-like immaturity and scooted me over and sat down. The TV turned on and we watched it together until the sun went down. Emily was the kind of girl that- instead of watching cartoons and soap operas- would rather watch Discovery and Animal Planet and Natural Geographic. I like those too so I didn’t mind. Actually, those were the only channels that can hold my attention.

So it got late and Janice walked up behind the sofa. “Emily it’s past your bed time. Turn off the television and go to your room. You too.” she pointed at me. Emily turned off the program we were watching grudgingly and stood up. She started down the hallway to our room. As I followed I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

We went into our room and Emily turned off the light. Just as she did, I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. It was out the window, but as soon as I redirected my line of sight to where the window was no longer in my peripheral vision, what it was that I thought I saw was gone. I still remained alert. For my sister’s sake.

I laid there in the darkness with nothing but the thin ray of light from the street lamp outside to illuminate the room. It wasn’t much. Time and time again I could have sworn that I heard subtle sounds just out the window… a twig break, leaves crunching, clothes jostling. And all the while I could smell a faint stench of sweat and blood. I kept my eyes open most of the night.

The sounds outside subsided and the smell left my nose. I began to feel at ease. My eyelids closed.

Not long after that, I heard a very loud crash on the other side of the house. I was up in an instant. “THERE’S SOMEONE IN THE HOUSE!” I barked with extreme adrenaline coursing through me. “Wake up!” I shrilly pleaded with Emily. She did, and as soon as I saw her sit up I ran to my parent’s room…

Dad was dead. His neck was splayed open and gaping as blood spilled out of it, off the bed, and onto the floor. I saw that the master bathroom’s door was closed and just before it- on the outside- was a man.

A man… I don’t feel comfortable calling it that.

He was very large and rugged. He turned around and saw me and that’s when I saw him accurately for the first time. I wont forget it. His eyes were large and beady and trapped with lust. He was styling a beard that was badly unkempt with blood dripping off. His clothes were dirty and his face was cold. Just then I noticed the same horrid smell of sweat and blood from earlier, but this time it was overwhelming.

He saw me. He saw me and grinned with a set of crooked yellow teeth. That smile threw me off. I thought that I was going to die, but then he turned back to the bathroom door completely unperturbed by my presence. I was terrified and didn’t no what to do. I just yelled and cried. I watched as he shouldered through door that was Mom’s only protection. I watched as he raised the large razor that he was carrying, but had obviously neglected to use properly. I watched as he sliced her open and tore her to shreds…

I then heard something; the last thing that I wanted to hear… It was Emily’s scream coming from behind me. The large monstrosity looked up from my butchered mother and stared at my little sister. I was distraught. He stood up and quickly started walking toward us. My sis turned and ran, and I was at a loss when he bypassed me and went straight after her. Why was she still in the house? Had she not assessed the situation and run? Apparently not, and now she was dead and I was alone.

I ran after them both. I expected the man to kill her as he had the rest of my family, but I was sadly mistaken. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her as a way to make clear that he was in control. He dragged her through the house… I was making all of the noise I could now, hoping and praying that someone would come to my aid. He mustn’t take her. Not her.

As he passed me I backed against the wall and whimpered with terror, “Why?” He didn’t respond except by putting his free hand on my head while Emily screamed in the other and saying “Good boy.” He gave another crooked grin and a very cold, unnatural laugh. I followed him to the door where he dragged my helpless sister after him. He opened it, pulled her out, and slammed it shut behind him.

I am now sitting in the house with my mutilated adopted parents, shivering and whimpering with dismay. He’s out there with her. Doing who-knows-what to her, and I can’t do anything. I would if I could, but I can’t. I would chase after them in a heartbeat, but I can’t. I sit here, looking at the front door. I look down at my paws. If only I could open doors…
#165
Barricade


I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady.

I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself.

I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony.

It went bad all at once

Friday morning. I awake from the first dream I’ve had in years, a vivid phantasmagoria of colors and sounds, and begrudgingly leave my perfect and sterilely clean apartment for the short walk to work.

I notice it as soon as the elevator opens, the unearthly stillness and silence in the heavy air. The front door of the complex is hanging open, unlocked and swinging gently, the faintest trace of smoke drifting inward in the damp breeze. Outside, the wide streets are empty and bare. My mouth is suddenly dry and I rock back on my heels, cresting a crippling wave of panic and déjà vu.

This particular hallucination, the quiet and the smoke and the emptiness, was always my most frequent; I haven’t had it in six years but the familiarity of it stings. I shut my eyes tightly, and jab my hand at the panels of chipped buttons. Moments later I am on the top floor half, and walking half blind the path to my door with practiced familiarity. Once inside I sit on my bed, gripping tight the handle of my cane, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Focused. Calm. Clear. I open my eyes.

I can’t be outside like this, I know this. I was hit by a car when I was homeless, wandering dazed into the street, while my fevered mind saw only emptiness. I’ll need a replacement hip before I’m forty. I can hear the slivers of bone grind a little with every labored step. I call my boss, and leave a terse message, apologizing for being too ill to work today.

I hold my breath as I open the one tiny window in my studio. It’s so close to the building next to me, I can almost touch its brick wall and I can’t see the street from this height and angle: but as I strain to lean out the window, sounds of yelling and a few whining engines drift up to me. The pall of unearthly quiet is broken, and I feel a great sense of relief, knowing that my episode is over.

I am counting the pills in orderly columns on the table, proving a fifth time to myself that I have taken my daily regimen, when I start to hear the screaming. It builds from far below; riding the struts and supports of the tower until it seems to emanate from the bones of the building.

An hour later the sounds seem like they are right outside; horrid, terrified, inchoate clumps of half formed words and pleas, punctuated by wet, ragged shrieks and heavy muffled thudding. The breathing and relaxation exercises aren’t helping, and I’m gripping the edge of my bed, soaked in sweat. The idea appears fully formed in my mind: I need to barricade the door. I struggle to suppress it. It would be like- giving up; all progress I’ve made would be for naught if I entertain the notion that the episode is real.

But the screaming… this is a new one for me.

There’s the shuffle of movement outside, and the knob of the door twists violently and shudders against the deadbolt. I try to cry out, but my throat is parched and only a dry croak comes out. The door starts flex slightly as heavy blows land on the outside, and a mad, gibbering chorus of voices spits out a strange nonsense of broken syllables.

It only takes me a moment to decide now. I burst to my feet and throw all my weight into the bookshelf, crashing into it with bright white bolt of pain. It topples slowly, leaning at first like a tree and then smashing to the ground. On top of the bookshelf goes my desk and chairs, my hip screaming with each step. I collapse again on the floor, grasping for breath, and listen to the pounding subside and the horrid voices retreat.

That was two days ago.

They come back every day and scratch at the door, whispering in that vile gibberish. Sometimes I allow myself to think I can recognize the voices. The phone is dead, and the power is out. When I lean out the window and yell for help, the only answer I get is the occasional shriek or ululating babble.

When I was younger, when I was at my worst, my episodes would last for hours, at most. I am at a loss. I have very little food left and the water pressure has already dropped.

Lying in bed in the late summer heat, in a moment of near total silence, the inevitability of it occurs to me. If I stay, I’ll starve. What happens to me on the other side of the barricade only depends on how sick I really am.

I want to believe with a sudden desire I am just ill, simply and profoundly ill. The sureness of it wells up in me, and I feel suddenly awake and lucid. I need a doctor, surely, but soon the hallucination will lift and my mind will heal. I just need to break through this.

I need to go outside.

I remove the bookshelf slowly, rotating it away from the door gently to rest with the other furniture. This is right, I assure myself. This is healthy. I turn the deadbolt, put my hand on the handle, and try to suppress the rising terror in my guts. I give it a little pressure.

Outside, I hear a dry shuffling and a low rising murmur of unfathomable voices, and my surety drains from me, leaving only cold and naked horror in its place.

My hand is on the door.

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.
#167
Quote by XavierOprah
Barricade


I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady.

I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself.

I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony.

It went bad all at once

Friday morning. I awake from the first dream I’ve had in years, a vivid phantasmagoria of colors and sounds, and begrudgingly leave my perfect and sterilely clean apartment for the short walk to work.

I notice it as soon as the elevator opens, the unearthly stillness and silence in the heavy air. The front door of the complex is hanging open, unlocked and swinging gently, the faintest trace of smoke drifting inward in the damp breeze. Outside, the wide streets are empty and bare. My mouth is suddenly dry and I rock back on my heels, cresting a crippling wave of panic and déjà vu.

This particular hallucination, the quiet and the smoke and the emptiness, was always my most frequent; I haven’t had it in six years but the familiarity of it stings. I shut my eyes tightly, and jab my hand at the panels of chipped buttons. Moments later I am on the top floor half, and walking half blind the path to my door with practiced familiarity. Once inside I sit on my bed, gripping tight the handle of my cane, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Focused. Calm. Clear. I open my eyes.

I can’t be outside like this, I know this. I was hit by a car when I was homeless, wandering dazed into the street, while my fevered mind saw only emptiness. I’ll need a replacement hip before I’m forty. I can hear the slivers of bone grind a little with every labored step. I call my boss, and leave a terse message, apologizing for being too ill to work today.

I hold my breath as I open the one tiny window in my studio. It’s so close to the building next to me, I can almost touch its brick wall and I can’t see the street from this height and angle: but as I strain to lean out the window, sounds of yelling and a few whining engines drift up to me. The pall of unearthly quiet is broken, and I feel a great sense of relief, knowing that my episode is over.

I am counting the pills in orderly columns on the table, proving a fifth time to myself that I have taken my daily regimen, when I start to hear the screaming. It builds from far below; riding the struts and supports of the tower until it seems to emanate from the bones of the building.

An hour later the sounds seem like they are right outside; horrid, terrified, inchoate clumps of half formed words and pleas, punctuated by wet, ragged shrieks and heavy muffled thudding. The breathing and relaxation exercises aren’t helping, and I’m gripping the edge of my bed, soaked in sweat. The idea appears fully formed in my mind: I need to barricade the door. I struggle to suppress it. It would be like- giving up; all progress I’ve made would be for naught if I entertain the notion that the episode is real.

But the screaming… this is a new one for me.

There’s the shuffle of movement outside, and the knob of the door twists violently and shudders against the deadbolt. I try to cry out, but my throat is parched and only a dry croak comes out. The door starts flex slightly as heavy blows land on the outside, and a mad, gibbering chorus of voices spits out a strange nonsense of broken syllables.

It only takes me a moment to decide now. I burst to my feet and throw all my weight into the bookshelf, crashing into it with bright white bolt of pain. It topples slowly, leaning at first like a tree and then smashing to the ground. On top of the bookshelf goes my desk and chairs, my hip screaming with each step. I collapse again on the floor, grasping for breath, and listen to the pounding subside and the horrid voices retreat.

That was two days ago.

They come back every day and scratch at the door, whispering in that vile gibberish. Sometimes I allow myself to think I can recognize the voices. The phone is dead, and the power is out. When I lean out the window and yell for help, the only answer I get is the occasional shriek or ululating babble.

When I was younger, when I was at my worst, my episodes would last for hours, at most. I am at a loss. I have very little food left and the water pressure has already dropped.

Lying in bed in the late summer heat, in a moment of near total silence, the inevitability of it occurs to me. If I stay, I’ll starve. What happens to me on the other side of the barricade only depends on how sick I really am.

I want to believe with a sudden desire I am just ill, simply and profoundly ill. The sureness of it wells up in me, and I feel suddenly awake and lucid. I need a doctor, surely, but soon the hallucination will lift and my mind will heal. I just need to break through this.

I need to go outside.

I remove the bookshelf slowly, rotating it away from the door gently to rest with the other furniture. This is right, I assure myself. This is healthy. I turn the deadbolt, put my hand on the handle, and try to suppress the rising terror in my guts. I give it a little pressure.

Outside, I hear a dry shuffling and a low rising murmur of unfathomable voices, and my surety drains from me, leaving only cold and naked horror in its place.

My hand is on the door.

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.


This confuses me. Is it supposed to be open to interpretation or is there a direct meaning to it?
Oh f*ck it,
I'm gonna have a party.
I had the blankest year,
I watched life turn into a TV show.
It was totally weird.
#170
I'm pretty sure this got posted in the last thread. Long, but good.

North

There was a time when I believed running might help; if I could pack up my few belongings and burn the rest under cover of darkness and flee, I could start over somewhere new. But in this bleak frostbitten place, I admit to myself, truly, that I cannot outrun him, that I can never escape him. And should I slip into the warm embrace of doubt after an unnaturally long stretch of peaceful, empty days, he will be only too happy to remind me of this.

There’s almost nothing left he can take from me. The days before him are fading like an aged photograph now, a hazy yellow dream of stability and happiness with a long future of happy possibilities stretched ahead. Today, I am huddled in the eaves of a collapsing barn in the Yukon Territory, desperately trying to start a fire with sodden and rotting hay. The more I burn now, the less I have to use as a blanket. It is a delicate balance that I have not quite mastered.

I hitchhiked across the border two months ago, and have been making my way north steadily. Going any other direction than north is no longer an option. I do not know what I will do when I reach the Artic Ocean. Perhaps continue across the sea ice, if it has not thinned to the point of breaking. What I cannot do, ever, is return to my life, to Seattle. I can never see my son again.

It seems absurd to think that just less than a year ago, my life was unfractured, whole. The pieces of my life were trite and predictable. I was an insomniac, and used to lie awake staring at the ceiling, chewing over my doubts and secret fears: that I may not be able to keep up house payments, that I may not love my wife any longer, that I would repeat my father’s failures with my son. These phantoms of doubt and fear filled my bleeding stomach with ragged holes that I recall now with almost fond nostalgia. How easy it all was, then.

The manila envelope was stuffed in the mail slot when I rose to prepare breakfast for my son. Unlabeled, unaddressed, only my name was written on it in jagged capitals. It contained one black VHS cassette, its label long ago faded and blurred. Over the top of the label was a black ink smiley face, blindly grinning up at me.

It took me a day to find our VCR in the small attic crawlspace, bundled with a few dozen home movies of our son’s soccer games and birthday parties. Late at night, long after my family had drifted off to sleep, I connected it to our television. It whirred to life with a sharp smell of burning dust, and I inserted the tape.

For a few moments, the static leapt and fizzled on the screen, then blackness. The silent image began to brighten to a washed out shot of an elementary school parking lot at the start of day, and the picture zoomed into a small group of children among the chaos, and I recognized my son and a few of his friends. I began to wonder if I had accidentally retrieved one of our old tapes, when, almost as an answer, the camera tilted forward into the inside of a car. The zoom lens racked forward on a crisp copy of the Times and lingered momentarily on the date. Two days prior. My guts curdled with unease as the screen again went dark. A few seconds later, letters appeared, the bright and jagged electronic font of cheap in-camera titles.

YOU CAN’T SAVE HIM.

My insides turned to ice water and I slumped in the couch, my limbs feeling distant and useless. The letters vanished in a gust of static.

I did not tell my wife, and certainly never told my son, but I drove to the police station in the morning. The heavy oppressive dread of the night before had somewhat dissipated as I handed over the tape to the jowly and half asleep officer, and answered a few mumbled questions. He registered my concern with condescending impatience, and I eventually had to clasp my jaw and walk out quietly when I realized he would never view it as anything but a harmless prank.

Two days later, with the unease in my stomach waning little, I received another tape, adorned with the same grinning cartoon. The image that this time resolved out of the static was a hallway, painted in night vision and gloom. The unseen cameraman walked slowly forward towards the last door. A little sigh of relief bubbled up in me when I could not recognize the doors and windowless walls. This was someone else’s house.

The camera tilted down to see a gloved hand twist the doorknob; the only sound in the air was the clacking spin of the VCR heads and the tape’s reels. The door opened to reveal a small and cramped bedroom and a dark, huddled form on the bed. The camera approached the form and a sleeping face soon filled the screen. It teased me with familiarity, tantalizingly close, but I could not yet recognize the face.

Two objects dropped down onto the man’s chest, thudding slightly and rousing him from his sleep. The first, a policeman’s badge, all I need in a flash of recognition to connect this slowly stirring form with the Desk Sergeant. The second sealed his identity: it was the first tape, the crude smiley face pointed perfectly upright. The policeman blinked twice and then squinted into the camera.

In the few frames before blackness, I could see the brief impression of a flash, and a symmetrical flower of blood and bone erupt from his skull, just a brief flicker of streaking colors and light. I moaned pathetically in the darkness, an animal whimper of helplessness. Like a bolt of lightning, the jagged text lit up the screen.

YOUR FAULT.

I did not move until the pale light of morning, first letting the tape play out through a further hour of static, and then later sobbing silently under the cold blue light of the idling VCR. After a few hours of that quiet delirium, doubting what I had just seen, I rewound the tape, and started it again.

It was blank. Finding a set of small screwdrivers, I dismantled the tape and gingerly separated its carapace. Inside, was a small magnet, ingeniously placed on a loose spindle inside the right spool of tape; the tape was erased the moment I watched it.

Taped firmly to the side of the black plastic housing, was a small, folded photograph. It was my wife and son, walking hand and hand out the front door of the house. On the back of the photograph, in the same blocky script as the envelope, were three letters and three sharp periods.

SHH…

--------------

There were times in the following year, when I believed that only suicide would save my family. He never told me what, if anything he wanted. He never revealed himself, or his reasons. He seemed only content to watch the engine of my life to shudder to a halt. I descended into a fog of self-pity and utter horror as all my relationships dissolved around me.

At irregular intervals, always just enough time passed to make me believe that it had ended, that I had dreamt it all, I would receive a package. They each contained a half a dozen photographs on glossy paper. My son in school, doodling in his notebooks, shot through an open window. A soccer game, his leg frozen in mid swing. A front yard game with two neighbors, my son suspended in a leap, his tongue out stuck out in a mask of joy.

I received the last package a month after my wife had left me. Unable to cope with my stony, hollow eyed silence and slow motion disintegration, she had returned across the state line, to Idaho, and her mother’s house, where she made unsubtle attempts over nightly phone calls to convince our son to join her. Whatever amicability there was between us was flaking away like old paint, and I knew a court intervention was imminent.

For myself, I did not know if I could keep my son safest close to me, or whether I was dooming him by my presence. He was increasingly distant, angry at my sudden shift in personality, and inability to make his mother happy. His presence, no matter how he pouted and hid, was the one bright and shining point of that time, a silver thread to hold onto in the maelstrom. The week of the last package, he had taken a Greyhound bus to see his mother, already hinting at a desire to stay and live with her; I was in a black and foul mood when I found to the familiar manila envelope in the entryway.

It contained a single photograph, and the first video I had gotten since the policeman’s murder. The photograph was of my son, sleeping, in his bed at home. I held it my hand, clutching tight and staring, not wanting to comprehend what I was seeing and its sickening implications.

On the video, the smiley-face was gone, and its place, was a clock. I slid it into the VCR in a state of cold shock and sat at the edge of the couch, my eyes watering and my jaw hanging slack.

IT IS TIME.

YOU CAN KEEP HIM SAFE.

The jagged letters crashed through the static and captured my gaze. Frozen in place, my lungs would not expand and my vision swam dizzyingly. The letters vanished and there was blackness again, but only momentarily, as a burst of cold light brought a new sentence to the screen:

GO-

The ashtray impacted with the center of the screen, and the television tube made an audible popping sound, as glass and circuitry spilled from the wound. I hadn’t even been aware that I was throwing the heavy pewter dish, but now I felt a hot wash of anger, the helplessness and fear of the last year flared in me.

I would leave, I told myself. I would leave tonight, and tell no one. If one good thing came from my miserable shipwreck of a life, I would keep my son safe, and I couldn’t do that in the sorry state I was in.

It seemed so obvious then, with suddenly clarity: of course he was not interested in my son. It was me he had been torturing all these months. If he hated me this much, enough to slowly break me, utterly and deliberately, then he would follow me, like hunter to prey, wherever I went. So I would go.
#171
...
I almost made it out that night, but doubt ate away at my resolve as I packed a few bags, and I soon succumbed to a rare desire for sleep. In the warm cocoon of blankets, the idea of recklessly fleeing seemed so rash and foolish, and I knew that a new day would bring clarity and level headedness.

I awoke to the golden light of dawn streaming into my bedroom onto a scene of unfathomable violence.

Blood and drying viscera coated the walls in uneven splatters. The sharp copper tang in the air shook me like smelling salts to damnable clarity. The carpet was soaked and spotted with crimson, thick puddles of blood glistening in the morning sunlight.

In the far corner, where the walls were painted nearly black and the carpet invisible beneath a tiny lake of blood, was the body. The diminutive limbs were dark and smeared, stacked like cordwood; two slender arms and two legs, capped with a pair of small curled hands and two feet, so smeared in gore that I mistook them for shoes. Beside the little pile of spindly limbs was a child’s torso; momentarily I could not comprehend that this was part of the body, so surreal in its isolation and stillness.

In the farthest corner at the apex of the slaughter was the broken television on a small table, the screen fully shattered to reveal a small interior space. Inside this hollow of plastic and metal, was a child’s head, balancing gracefully on its ragged neck, and faced away from me.

It was a long time before I moved, longer still before I ceased sobbing and walked on sodden carpet and wobbling knees towards the television. I prayed that I would not see my son’s birthmark and scars on the limbs and I held my gaze straight ahead as I approached the grotesque altar. Was that my son’s hair? Was it ever so black, or is that just the light?

I reached out, slowly with both hands to gently cup the small head. I was empty now, the morning breeze blowing straight through my shell. All I had to do was turn to see my son’s face, to know that I had failed him utterly, and then I would dry out like a husk and drift away on the wind.

It was light in my hands and still ever so slightly warm. I slowly spun it to face me, angry at myself for not knowing by heart the sight of my sons ears or and jaw line well enough stop now, to prevent the inevitable rotation.

The eyes were mercifully closed, but the cheeks were slit wide and high, in grim mockery of a smile. In his mouth, jammed far back and between the ragged slices of his face, was a video tape.

A wave of pure undiluted relief was followed by a sharp pang of guilt. This was not my son. I recognized the boy behind the curtain of blood, a friend of my son, yes, but this, this was not my son.

Obediently, like in a trance I took the video to the VCR, now connected to my son’s tiny black and white set. With a wad of white paper towels, I had dried and cleaned the soiled cassette, and I now slid it into the machine and watched solemnly while the letters appeared.

THIS WAS YOUR ONE WARNING

YOU CAN STILL SAVE HIM

FIRST, CLEAN UP

It dawned on me what he means, and simultaneously, why. I thought of the drying footprints of blood I’ve left around the house, my fingertips pressed against the corpse. I tried to imagine who might believe that I had slept through that act of unbridled cruelty, but seen and heard nothing.

NOW

I jerked with a start at this screen, as if the teacher has called my name and caught me day-dreaming. I rose to my feet and stopped the tape.

When I thought my son was dead, I believed that no pain could rend me worse. I now could see the foolishness of that. If he were truly gone, then I could not be hurt any worse, and in a way, the man in the dark would have lost. But he lives. He lives for me to agonize over yet again, and this time, I don’t have to wonder about the stakes. I have to do everything I can to keep him safe, I decided. This cannot happen to him.

When I returned from the woods, carrying a shovel wrapped in a thick canvas blanket from the truck, and leaving tracks of dirt and clay, I began to pour the first gallon of gasoline on the bottom floor of my house. When the house was fully saturated, I returned to the VCR and its tiny monitor to watch the rest of the tape. I am a marionette now, dancing to a silent tune, free will no longer even a factor.

The next sentence on the screen was familiar to me; though that was truly the first time I read it. I recognized it by the shape and outline of the letters; it was beneath the ashtray a split second before the impact.

GO NORTH

I was puzzled for a moment, a little resurgence of the self at this oddly vague and cryptic instruction. Just a direction and a command. I wondered where he meant for me to go, and how.

GO NOW. YOU WILL KNOW.

And the tape ended. And I went.

An hour later, a plume of smoke was visible to the south, fast receding behind truck. I drove as far as the truck would take me, until it lost traction on the ice somewhere in British Columbia, and ended broken axle’d in roadside culvert. From there, I walked. My wife shut access to my bank accounts weeks ago, and the small amount of cash that I still carried has long since vanished.

It’s been a month so far, homeless and trudging like a sentinel, through the darkest of winter. The snow and ice bring me comfort, the silent purity of the ground against the noonday sky, white on white. My life is only a direction now, and that anodyne of simplicity has bled into the land.

When I cannot find a house to beg shelter in, or a barn to break into, I build small covered trenches in the snow, and wrap myself in my tarp and blankets. This is more and more frequent as I travel northward and as my clothes begin to stink and mark me as a transient.

During the day, I walk; in the dark, I sleep. I sleep. Long and blissfully hours of oblivion come to with an ease I haven’t had since childhood, and I wake fully rested each day.

I am never alone of course. He is with me, as he always has been. When the last of the money was gone, the pangs of hunger only lasted a day. On the next morning, outside my small snow shelter, a pair of white rabbits lay stretched across the snow, only the red of their blood picking out their outlines on the snow.

During that past year in the fog of his nightmares, I never even considered who he might be. I never catalogued which clients might have secretly loathed me, or which elementary school victim of my bullying now wished me dead. I wonder now, how willful was this ignorance?

The sunlight is warm and unexpected on my face when I exit the barn the next morning, coat speckled with straw. It’s a few miles to the next town, and I can make it time to beg for some breakfast, and supplies for the next vacant stretch.

I call my son from each payphone I pass, direct to his mobile and listen to him get increasingly frustrated when I say nothing. Hearing him angry and alive is everything I need to keep going.

My son is safe, now that I’ve left him. As I believed he would, but for all the wrong reasons, the hunter, the man in the dark, has followed me here. He is no longer a danger to my family, and he can take nothing more from me now.

He is happy now, because we are going north, and so am I, because I know at last and truly, that I have saved my son. The cost is the pittance of my own life, and now I understand; I am grateful to give it to him. I am thankful to be pack horse to this monster, carrying us both onward.

I do not know what he wants for us here, at the top of the world, but I know when the time comes, he will make it known. So until then, I go north.

EDIT: Also, which are the better HP Lovecraft stories? I wanna get around to reading them.
Last edited by XavierOprah at Sep 21, 2010,
#172
The Rats in the Walls
The Music of Erich Zann
The Outsider

Then The Call of Cthulhu to say you've read it.

I'm honestly not that big of help. I do have his complete works, I have yet to read all of them.
#173
Quote by XavierOprah
North


ಥ_ಥ

One of the best of all the pastas.
~don't finkdinkle when ur supposed to be dimpdickin~
#174
I tried that mirror trick last night. My face didn't only change, but grinned at me just before melting like ice cream in the sun.
Some people just wanna watch the world burn. Wanna join me when I take my turn to pour the gas, light the match, see your world flip upside down and drop until it's inside out?
#175
Quote by symphyses
The Rats in the Walls
The Music of Erich Zann
The Outsider

Then The Call of Cthulhu to say you've read it.

I'm honestly not that big of help. I do have his complete works, I have yet to read all of them.


****ing YES. Also The Color Out Of Space, and At the Mountains Of Madness.

MUTO, a creepy animation painted on the public surfaces of Buenos Aires.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4&feature=featured
Last edited by FrauVfromPoB at Sep 22, 2010,
#176
I do not enjoy this thread yet.. I must keep reading.

I hate looking in the mirror in the dark, creeps me the hell out. My face always goes disorted and ahh
#177
Quote by XavierOprah
*Cordyceps*


They're actually helpful to humans... Darn my curiosity, the story isn't scary anymore.

Quote by primusfan
a definite repost, but i can't make it through more than two minutes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qr-IdHU3A5M

listen to this in complete darkness and silence. scariest shit ever. the detractors of this case say they were religious zealots who disregarded psychiatry. what they don't mention is that she had been receiving psychiatric care for ten months before the exorcism began. even in almost an entire year of psychiatric treatment, there was nothing the experts could do for her.

Typical black metal vocals
Last edited by Kevin19 at Sep 22, 2010,
#179
Quote by Lt. Shinysides
yeah this.

It was really unsettling. Anyone else get the feeling that it wanted to hurt you? like it just wasn't you?

That was seriously ****ing creepy. That really bothered me a lot, all lights staying on tonight.

I read the original article from the psychology journal and I thought the following comment was very interesting and insightful.

"self-perception in a mirror engages a far broader set of processes as the image duplicates one's own face perfectly in space and time, triggering an integration of perceptual, motor, and proprioceptive processes. It is a dynamic process involving self-motion and autonomous self-exploratory control of facial pose and expression (Rochat 2002). The construction of our self-identity includes, among other processes, the capacity to recognise oneself in the mirror, a competence acquired in childhood between 2 - 3 years of age (Zazzo 1981). Another aspect of the strange-face illusion is the potential breakdown of self-identity that may take place when gazing at a strange new face that has replaced one's own in the mirror for a relatively long time."

Basically, if you stare at the distorted image for a short time, it is simply unsettling, but what if you stared at it for an extended period of time? What sort of self-identity ramifications could it have?
Last edited by nmitchell076 at Sep 22, 2010,
#180
wait a minute, at 2^3 years old? I'm pretty sure I could recognize myself in a mirror before I was eight.
[HARLEY-DAVIDSON]



When the world slips you a Jerffrey...

Stroke the furry walls.
stroke the furry walls.
#181
Quote by velocigecko
wait a minute, at 2^3 years old? I'm pretty sure I could recognize myself in a mirror before I was eight.

thats actually supposed to be a " - " but apparently the copy-paste function messed up, I'll fix the OP
#182
i got a good chuckle out of this, seeing as how one of the old thread's favorite topics i recall was The Human Centipede. I don't know if any of you have seen this, but it's Daniel Tosh's spoiler of that movie. i thought it was pretty good if you want a little break from creepy stuff in this thread

http://www.comedycentral.com/videos/index.jhtml?videoId=343580&title=spoiler-alert---human-centipede---uncut
Quote by asator
YOU'RE A CUNT AND STUFF LESPAUL1216.


It's okay because whatever, forever
#183
Read the whole new thread. I am paranoid as hell right now.

That video of the creepy tap dancing girl freaks me out the most
"You have brains in your head,
You have feet in your shoes,
You can steer yourself,
any direction you choose,
You're on your own,
And you know what you know,
And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go."

- Dr. Seuss
#184
oh god, the scene in the human centipede where the guy has to take a shit is ****ing nasty
[HARLEY-DAVIDSON]



When the world slips you a Jerffrey...

Stroke the furry walls.
stroke the furry walls.
#185
the human centipede isnt as creepy as it is gag-inducing

only watched the trailer though, really didnt see the point of watching it
#186
You know, I've never been freaked out by my reflection. It kinda sucks because a lot of the creepy things I can't do.
I like St. Anger. Ridicule me, daddy
Quote by The_Blode
^ I'm sorry your highness I forgot that I'm subhuman. . .

Quote by ErikLensherr
Normani
Normani
Normies
REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
#188
Quote by BananaMartyr
*UP*

For those who don't know, these fungus are very, very real.


Anyone else think of the Flood from Halo? A fungal zombie infection?
#190
Yeah, it was a sad day when the old one was closed. oh, well, I was thinking it was about time for a new one anyway
[HARLEY-DAVIDSON]



When the world slips you a Jerffrey...

Stroke the furry walls.
stroke the furry walls.
#191
those bastards closed the thread!?!? well thank you too who made this one, at least it shall live on in some way..

btw...that north story was the best story ive read in a while
#192
Quote by hootie37
Yes. The Rake.

*shudders*


lmao i had to sleep with the tv on for a week and a half before i was over that
#193
Quote by XavierOprah
I'm pretty sure this got posted in the last thread. Long, but good.

North

Split Personality, the main character is the killer.
#194
Quote by nmitchell076
Split Personality, the main character is the killer.


is this speculation or is there a full version somewhere?

Also, on the topic of the human centipede - I just want to set one thing straight. It's often advertised for this film that this "procedure" is medically possible, and that's supposed to make it more scary..or realistic or something...

Anyways, some people take this the wrong way. Of course it's possible to fuse three people like that, but numbers 2 and 3 would both die relatively quickly from swallowing human wastes, no matter how many IVs you have in them.
Last edited by technicolour at Sep 22, 2010,
#195
Watched Begotten.



I'm going to have nightmares of God bleeding to death on my bed.
Quote by Ian_the_fox
You're not girly enough of a boy for me, and you're not man enough to take the top. So like, sorry bitch but you ain't mine! Sorry.
#196
Quote by XavierOprah
EDIT: Also, which are the better HP Lovecraft stories? I wanna get around to reading them.

In addition to the suggestions made by the guy below you, throw in "The Haunter in/of the Dark", "The Colour Out of Space", and "At the Mountains of Madness". But don't read Lovcraft with the intention to have the sh*t scared out of you. His stuff is creepy and unsettling and thought provoking, but rarely actually terrifying.
Please excuse my godawful username. I was thirteen.
Last edited by Thrasher51 at Sep 23, 2010,
#197
Thanks for the suggestions guys. I got most of them, read the Call of Cthuthlu last night. It was pretty good, definitely a good read, but not terrifying. Any recommendations for other authors? I found a site that has a whole heap of horror, but most of it seems Victorian, kinda hard to plough through.

Exit
I know this road better than I know myself. I know each of Interstate 85’s 250 odd miles; I know that it takes me an average of 3 hours and 26 minutes to drive west, from Charlotte to Atlanta, and an average of 3 hours and 29 minutes to make the same trip going eastward. I know the price of gas at a dozen stands, and the closing hours of each fast food shack and greasy diner. I know the curves of each low hill and I know each stand of pine and oak trees. I know the stretching dark of the long winter nights and the wet heat of the summer breeze. I know these things well because they are the totality of my existence now.

I know the names of each exit, westward and east. Batesville, Poplar Springs, Spartanburg. They tick through my head as I pass, but the Silver Creek Road exit is never among them. In three years of this endless loop, it has never appeared again. If I ever begin to doubt that it will, then I have nothing left.

The Silver Creek Road exit doesn’t exist on any map, or at least, it no longer does. It may have once, but like the road itself, it has been razed from the earth and from all memory and record. At the beginning, I spent long anxious days poring over old surveying maps and neighborhood planning documents, searching in vain for any sign of the road, or the exit I know I had taken. When there was nothing left in the libraries and city halls to comb through, no meek county official left to interrogate, wide-eyed and frothing, then I began the drive.

I’ve been through two cars, and have burned through my savings and now survive off a stack of rapidly vanishing credit cards. I have no address to receive bills, and no intention of paying, and have been filling my trunk with small plastic gallon jugs of gas, while the cards are still accepted. When this filthy and battered Oldsmobile gives up the ghost at last, I suppose I will have to learn to hitchhike.

I first took the Silver Creek Road exit three summers ago, on that last night that I was with Bobbie. I have in my head just a few frozen frames of that ride left, her black curls bouncing like springs in the evening breeze, her gapped toothed and freckled smile, and the slow summer crossing into night.

We’d made that drive together a dozen times, between our apartment in Atlanta and her brother in Charlotte. There was nothing remarkable that night. We simply ran low on gas and took the first exit we came across. I remember vividly passing beneath the green and sparkling white letters of the exit sign, and onto the sharp curve of the road.

The street turned perpendicular from the light and noise of the highway into inky darkness of the pine trees. Nothing remarkable to separate it from a hundred other country roads, but as the lights of the car penetrated the darkness, a vague and trembling unease passed through me. The tall rustling pines seemed black even under the blue white of the headlamps, and the road began to rapidly degrade, becoming pocked and uneven just a few dozen yards in.

All the roar and glare from the highway seemed swallowed up behind us, and there were no lights ahead of us for as far as we could see. My insides felt tight and knotted, and I turned to Bobbie. She had her skinny legs tucked to her chest and looked at me, quizzically, one eyebrow raised, with a small crooked smile. Her small bravery seemed to dissipate the chill that had been steadily rising in me.

I looked forward to the road, I felt a sudden sharp pressure on my chest. Stretching out in front of the wan light of the headlamps, the road ended. There was a small field of shattered asphalt slabs, and then the forest swallowed up every trace under a blanket of rotting pine needles. Something twinkled brightly between the trees, and I strained to pick it out of the darkness. It was the smooth chrome of a bumper, attached to a pitted and rusting car, completely enclosed by the towering pines.

A wave of panic and disorientation crawled down my scalp and my knuckles went white on the wheel. Bobbie placed her hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed once.

“Cal,” she said, firm and evenly, “we need to turn around now, honey.”

There was a tremulous quality to the last word, as the surreal darkness seemed to further constrict around us. I heard her take a little gasp of air. I began to turn the wheel when I realized how narrow the road had become. It had been two lanes when we started, I was sure of this, but the forest seemed to be pressing against both sides of the car, far to narrow to turn around. Blood pounded in my temples, and I threw the car into reverse. The boughs of the trees scraped against both sides, soft whispering scratches from the needles and the soft thuds of thicker branches.

Bobbie held her hand on my knee, calming and reassuring even as panic threatened to overwhelm me. I could see the highway moments later, a thin cloud of hazy illumination over the rise behind us, and the forest seemed to part like curtain. Bobbie released her held breath and giggled softly, and I felt a wave of elation wash over me. I turned to her to share relieved smiles, and I locked with her dark eyes when the siren sounded, once and sharp in the silence, and bright blue and red strobes flashed through window.

The police cruiser was parked in the center of the road, crouched low and silent like a predator. The familiar red and blue flicker bathed the street in weird crooked shadows. As I turned off the engine, there was the slam of a car door and I could hear the heavy thud of boots on the road, pacing towards us.

The comforting normalcy of the sight of a police officer began to drain away as he approached in the dark. He carried no flashlight, and I saw his gloved hands hanging straight at his sides in the side mirror as he walked towards me. He was dressed in thick winter wear, with his high collar turned up, and his hat pulled low. He approached the window, and as he leaned straight from the waist to fix his black and beady eyes on mine, I realized just how thin and tall he was.

“License and Registration.” His voice was muffled and thick with a strange and choked drawl, almost unintelligible, and his lips seemed to move in manner counter to the shape of his words. The summer night air around him seemed to grow even warmer. There were no sounds, no wind in the pines, no chirp of insects.

I was mesmerized by the strangeness of what seemed, for all the world, to be an absurd imitation of a man. For the second time in as many minutes, I wondered fleetingly if I was dreaming. I could see now that he had no badge, and was simply dressed in unremarkable black clothes.

The overwhelming fog of dread and panic seemed to condense all at once around me, and singular animal command to flee, at once, drove my hands forward towards the keys.

He was quicker. One black gloved fist slammed into my temple, and a shower of stars exploded over my left eye, and the world tipped sideways.

I remember him dragging me from the car, the shocking heat in his grasp seeming almost to burn. I remember hearing Bobbie’s screams and seeing in dizzy glimpses her brief flight, before being swept into those inhumanly long and slender arms. One glove came off in the struggle and I saw the pale white hand, like an immense knobby spider, each leg tipped with a black and curved talon. The world swam around me, wild and burning, and I struggled to move my limbs.

Bobbie was limp in his arms as he approached me again, and I struggled weakly to my feet. Our eyes met in the red and blue strobe; he looked nothing like a man now, his once pale mockery of humanity was stretching and distending away into some unthinkable shape. He did a very human thing then, and smiled, lips peeling back to reveal rows of thin white needles.

I was running before I knew it, bolting dizzy and weaving down the road. I was vaulting across the shoulder of the highway when my rational mind clawed it’s way to the surface. Coward! it screeched at me. My legs shuddered to stop, and sudden painful guilt flooded my lungs like fluid and stole my breath. Bobbie’s face loomed in my vision and I felt a profound and clear shame pressing down on me.

That’s when the car struck me, sliding on locked and screeching tires. I was tossed into the concrete median, striking the back of my skull. I woke up three days later, wrapped in plaster and flooded with morphine.

Gaffney, Blacksburg, Kings Mountain. The exits pass by, each one decreasing the chance of seeing Silver Creek Road exit on this go around. It was impossible to accept in those first few days of maddening research that Silver Creek Road had simply vanished, and so I made the drive myself, carefully reading each sign. When it failed to manifest itself, I made the drive again, this time at night. And then again.

Sometimes there’s a zen-like quality to the repetition, the familiar patterns of predictability and order. The immutable order of the land, the locked procession of towns and trees is comforting as it continues to grind my hope away like a millstone. Most days, I can believe and accept that Bobbie is gone. There is always that shadow of doubt, that crystalline thread of hope, but it feels hollow in my hands now.

There is one thing I must believe: if it appeared to us once, it will to me again. And if I can find it, that pale horror in a man’s skin, I will kill it. If the bullets fail, I need only a few moments to ignite the trunk’s cargo, and to lure the murdering thing to me.

I swear to the stars, I will never stop looking.
#198
Sorry for the double post, but I thought this was pretty damn good.

Quiet
I never saw the ocean till I was nineteen, and if I ever see it again it will be too goddamn soon. I was a child, coming out of the train, fresh from Amarillo, into San Diego and all her glory. The sight of it, all that water and the blind crushing power of the surf, filled me with dread. I’d seen water before, lakes, plenty big, but that was nothing like this. I don’t think I can describe what it was like that first time, and further more, I’m not sure I care too.

You can imagine the state I was in when a few weeks later they gave me a rifle and put me on a boat. When I stopped vomiting up everything that I ate, I decided that I might not kill myself after all. Not being able to see the land, and that ceaseless chaotic, rocking of the waves; I remember thinking that the war had to be a step up from this. Kids can be so ****ing stupid.

I had such a giddy sense of glee when I saw the island, and it’s solid banks. They transferred us to a smaller boat in the middle of the night, just our undersized company with our rucksacks and rifles and not a word. We just took a ride right into it, just because they asked us to. The lieutenants herded us into our platoons on the decks and briefed us: the island had been lost. That was exactly how he put it. Somehow in the grand plan for the Pacific, this one tiny speck of earth, only recently discovered and unmapped, had gotten lost in the shuffle; a singularly perfect clerical error was all it took. It was extremely unlikely, he stressed, that the Japanese had gotten a hold of it, being so far east and south of their current borders, but a recent fly over reported what looked like an airfield in the central plateau.

We hit the beach in the middle of the night. I’d heard talk of landings before, and I’m not ashamed to tell, I was scared shitless. I don’t know quite what I expected, but it wasn’t we got, that thick, heavy silence. Behind the lapping of the waves and the wind in the trees, there was... nothing, no birds, no insects. Just deathly stillness.

Another hundred yards deeper into the eerie tranquility of the jungle, we stopped in a small clearing for the officers to reconvene, and it was obvious even they were spooked. I wasn’t a bright kid, but I knew enough to know that something was very wrong. It was like the whole island was dead. I remember I could only smell the sea, despite the red blossoms dangling from the trees.

It wasn’t an airfield, on top of the plateau. I can’t tell you what it was, because I’ve never seen anything like it, and I don’t think anyone ever will. If I tell you it was like the Aztec pyramids, but turned upside down, so that it sank like giant steps into the earth, you’d get the basic idea of it, but that somehow fails to capture the profound unearthliness of the structure.

There was no sign of individual pieces in the masonry, it appeared to have been carved out of a single immense block of black rock into a sharp and geometric shape. It was slick and perfectly smooth like obsidian, but it had no shine to it. It swallowed up even the moonlight, so that it was impossible to see how deep it went, or even focus your eyes on any one part of it, like it was one giant blind spot.

Our platoon drew the honor of investigating the lower levels, so we descended the stairs as the rest of the company surrounded the plateau. We took the stairs slowly and carefully after the first man to touch one of the right angle edges slit his hands down the bone.

At odd intervals down the steps, there were several small stone rooms; simple, empty, hollow cubes of stone with one opening, facing the pit in the center. There was no door that we could see, and with the opening being four feet of the ground, you’d have to put your hands on that black razor sharp edge to climb in into it.

We circled the descending floors, shining our lights into each of the small structures; They contained the same featureless black walls and nothing else. No dust, no leaves and other detritus from the jungle, the whole monument was immaculate, as if the place was just built; but that couldn’t be right. The whole structure felt incalculably old to me somehow, despite having no way to articulate the particular reasons.

Down near the bottom you could see that it simply sloped away into a darkness that swallowed the flashlights. We tossed first a button and then a shell casing down into the pit, and waited in the unearthly silence, but no sounds returned. No one spoke, we simply turned away from the yawning abyss and continued our sweep of the bottom rung and the last of the small structures.

The body in the back corner was almost invisible at first in the thick shadows, but the long spill of drying blood reflected the light of our flashlights, and it led right too him. He was coiled tight, arms around his thighs, and his face tucked into his knees. You could see badly he was cut, his clothes opened in ragged bloody tatters to reveal the pale skin and bone beneath it. He may have been dressed in a Japanese uniform, but it had been reduced to ribbons; I only had few seconds to look at him before we heard the first shots.

It echoed like the buzzing of faraway insects in the still jungle, swallowed almost instantly by the blanket of quiet. By the time we reached the top, the rest of the company had vanished. There were shell casings on the ground, and the hot smell of gunpowder in the air, but they were gone. The trees were deathly quiet around, there was not a trace of the nearly fifty other men that had come ashore with us. I could taste bile rising in my throat as panic threatened to cripple me; I felt crushed between the yawning pit and razor edges on one side and the dead jungle and the pounding ocean on the other. The silence rang in my ears and I struggled to still myself.

They were just inside the jungle, waiting for us. They came out from between the trees with all sound of a moth, simply sliding into our view.

I can try to tell you what I saw, the same as I did to the army doc on the hospital ship when I first woke up, and again half dozen other various officers over the following months, and you’ll have the same reaction they did; that I was a dumb country rube suffering from heatstroke and exposure and trauma. That I was crazy.

You know me. You know I’m not crazy. And I remember every second of that night with crystal clarity.

The thing, the first one that caught my eye, was wearing the skin of a Jap soldier, all mottled with the belly distended from rot. The head drooped, useless and obscene on the shoulders, tongue swollen and eyes cloudy. I could see where it was coming apart at the ill-defined joints, with ragged holes in the drying flesh. At the bottom of each of these raw pits was blackness, deeper than the stones of the buildings; a darkness that seemed to churn and froth like an angry cloud.

The thing moved suddenly, the head snapping and rolling backwards as it dashed towards us. I had my rifle clasped tightly in my hands, but it simply didn’t occur to me to fire. All I could do was gape silently at the macabre sight bearing down on us, and think absurdly of my mother’s marionettes.

A gun went off beside me, and I turned to see a dozen more of the horrors darting silently in on us. Among them were a few more rotting and swollen forms, but the majority wore the same uniforms as us, and were pale, fresh, and soaked in blood. More bullets zipped through the air, and I saw the grisly things hit again and again, but they never slowed. I caught a glimpse of the First Sergeant's vacant glassy eyes as his head dangled limp from his shoulders; I saw the great ragged wound in his back and the shuddering darkness that inhabited his corpse when he leapt just past me without a sound, landing like a graceful predator onto the soldier beside me. The others around me began to drop in a silent dance of kinetic energy and blurred motion

I was on the track team in high school, and it could have got me to college. I didn’t need an invitation. I just ran. I ran blind through jungle, caroming of tree trunks; I ran until I saw the ocean, and it struck a new ringing note of terror in me. I don’t remember actually deciding to swim, but when I turned back to the tree line, I saw one of the white and bloody things emerge, running on all fours, the hands splayed wide and the back contorted and cracked in an impossible angle.

To this day, the mere thought of the ocean still brings on a cold sweat, but that night I let it embrace me, let the tide drag me out to sea, if only to bring momentary relief from the impossible monolith and terrors on the island. The days I spent drifting off shore and blistering in the sun were a welcome release from the silent island.

I never saw the war. They sent me home as soon as I recovered.
It was comforting in a way, when I thought no one believed me. It allowed me to believe that it never happened, that it was a product of my mind. But as I got older, I’ve found that it is pointless to lie to anyone, especially yourself. I know what I saw.

Someone else believed me too. I’ve seen maps of where they tested the hydrogen bombs in the South Pacific.
#199
I dunno if that mirror thing has been talked about any more, but i think it is all psychological, under a certain light, your eyes do go a little bit funny and you see shapes and things that aren't actually there, same goes for if you stare at something for a long time, and so i am thinking that people looked at themselves in the mirror, they started seeing shapes and features changing, and were trying to find patterns in these changes, so they were essentially hallucinating.
WHOMP

Think of that next time you are not allowed to laugh.
#200
Quote by fail
Watched Begotten.

I'm going to have nightmares of God bleeding to death on my bed.


Wait, what is this?
Luck
Our Savior

Quote by burnboy85
where do snails get their shells, anyway?
Quote by crazy8rgood
They make them while they grow. They secrete the substance, I believe.
Quote by Gunpowder
THAT IS SO NEAT


tee hee i changed the shit out of my color scheme