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 fucking 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.

–

Credited to Josef K. (aka entropyblues).

He Waits for You

As the dead of winter approaches, you may find yourself alone at night, feeling isolated and abandoned in an all-too-empty bed as the night grows ever bleaker. Ghastly shadows, dancing across the wall. The crying wind battering against your window. An ambulance siren in the distance. And there’s no one there to convince you that you didn’t hear those gunshots. There’s no one there. No one there.

But do not be afraid. He waits for you.

Wait for the moon to hide itself, perhaps behind a gathering of clouds. Midnight is the best time to do this. Just close your eyes and hold your breath as you leave your bed. You may open your eyes once you exit your bedroom. Get dressed if you like, because you’ll be leaving your house soon. Take nothing with you, except for what you can keep in your pockets. Then, drive out of town. Drive as far away from civilization as you possibly can. Eventually, the air will become still. Then a dense fog will form just a short way down the road. You will hear nothing but silence as you approach it. Let it consume you and your vehicle. No harm will come to you from it. I promise.

Do not be afraid. He waits for you.

The fog will lift. You will see a dimly-lit motel, stranded and alone in the night. Just like you. As you walk inside, notice that there is no one else there. The only sign of human inhabitance will be a small key on the front desk. Take these keys. Wander the corridors until you find the proper room. You will soon know exactly where it is. But you won’t know why. Use your key to enter this room. Walk in, and lie down in the bed.

It’s no more comforting than your bed at home. There’s nothing but pure silence for miles. Death hangs in the air all around you. And it’s so cold. You’re still alone. And frightened. But it’s okay. He’s frightened, too. And it’s just so cold. Cold enough to hold the pillow close to your body, burying your face in its softness and embracing it. Pretend that it’s a lover all you want; you won’t feel any safer. But you will feel… warmer?

Open your arms, lift up your head! The warmth… is his arms. Two twisted, mutilated arms, tracing down your body. There he is. And he’s frightened, too. You can see it in his blackened, spherical eyes, fixating upon your face and twinkling with the light of another dimension. The light shines in specks from beneath his parched skin, making him glow from the inside. Bruises cover his decaying neck, as well as deep, finger-wide indents. It’s as if someone had tried to strangle him. He sighs, and softly caresses your face. The skin of his hands begins to flake off onto you, and you want to sweep it away. But you’re stunned, completely stunned by this strange creature that’s completely enamored by you.

At least you’re not alone anymore.

You’ll then gather enough will to take your hands, and gently lift him off you, placing him to your side. You get a better look at him. His legs are disturbingly crooked, having been broken in so many places, and healed in ways that they just weren’t meant to. And he won’t stop staring at you. Small, glistening tears drip from his eyes. He shivers and trembles, trying to form words with his torn mouth. You can’t tell exactly what he’s trying to tell you. It doesn’t matter for now, anyway. He will want to touch you, to hold and to comfort you. Whatever pain you have ever felt from loneliness, whatever sorrow you may have felt in your entire life, he feels it. His tears fall onto you, and he lies back in submission. He will let you do anything you want to him. He knows that no matter what you do, it will never hurt him as much as what the others have done. It will never hurt him as much as the isolation he’s felt in this motel. As you gaze upon his twinkling eyes, you may gain a sudden urge to mutilate him, and punish him for existing the way he does. But please, be kind. He loves you, after all.

Spend the night with him. He’ll let you do anything, and he won’t be able to speak. But be sure to leave the room before sunrise. He will do everything in his power to keep you from leaving. He will grab onto you, cry, and scream at you. Tears will keep gushing from his glowing eyes, disintegrating his skin even further. But no matter how much you pity him, leave! Resist him, and leave! If you don’t, you will be forever trapped, and doomed to live the same existence that he does. Do not let him follow you. Just close the door behind you, and lock it.

You’re alone again.

Next thing you know, you’ll wake up in your bed at home, some time after the sun is risen. The events of last night will feel as if it were nothing but a dream. Everything in your home is where you left it last. Your car, your clothes, everything. Then, if you are lucky, something incredible will happen. Within a few days, you just might meet a new person. This person has everything you want, and it’s as if they were made for you. Within time, the two of you will fall in love. You will almost forget the ghoul in the motel, and forget about those glowing eyes staring at you. All that will matter is that you will be in love with this wonderful new person, and they will love you.

But once they move in with you, things will grow progressively stranger. As you lie together in bed, you might hear a faint scratching on the door, and an all-too-familiar cry. But do not worry, your companion will keep you from becoming too worried about it. The next night, the cry might become a shriek. The scratching will become a pounding. And only you can hear it. No matter how hard you try to convince your partner of what you hear, they will only tell you to go back to sleep.

And one night, you will notice that the noises have vanished. Nights will be peaceful again, and it will just be you and your partner. But from then on, you will constantly look upon your lover’s eyes. You will notice a new glow in their eyes, twinkling with the light of another dimension…

Do not be afraid. He’s waited so long for you.

–

Credited to Lindsay “HackerOnHacker” S.

Fresh Faces

Hi, I’m Seth. I’m writing this note, bottling it, and tossing it in the brook by my house. Writing helps me keep my sanity. Hopefully somebody who still reads will pick it up and come help me.

It started a month ago. I was down in my basement office on my computer watching old Mystery Science Theater 3000 reruns. The phone rang next to me, but I didn’t pay any attention to it. It was never for me; on the off occasion it was, it was usually my brother, and half the time we were on the phone my nephew would be trying to grab it and talk to me himself. Mom yelled down the stairs that the phone was for me. Yeah, I lived at home with my folks. Sue me. Anyway, I picked up.

“Hello?” I said, paying more attention to the antics of the robots on the screen.

“It’s begun.” The voice was little more than a whimper, a plea. I didn’t even recognize the voice.

“Excuse me?” I asked, wondering who on earth was calling.

“They’ve come, I don’t have much time, Jeff; you told me to call if what we did caused trouble.”

Now a little worried, I said, “I think you’ve got the wrong number, this is Seth, not Jeff.”

“DON’T GO OUTDOORS!” The person shrieked. Completely freaked out, I disconnected the call. Must’ve been some prank caller, but I wasn’t amused. Rattled, I put the matter behind me.

Much later, I finished watching videos and shut the lights off to head upstairs. It was pitch black, but I knew the way. The dark seemed a little more oppressive this time, though. I shrugged off the feeling and went upstairs. As I passed through the living room, I chanced a look out the window. There were people outside, on a walk or something; I checked my watch and it said 3:00 am. “That’s weird,” I muttered. I stumbled up to my upstairs room and drifted off to sleep.

I was a fool that first night. If I’d recognized what I’d seen, I would have saved myself the terror and just stepped outside.

The next morning, the news was on; odd, since my dad usually turned to the sports channel before we went off to work. I didn’t even glance at it as I threw on a tie and stumbled into the bathroom. An uneasy feeling crept into my gut as I did my morning routine. I usually had to fight for bathroom space, but today there wasn’t a sound. I peeked out of the room and saw that the front door was open, but the glass storm door wasn’t. There wasn’t a sound. Looking outdoors, I saw those same people as I’d seen the night before.

I opened the door.

Immediately their heads snapped towards me. I recoiled and leapt inside as quickly as I could, feeling something catch at my ankle as I did so. Their faces were fixed in expressionless gazes, their mouths slightly agape and dripping blood. I looked down and saw one right next to the porch, withdrawing its arm; it had tried to grab me. With a dizzying feeling of horror, I recognized my little brother. Slamming the door, I locked it tight and stumbled back into the living room. The television was reporting that a disease was spreading south from Canada across the U.S. I shut it off, and pointlessly called out to see if anyone else was in the house.

No answer.

So began my solitary existence. The news ran for a few days, before they were caught. Kept making the stupidest mistake, going home every night. The electricity has stayed running; I guess someone left the switch on at the factory. Or maybe it’s just northern New England that’s been overrun, I dunno. The internet’s been out too, so that’s annoying.

While the news was running, they called them zombies, going back to that old standby. I guess it works. I mean, they don’t do a whole lot, and they’re definitely dead; they walk around until their legs rot out from under them, then they crawl until they literally fall to pieces. While they’ve got legs, though, they’re fast. That’s how they jumped my family, I suppose. And the police car that drove up to the house to see if there were any survivors. That wasn’t fun to look at every morning. They overturned my car while chasing him, so I’m stuck. Cops to the rescue again. They didn’t really need food, so they didn’t finish eating the poor guy. But they dismembered him; that’s why he couldn’t get up and join them. I could see him gnashing his teeth fruitlessly, though.

For about a week, a guy on the radio hopefully pointed out that they were falling to pieces, so all we needed to do was wait them out. Then he got impatient, went outdoors. Nobody’s been on the radio for two weeks.

I’m in trouble, though. You see, the house has no food left. I can’t wait for them to all to fall down dead all over again. I’ve made a couple expeditions to the general store. Lucky I had that sword collection upstairs. They’re all too slow to catch me when I run, but there are so many that I sometimes panic. Last time, they nearly got me. I broke the front door getting back in; now the cold seeps in every night, and I can see one standing out on the porch right now, not ten feet from where I’m writing this. You’re safe indoors. Don’t ask me why they abhor coming inside. Whatever the reason, it’s been my lifeline. Unfortunately, they seem to know that there’s someone alive in the house. Don’t ask me how; this fellow on the front step doesn’t even have eyes anymore. Maybe they can hear a heartbeat, or smell sweat. Or blood.

I spent a couple days naming them. Some of the faces I recognized, and gave their old names to them. The same old gang’s been hanging around here for the last few weeks, slowly dropping in number as they fall to pieces. They’ve never wandered off, though. There's 79 who were once men and 63 who were once women out there. Once, just to see what would happen, I shot one in the head with our shotgun. You know, to see if the old “shoot a zombie in the head and they die for good” adage had any truth. So I’ve actually got 79 who were once men, 62 who were once women and 1 who was once a woman and decided to keep standing even after losing about 80% of its head. And I’m down one shotgun shell.

So they wait. And I’m losing it. I talk to myself constantly, and I ate a stuffed animal last night. The cotton went down hard, but it felt good to have something in my stomach again. There are no fruit trees around, and anyway, it’s November. Water has been getting scarcer. The tap water stopped working eight days ago; lucky I’d filled the bathtub and every bottle I could find before it stopped.

Oh, great. Now the lamp’s getting brighter and I hear a buzzing sound. I wonder if the power’s going ou

Well, that wasn’t fun. Total loss of power for four days. Ever try sleeping in the dark knowing that there are things just outside that’ll kill you and make you one of them the first chance they get? Probably, since these things are everywhere, as far as I can tell. Quick update: I mentioned Herschel, that guy on my porch? One of his legs fell off, so he’s sitting down, sniffing at it. Thank God they lose all higher brain functions. I’m pretty sure the soul isn’t held captive in these things, and that this is all the disease (or whatever) trying to spread itself as far as it can in the population.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, reader, but the animals just don’t seem affected. It’s a small comfort. Of course, they die if they eat the flesh, but they don’t get back up once they die. Weird, huh? I’m getting hungry, and desperate. Maybe, just maybe, I can load the old .22 and bag a squirrel from inside. But how will I go get it?

On one hand, I’m a bit more optimistic that you’re out there now, whoever you are. The power couldn’t have come back if there weren’t people out there working to restore order. I’m feeling lucky; time to grab a sword and go drop this in the brook. Maybe this whole thing is almost over.

Maybe. On the other hand, if it is almost over…

Why are there fresh faces outside today?

–
Credited to Master Kenobi.

Persuaded

It’s been 2 weeks since this whole thing started.

It all started with a tanker accident. It was all over the news. Everyone thought it was just another oil spill. There were plenty of volunteers. Plenty of people wanting to help the poor defenseless animals. Plenty of victims. Within hours of the tanker accident, it started happening. The animals had gone crazy, they were scratching and biting the clean up volunteers. They said that it was an adverse effect to whatever was in that tanker.

Rescue workers were still trying to get the crew out of the ship. They could hear screaming inside. Screams to open the doors. But that’s when it all went to hell. As soon as they cut the door out.

There was 6 minutes of broadcast before it went silent. 6 minutes of screaming and agony. The ship crew attacked the rescue workers like rabid baboons. Breaking bones and tearing flesh. The people on the shore weren’t fairing any better. Those that had been attacked by animals were attacking everyone else. It was worse than any war zone report, it was sheer brutality, and yet the broadcast still went on for 6 minutes. 6 minutes and then blank faces. Nobody could explain what was happening. They tried to continue with regular news, the economy, the weather, a cute human interest story, but they couldn’t make us unsee what we saw.

I tried to continue with my regular existence but every time I switched on the news or walked by a news stand it was there. This big mystery. They had some explanations, some kind of infection, brain parasites, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t an infection we were afraid of, it was them.

4 days after the initial report, a state of emergency was raised. And yet we’d all seen this before. Every zombie movie ever. People didn’t know who to trust. People were stockpiling food and weapons. Some tried to flee but it seems every zombie movie was right. They didn’t make it. 3 days later they arrived in my town.

I expected moans, shuffling corpses, dismemberment, but that’s where the movies lied. They ran through the streets, screaming. I remember running to my front door as fast as I could, locking, barricading, doing anything to make sure it would stay shut, and then I headed for the window. I was on the second story and I could see the carnage. They were unstoppable. They were aware.

A group of them made there way through a building across the street. They jumped straight through plate glass windows. Even the shards slicing through them made no difference, they just kept coming. My barricade wasn’t going to hold. I rushed around my flat, grabbing supplies and jamming them into the most secure room of the flat. I went back for one last look across the street, and I wish I hadn’t. In a second story window, my face met one of theirs. They knew where I was. I quickly dashed into the room and locked the door.

I don’t have any kind of panic room, or a secure basement, so the safest place I could think of was my bathroom. No windows, one door with a lock. I had filled my sink and bathtub full of water, So I could stay for a while. So I sat there in the dark room, with the distant screams in my ears.

I began to feel like I may have over-reacted, it had been 2 hours and no sign of them. It actually got quieter and I thought they had moved on. Maybe I could leave the room, get to the kitchen. Grab more food to wait it out. A crash came from the front door. The sound of someone running full force into the door and knocking down the barrier behind it. There was a couple more crashes before I knew they were inside. Rapid footsteps moving around the flat, a couple screams and then a bang on the wall beside me. My eyes were open to their widest, even in the pitch black darkness of the room. Another bang, and another. They knew I was there and they knew I was scared.

This was the zombie nightmare I had been expecting from the start. I had nowhere to run. There was only so much time before they would break in. I sat with my back to the door, hoping my extra weight would make it harder for them to get in. And then it got worse.
“why don’t you open the door?”

A voice on the opposite side of the door. No screams or moans, just a quiet, whispery voice. And then more of them.

“we’ve come for you.”
“you’ll be happier if you open the door”
“it’s not so bad…”

The whispery voices, became a cacophony of noise trying to persuade me, to break me, to fool me. I had heard that the moaning of zombies would drive people insane but this was worse, a siren call. I sat in the darkness and hoped and prayed that they’d get bored. But they don’t get bored and they don’t leave. I managed to use the mirror to peak under the door, only to be greeted by horrible unblinking eyes, blood smeared faces, screams and more horrible whispers. That was two days ago…

I don’t know what to do anymore… maybe it won’t be so bad…

–
Credited to Chris Stewart.

The Drain Lady.

My father was a military man. Retired back in ‘95 from the Navy after 20 years of proud service to our country. But before that, we moved often… every 3-4 years or thereabouts we’d pack up and get shipped somewhere new. Early 1989, a wonderful opportunity arose and dad took it. A 16 hour flight later, and we were stationed at N.A.S Sigonella, Sicily. I guess I was about, oh 10 or 11 at the time. Those years were blurred save those pinpricks of memory that still haunt me. That still plague my dreams from time to time.

Our first home there was an apartment in a complex called “Bellavista” far from the Naval base. There was a waiting list to move into Base Housing that generally ran for about a year and a half’s wait. Until your time to move, you had to live amongst the locals wherever you could. Bellavista was a beautiful place… we lived on the upper floor of the complex and had a wonderful view of the countryside off our back balcony. At night, one could look up at the night sky and see a thin trail of fiery red lava slowly ebbing from still active Mt. Etna. And in the morning, everything left out in the open was often found to be blanketed ever so slightly in volcanic ash, almost like a light dusting of snow.

But naturally, as perfectly nice as Bellavista was, it wasn’t meant for us for long. The landlord daughter was pregnant, engaged… and homeless. Guess who got the boot? So we moved, with the landlord’s assistance, into another home. Motta S. Anastasia, a little cobblestone-streeted town near Catania, and much closer to the Navy base. The day we drove up to the new place, I felt ill. Of course, nothing was thought of this at the time, but I’d swear in retrospect I was being told something. The place was a 3 story house with an apartment on each floor. I really don’t remember the neighbors, but both were similarly Navy families. And I can imagine I pissed them off a lot with the screaming.

Dad unlocked the door and proceeded into the small entryway. The cobblestone street gave way to a marbled floor entrance and a matching set of marble stairs up to the second floor, which was our new home. The place was stunningly beautiful. Marble floors… glass french doors into the living room area… balconies attached to nearly every room, save the one that was to be mine. Claw foot bathtub…bidet… all the modern conveniences expected of a home in Europe.

I walked into the room that was going to be mine. Small, simple, square and quite cold. To the left, at the end of the wall was a door covered with a “persiana.” Basically, a form of window blinds made from heavy horizontal flaps that was operated via a cloth strap attached to the wall. I pulled it up to see that the door was mostly glass and beyond it was a very small “room” lined with brick along the floor and walls. I opened the door and stepped into the room and looked up to discover the room extended all the way up through the third floor and up to a hole in the roof. There was no covering on the hole either… it went straight into open air. The shaft allowed a fair amount of light to shine into the only room in the house without a window in it, which I thought was pretty damn cool initially.

The chill seemed to come from the room, despite the glaring sun nearly directly overhead. It was then I heard the first whispers. Like… if you were to take a wire brush and softly rub the stiff bristles against your jeans. At the time, I attributed it to echoes off the brick… but I couldn’t help but feel weird about it. It wasn’t coming from any discernable direction or source… but it surrounded me like a blanket, as if sound could be tangible and touchable. It pressed in gently on my ears like pressure on an aircraft ascending or descending. I turned to leave and I noticed a glinting drain in the middle of the floor. It was obviously for rainwater to drain away but my nausea increased when I saw it. My stomach gnawed at itself as I ran out of there and I swear I saw the drain cover jiggle a bit on my way out. I lowered the persiana quickly and rejoined the family in the living room, shaking and sick as a dog.

Now granted… a little brick room was far from the norm for paranormal ghostly stuff. But try telling that to whatever was in there. Christ. For weeks and weeks, I’d get up the nerve to open the persiana in broad daylight and risk a peek… only to stumble back from the door sick as all hell to my stomach and trembling. I tried telling my parents of course… but an 11 year old’s ramblings about a scary brick room generally get chalked up to too many “Freddy” and “Jason” movies. The whisperings rarely stopped at night. They were persistent from the time I laid down until I finally forced myself into slumber. Often, I’d wake up in the middle of the night to silence, and then the whisperings would start up again, as if it was waiting to make sure I was awake.

There was never any real words to the whispering… just a hollow “ksssh sshhhaww hissssshhhhh haaahhh ooooshhhh aaashhhhh” that seemed to repeat, but never in the same cadence. There was no emotion behind it either that I can remember. It wasn’t angry, it wasn’t sad nor happy. Just there. Always fucking there.

One night, after about 2 months of this, I was awoken by a particularly horrifying dream. I seemed to start having those dreams after we moved in… I had never had constant nightmares prior. But I awoke from the dream with the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Immediately my eyes darted to the door… and saw that the persiana was up. Now, European goons with experience, back me up… Persianas are about the noisiest damn things to have in a house. They’re generally metal slats hooked in with metal hooks that grind and squeak loudly in protest as they’re pulled open. There was no way in hell that the persiana, which was always closed, could have been opened without waking up everyone in the house. But sure enough, it was open about 3/4 of the way up the damned door. A bit of moonlight reflected off the bricks in the shaft and into my room with a dull bluish tone. I lay there for hours, paralyzed in my bed, but unable to look away from the door, lest there be something there when I looked back. Eventually, I just conked out…

The next morning crept up finally and I was freed from my paralysis. I ran to the door amidst a wave of nausea and pulled the persiana shut as fast as I could. There was a light dusting of volcanic ash on the brick floor and I’d swear I could make out footprints or scuffing in it. Mom, still asleep at the time, yelled at me from across the hall after hearing the noise, but I couldn’t care less.

Over the course of the next 3 months, it was the same routine. The whisperings never faltered. The persiana would be found at least 2 to 3 times a week opened, and the blackness of the room would stare out at me in my bed. Then one night, it was different. I still have nightmares of this incident and it makes me cringe and want to curl up in a ball still whenever I conjure it up. I had awoken again in the midst of a terrible nightmare. And sure enough, the persiana was up, but this time it was all the way up. The moonlight was barely filtering in that night, but I’d swear I could make out something there in the room. It felt like I was at just the right angle for me to see whatever it was, and if I were to move the slightest bit, I’d lose sight of it. It was a small sphere that shimmered like a soap bubble does. But it was so faint I could barely make it out. I watched as it hovered there for the longest time. It began to shrink like some TVs used to do when you turned them off… shrink into a tiny dot of light.

But before it winked out, it flashed and expanded. It did so at an alarmingly fast rate and solidified into the form of a woman. She looked to be in her early to mid thirties, dark curly hair… definitely a local Sicilian. When she became “whole” and a solid image, she began shrieking and pounding on the glass doors with both fists. Her head swiveled wrong on her neck, shaking back and forth like if you put a teakettle on a stick and shook the stick around. Her eyes were completely black and full of anger and hatred… The skin around her mouth flapped loosely, giving me glimpses of her teeth and tongue and her hair was tossing around violently. Some sort of liquid oozed in small spurts from the corners of her mouth and flecks of whatever it was flew as she shrieked. Her screaming was horrific and nonsensical, and all I could do was scream back. My dad charged into the room to my bed, thinking I was having a nightmare. She shrank back from the door and… ugh. She slithered down the drain somehow. She twisted and distorted and I’d swear I could hear her bones splintering and cracking as she wound herself down into it. It was awful and to this day, dad says he’s never heard anyone scream so inhumanly before. I often ask him jokingly if he meant from me or her.

–
Credited to Kendrik.

The Clostest Enemy

Some murderers see their work as an art form. If their piece is a success, they will continue on with their life, outside of jail. However, with the limited capability of understanding humans possess, combined with their narrow mindedness, the true secret of a killer can go entirely missed.

The following is a video log of young man recording his last moments. It spends its time quietly residing in a dark, silent evidence room, calling out to whoever may hear its cry. Upon deaf ears will its shrill screams always fall.

The video starts off recording the youth adjusting his camera. His room is entirely dark, not a single spec of light to be found. The camera records in night vision as the man looks directly into the lens and begins speaking.

“Hello. My name is…” The voice pauses for a moment, deciding how he should start off. “Ugh. No, I’m not beginning it like this. It sounds too much like I’m recording my last words. That isn’t what I want this to be. Instead, I’ll just get straight to the explanation. I’ll describe to you the hell that has been nipping at me for god only knows how long now. It started the night of my 18th birthday. January’s cold held reign over our outside activities. It was just a small party, if you could even call it that. A few presents from my family, cake, the norm. All irrelevant. It was that night, as I was lying in bed, my lights out with my TV providing the only light for the room, that my story begins. My curtains and blinds were closed, which gave the room a nice ominous feel at the time. I liked that sorta thing back then.”

The man takes a slow breath, looking away from the camera for the first time. His focus returns after a brief moment and once more he begins reciting his story.

“Right. Back to what I was saying. My TV was in front of me, and the light it gave out cast a shadow on the wall beside me. I was a bit bored, so I decided to entertain myself by interacting with the two dimensional doppelganger of myself. My hand traced along the wall, as if I was playing a game of tag with my shadow’s hand, which seemed to be trying to flee from me, going out in front of me. That was the first sign, but I didn’t notice it. I should’ve been more aware.”

A brief pause accompanied by a stressed exhale and quick inhale. His expressions seemed to show that he was trying to think.

“After that, I’m sure there were more signs, I’m positive. They were probably just too subtle for me to notice. By the time I did notice something wrong, it might as well have been written in big bold letters in front of me. It was later on in the day, and I was in the kitchen of our house by myself. It was mildly lit. Just enough to see where you’re going with out needing the aid of a light. I got some snack out of a cabinet, but knocked over a box onto the ground in the process. No big deal. I bent over to pick it up, and noticed the presence of my shadow. It immediately struck me as awkward. There was no light in here to cast a shadow. I put the box and my snack on a nearby counter without letting my eyes leave my shadow. If they were deceiving me, I wanted to know right away. My interest in the paranormal may have made me a bit paranoid, but I knew that the tenseness I was feeling now wasn’t unwarranted. I took a step towards the room’s exit, and of course my shadow mimicked me. I raised my left arm, as if tempting him to continue mirroring what I was doing. He raised his left arm. Then he raised his right arm. Mine was still at my side. My skin crawled like a trillion tiny little bugs were trying to make their way out from under it. Then in one swift movement his hands wrapped around his neck, and I was the one who felt its effects. My throat was pained and my breathing stopped. I struggled frantically, but against what? My attacker was my own shadow. I don’t remember what happened after that. Only what I was told by my family when I woke up. My blood was on the corner of one of the cabinet doors I had left open. Apparently I knocked myself good and passed out on the floor. Back then, I was happy to believe that’s what really happened. After all, this kind of stuff only happens in stories.”

Once more he collects himself from the rough memories with a deep breath of air.

“After that, I was always suspicious of the me that didn’t talk, that didn’t have any facial expressions, that would never confess to what he did to me. But what I had thought happened had a perfectly logical explanation. I couldn’t doubt it. Instead, I carried on, always holding that distrust in the back of my mind. But he didn’t assault me again. Though several times I noticed things that just couldn’t have really happened. I’d brush my teeth with my right hand, he’d use his left. I’d scratch my back, he’d scratch his head. I’m sure he was just taunting me. Probably the same reason he let me live the first time he attacked me. For fun, no doubt.”

There is a creak off to the man’s left, which catches his attention. He stares at the origin of the sound intently for a moment before returning to his monologue.

“The next attack… I’m betting this one was planned to finish me off. Once again I was in the kitchen, home alone for the time. I had an apple on a plate, and I grabbed a steak knife from its group. Not entirely necessary for cutting an apple, but it was in easy reach. Only half way through grabbing the knife did I realize that when I had it, so did my shadow, my enemy. Stunned by my lack of thinking, I dropped the knife. As I feared, my shadow did not repeat this action. If he had a face, I’m sure it would have been filled by a crooked and malevolent smile. I whispered “No.” as best as I could. My voice was barely more than a whisper but I doubt it made any bit of a difference. My silhouette raised the knife, and then brought it down in one swift, uncaring motion. The result was a jet of blood from my arm and a surge of pain that reverberated several times through out my body. But on instinct I turned around and ran. I didn’t know where, and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t out run him. Another stab. This one brought me to my knees. The nearest room was the bathroom. I dragged myself across the carpet, slowly into the room, and shut the door behind me. There was no window to the outside, which made the room completely dark. I waited for him to return, I was expecting to be ended by something that was essentially me. Hours went by and nothing happened. That’s when I learned how to defeat him. He can’t exist in total darkness. He becomes nothing.”

The young man looked around his surroundings, devoid of any light, and then back to the camera.

“And that’s why I’m here now. I couldn’t do this at home. If I tried to explain, I would’ve been sent out to an asylum. I had to run away. I suppose he let me get this far as a sort of show sportsmanship. Twisted. Doesn’t matter, really. So long as I’m in this chamber of darkness, I’m safe. That’s all that matters for now. Although I can’t help but wonder how long I’ll be trapped in here. What do I do when I run out of food? What do I do-“

The sound of cars pulling up and parking outside stop the young man midsentence.

“Taylor? Taylor are you in there? Please, Taylor, say something!” A voice yelled just outside the door, and the young man’s previous moderately calm demeanor has changed to one of panic.

“Go away! Just go! I don’t want you here, go away damn it!” He screamed back. His voice was so angered that the woman on the other side was silent for a minute.

“Taylor, we’re coming in honey. It’s for your own good.”

There was a smash against the door. Then another, followed by a soft spoken “No…” from the young man. The third crash brought the door down with a tremendous thud. Light from outside flooded the room, and almost immediately the man was knocked to the ground by some invisible force. In the struggle, the camera is tipped backwards and only records the sounds of Taylor struggling for breath as his mother and the accompanying police officer try to help him in some manner, without avail.

–
Credited to Poizn.

Heat Stroke

You’re just sitting there, trying to fan yourself off from the heat as you wait for you mother to come back from inside the shop. By chance, perhaps, you glance over to your left where another car is parked, empty and probably even more sweltering than your own. You roll up the windows and turn the key your mom left in case it got too hot. As the whoosh of cool air hit you in the face, you hear a strange sound, almost a knock on your window. You don’t look, thinking it impossible, because there was nobody there a second ago.

But soon, there is a movement out of the corner of your eye. You whip your head around, but there is nothing. All you can see if the interior of the car next to you, and a few odd buildings, all closed for the day. You chalk it up to the heat, one of those wisps you see on hot blacktop on days like today. You move to change the radio station when you see it again, almost a face, sitting in the back of the car next to you. But as soon as you turn to see it clearly, it vanishes.

You find you can do this every time, turn away and see the face, and have it disappear when you turn at it directly. You sit, staring out the windshield, but secretly paying attention the the car out of the corner of your left eye. The figure is hooded, tan, and more gaunt than any human you have ever seen. It seems to be laughing, almost, as his body blurs in and out of your already struggling focus.

Your concentration is pulled away only when your mom returns with her grocery bags, turning down the air conditioner and putting the car in drive. You press your face against your window, desperate for one last look before you drive away. But not to worry, for the first time, you can see him without using only your peripheral vision, his massive eyes and overgrown mouth twisted into a grin as the creature waved goodbye.

You turn back to the front, sweating and shaking uncontrollably.

For The Few

I’m the easiest to talk to because I go by so many different names. Every person in every country has heard of me, and spoken of me when things are at their very worst. And I’m so easy to call upon. All you have to do is ask. No ritual to adhere to. No prayer. No personal relationship. Just ask. Once, earnestly.

I’m ever so popular. I’m in your music, your news, and even in your food. I’m Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Haphaestus and Nietschze. I was there, guiding the hand of Shakespeare, Dahmer and Spielberg alike. You’ve seen me, time and again, now an old man, then a little girl. You bought groceries from me the other day, actually. Hell, if you want to be REALLY personal, some of you make love to me on a regular basis. You’re not bad, either. I like you. I am mother to some of you, Father to others, and I am proud of the way you turned out.

But here’s the pitch. I am powerful, and you are not. I have legions, and you are alone. I can make you mine for all eternity, if you like. And it’s so easy you could almost do it by mistake. All you have to do is ask. Not even in words. Just..want it. Want me. Want to join me.

If you aren’t convinced by my influence, turn on the T.V, and look into the eyes of newscasters while they lie to you. Go to church, and look into the eyes of a sermonising sinner, casting the first heavy stone at the congregation. Hell, look into the eyes of a friend, a loved one, or a stranger. Most of them are mine anyway.

I Am Sam

I am Sam.

I have reached the gates of Hell. I entered without fear. I met the Lord of All Evil, and we made a deal. I got back to Earth, with a task.

I have to kill 665 people before I die. If I do so, I will spend eternity as a Demon King in Hell, with my own Legion to command. Of course, I’m very delighted by that perspective…

There is one condition, though: I cannot just kill random people. There is a trigger: if they hear one simple incantation involving my name, they are eligible to be my target. I managed to make my job easier, putting this spell into a book, a famous one, so that many people will probably hear it. I am very smart, indeed.

So, after you hear the deadly sentence, I will know you. And, when you are least expecting, you’ll see my shadow out the corner of your eyes. And when you turn your head to see what that was… it will be too late.

I will be waiting until you hear my name again.

Sam I am.

–
Credited to Creepy Mole.

Photoslash

Sean’s house was covered from head to toe in family photographs. Some from family retreats to Ireland, others showing lost family relatives. Most of these photographs would include Sean in them, so it was only natural that he would look at them from time to time. However, one day he noticed something rather strange about the pictures: His mother seemed to have a red face in all of the photos. Rather shocked by this, he immediately ran downstairs to ask if anyone had done something to the pictures. They all answered no; even his mother, whom was quite worried. Later that day Sean’s mother went to the hospital due to horrific 3rd degree burns caused by a grill catching fire for an unknown reason.

Sean’s father decided to stay at the hospital that night and thought it best to send Sean home with his big brother Thomas and little sister Maria. As Sean walked into the house he caught glance of the family photograph in which he noticed the change to his mother’s face, and found that Maria was not in the picture.

He ran upstairs to her bedroom only to find that she was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed by these strange events Sean called the police. Sean informed them that his sister had been kidnapped and that someone was in his house, possibly vandalizing his family’s belongings. The phone immediately went dead, and as Sean went to put the phone down he caught a glimpse of an animal in the corner of his eye. He rushed out of the safety of his room to go and find the beast, but what he found was far worse.

The mangled bodies of his family lie in the corridor in front of his room, their faces frozen in a state that almost makes him vomit. And then it struck him. All the photographs had been removed from the walls, except for one which was a picture of Sean, with his face scribbled out.

The next day his two best friends went to visit him, because he was not answering his phone and was not at school all week. As they arrived, they noticed that the door had been left open. So they let themselves in, and were never seen again.

La Muerta Blanca

I am currently sitting in front of my computer, scared witless. Any moment now I am going to be killed.

Today a friend of mine told me a story.

His aunt had taken care of him since he was a small boy, and she told him last night about how his parents died. He did a very fair imitation of her (I knew them both pretty well):

“They were doing mission work in some nasty little South American country when a man burst into the mission hospital one night, terrified out of his mind. He told them that his sister had been killed by a Muerta blanca, and that he was certain that it was coming for him next. What is a Muerta blanca? Apparently it was some sort of bogey-man, something like that dumb chupacabra or whatever. They called it the White Death or the White Girl, because it was the soul of someone who hated life so much that they came back in their shrouds to kill those who told of them.

The man had been told about the vengeful spirit by his sister hours before her death. It was a girl with dead, black eyes that wept bile. The thing moved without ever actually moving its legs, and it stalked its victims back to their homes. Now, if you weren’t already aware that this thing was following you, once it got back to your house, it would start knocking on your door…

Once for your skin, which she’ll use to patch her own decaying flesh.

Twice for your muscle, which she’ll gnash her teeth on between victims.

Thrice for your bones, which she’ll make knives to pick her teeth and kill her victims.

Four times for your heart, which she’ll wear around her neck.

Five times for your teeth, which she’ll polish and keep in a box.

Six times for your eyes, which she’ll see the faces of your loved ones through.

Seven times for your soul, which she’ll eat whole - you can never pass while you’re in her stomach.

She has to repeat this on any mirror or door between you and her.

You can try to outrun her, but she’s faster than the fastest man. And if you leave your home while she’s knocking on your door, she won’t be so courteous when she catches up to you.

Now the man was certain that this thing had killed his sister, that he had tried to tell the police, but they would not listen. Next he had tried to tell his priest, but the priest turned him away when he saw that the thing was following him now - oh, that’s right, I forgot about that - it can only get you if you tell someone else about it, or you saw it kill someone else. The man, after finishing his tale, stole a car from the mission, and was never seen again.”

Apparently his mother and father had immediately called his aunt about this when it happened. They were found in the morning, skinned and dismembered. Their bodies were covered in tiny, child-like hand prints.”

His aunt was really drunk the night before, and had told him about that. He told me this story early in the morning today at school, before the cops arrived. His aunt had been murdered that night. I called him later that night, and he told me that he was being chased by someone, and now they were knocking on his door. I told him to stop shitting me.

He held the phone away from his face for a minute, and I could hear slow, deliberate knocking. A moment later, I heard the door rip from its hinges and the dying screams of my friend.

Then a little girl’s voice spoke over the line: “WITNESS.” I hung up.

Three minutes ago someone started knocking on my door. She has to knock 28 times on my front door, 28 times on the mirror in the hall, and another 28 times on the door to my bedroom. She’s doing it slowly… I think she wants to scare me some more, let me know that my death is just moments away. I will not run - I couldn’t get to my car in time anyway. She started knocking on my bedroom door a minute ago, she should be done any moment.

Nice knowing you guys, it’s been fuy5
WITNESS

Follow

Dalton was a man who got bored easily.

Every Friday night, as he closed out his shift as a dispatcher for the Metro police department, he would leave straight from work and make the drive from Nashville to Tunica, Mississippi for a weekend of gambling, drinking, and other forms of innane debauchery on the strip of twelve casinos by the largest river in the United States. "Little Redneck Vegas," the locals called it.

The long, winding strip of flat farm land from Nashville to Memphis could sometimes drive his brain in to a restless stupor. There was not much entertainment to be found on interstate forty. Music usually gave him a headache. It was inevitable, about thirty minutes in to the trip, that he'd start to grow numb with the slow drive, the passing time that only seemed to inch by, minute by minute.

That's why he played road games.

He started with Blue Angels. He sped up to eighty on the two-lane highway, cruising side by side with a silver Mustang. It took a good ten minutes, staying parallel, before he saw the driver getting in to the spirit of it. As he approached Germantown and they stretched out to four lanes, he got two more cars to join. They blocked traffic for miles, slowing to fifty, before all four of them would accelerate, bobbing and weaving through each other with dangerous proximity. Dalton chuckled. Blue Angels was hard to get going, but once you got the other people on the road to participate, you couldn't help but feel a little accomplished.

The traffic they'd backed up sped past him on the far left when their formation broke. They weren't shy with their rabid horn honking and number one salutes as they went by. Getting a rise out of people only encouraged him further.

Next, he played chicken. Sometimes he had the balls to do it, and sometimes not. Tonight, he was feeling lucky. He soared in to the opposing lane when there was no retaining wall or median, heading straight towards a large semi at well over ninety miles per hour. He imagined that it was a terrible sight; a midnight blue 1989 Buick Grand National, fully decked out with flowmasters that made his engine sound like the guttural roar of a beast, heading straight for a head-on collision with YOU. That moment of panic on their faces was hideously delicious. The only bad part about chicken was that it only lasted for a few seconds. Everything started to feel tedious, already. Sometimes, Dalton could be a stickler to please.

He pulled off at an exit outside Memphis for a pack of cigarettes and a Mountain Dew. The tables were where Dalton truly felt within his element, rolling the dice, going all in, pushing his luck and his wallet to new extremes. They were alive with excitable chatter, attractive women, and old men who would buy the entire table a round of long island teas at a moment's notice, if they were winning. He was looking forward to getting there in the next couple of hours, until he saw her. A redhead, her tresses and curls burning with radiance under the poorly maintained night-lamps at the Amoco. She was young, in her early twenties, he'd guess. University of Memphis license plate. A college girl. Because she was perfect, he forgot about the tables instantly. He hadn't considered the fact that he'd be able to play his favorite game of all this evening.

Follow.

Follow required absolute determination and the utmost patience. He could only play it when he found the right girl, though. He couldn't just drive around off his beaten path, following some lady that looked like Rosie O'Donnell. No, he had to WANT to follow her. This girl was the best target he'd scoped out yet. It was too bad she wasn't driving a convertible. He loved redheads.

He sat in his decked out Buick, smoking a cigarette, until she finished her fill-up and pulled out, headed west down forty to Memphis. He cruised a good fifty yards behind her, syncing his speedometer with her own acceleration. It wasn't long before he was locked in, staring obsessively at the tail lights of her black Lexus. Daddy's little girl, perhaps. She was either getting big breaks from Uncle Sam, or being taken care of by someone else. Maybe she had a rich boyfriend. Dalton cackled.

It was difficult for them to realize that they were being followed on the freeway in any finite amount of time. There were lots of cars, plenty of lanes, and a general feeling of comfort and security, even though they were booking it along at well over seventy. A fatal speed, in the right (or wrong) circumstances. He usually freaked out the drivers who were aggressive, speeding through traffic, weaving in and out of lanes to get ahead of the slower cars. But, she was content to just drift along, right at the speed limit, in the right lane. He tailgated her slightly, pulling up on her so that she might see his silhouette in the driver's seat. She was conservative, such a good girl.

It was time for her exit. A rural town, just south of the city. The passive drivers didn't even think twice when the car that had been right behind them for over an hour would nonchalantly take their exit, pulling up idly behind them at the red light, awaiting the next section of the journey. What a coincidence! Right?

She probably still didn't know. He wasn't seeing it in her driving patterns, after all. No random deviations without a signal or a second's notice. No u-turns. Not yet. Although he was investing a lot in this one, at least he wasn't bored.

He followed her up a winding road that was reasonably well-kept. There were barbed wire fences and cows on either side of them. He knew he should stop, soon. He would. As soon as he saw her freak for the first time, he'd pull a U-ey himself and head to the Horseshoe.

She was pumping her brakes, now. He could almost hear the grinding of the gears in her brain as the flight or fight response kicked in. "Oh, no! This guy has been behind me for an hour and a half.... those headlights..."

Dalton snickered and floored the accelerator. He took the opposing lane, speeding up beside her. He flashed her a sardonic, devilish smile as he rolled down the tinted window. The grimace of terror that overtook her features was priceless. "Better keep your eyes on the road, sweetheart." He muttered. Oh, this was fucking GREAT.

She swerved, over-corrected, and sped up, frantic now. He knew it was time to stop. He didn't want her to do something drastic, after all. He pulled off at the next road, curbing his vehicle gently before pulling another cigarette from his pack. His mouth was dry, his senses were racing, and his entire body pulsed with a burning adrenaline. He suddenly realized that this was the longest game of follow he'd ever played. He also realized, much to his own consternation, that he had a raging erection... ever since he'd sent the engine over the edge, the Buick roaring as he soared towards her, almost jamming in to her tailpipe.

"YEAH. Take that shit, bitch. You like me behind you? GO FASTER!"

He gasped, his knuckles ghostly white from the pressure that he applied to the steering wheel.He shook his head rapidly, blinking a few times. What was wrong with him? He put his car back in to drive, ready to head back to the freeway.

She went by again.

"Oh, you sneaky cunt. A fake exit? BULLSHIT."

He stomped the gas, pulling up right in line behind her. He needed to end this now, but she was going back the way they came. If she reached the interstate, she was safe. This felt too good, too strong, to pull away from now. He was balls deep, and it was time to block her escape, permanently.

He pulled up right on her ass again, and the fruition of her panic was not readily visible in the way that she maneuvered the Lexus. She took a hard right, heading up a long, steep hill that was overgrown and probably meant for a car with a V8 engine, or at least four wheel drive. She left the beaten path to safety and freedom. He was taking this too far, but why not take it a little further? It took a long time to lay the foundation for a good game of follow. This one was going in to double overtime.

His driving skills and general awareness were far superior to hers. She was making wild turns, bad mistakes. Her car was a rear wheel drive model, and he had a good two hundred horsepower on her. He'd been a police officer before being shot in a turf war, and although he was a dispatching "desk bitch," as his fellow officers dubbed him, he could still out-maneuver anyone on the open road. She fish-tailed, making another wild turn, and still they rose upward in to the foothills. Speeding down a country road at over sixty was not a relative problem for him. He'd chased dopeheads for a good portion of his career. The key was to catch them before they threw their drugs out the window.... and sometimes, that took a bit of finesse at the wheel. It'd be nice to handcuff this chick, he thought. To bend her over, the same way he was bending over her Lexus....

The summer air was thick with the sounds of bullfrogs and crickets, even with his windows rolled up. He turned on his CD player. Ozzy Osbourne did a wonderful job of complimenting his game of follow. He sang along.

"I always knew what I wanted to be. I knew for sure..... I knew for sure...."

Her fish-tail ended in another overzealous correction of the wheel, and as they neared the next S-curve, he saw her miss it completely. He whizzed by as her front-end careened over the white line, and the last thing he saw as her vehicle violently spiraled down the hill was her flaming red curls, and a look of absolute horror on her chiseled, delicate face. Even as he heard the sickening crunch of metal against the broad oak trees below, he knew that he was experiencing the most powerful orgasm of his lifetime. He quivered, breathing heavily as he coasted to a complete stop.

He forced himself to accept that he had a serious problem. Arriving back at the freeway, he still had another twenty minutes to Tunica, but he couldn't help thinking that he would be caught, soon. Follow was just too easy. Surely, the police were accustomed to dealing with psychopaths that got off on this shit, right? He might make in twenty yards on to the casino floor before they pegged him. Maybe not.... it was crazy, not knowing.

Thirty minutes later, as the glowing lights of hotels on the riverbend illuminated his dashboard, he listened to the news at ten, and smiled again at the report. A complete whiff by the authorities, yet again.

"A young college student driving a black Lexus was found dead a few hours ago, apparently due to a loss of control on secluded private property just outside Memphis. No names have been released at this time."

He switched off the receiver and coasted in to the parking garage in silence. Newscasters sounded so boring sometimes.

Hit

It's been a long winter.

You're stretching out in the brilliant summer sun. The weather is finally pleasurable enough for you to fully extend your limbs upward, through the soft breeze, where sunlight soaks in to your skin and kisses your form with its licking warmth. You love the summer. It's the season for chasing tail and bad decisions.

Something wrong is happening.

Someone has you by the head. Massive, rough leather surrounds your face, your mouth, and your entire scope of feeling, in fact. You feel as if you might suffocate, but that's the least of your problems. There's a biting, vicious pain in your left calf muscle, and then your right ankle, as well. Something's opening up your skin and rending it aside. You've lost the ability to stand, and you hear your severed foot and half-leg drop below with a sickening SMACK. It sounds like a butcher slamming a heavy iron tenderizer in to a massive slab of pork. You're being jerked upward, higher and higher. You'd be flying, if you weren't hanging by your neck, pinched between two hard surfaces that feel like the arms of a rough-hided beast. Your vision is going black, but you know there's more to come. Today started out as such a nice day, didn't it?

Your eyes open again, and your surroundings have changed, but not for the better. You sit in the middle of a giant, cylindrical glass cone. You try in vain to scramble up one of the sides, clinging to the perfectly smooth, cold surface with your hands. You have no feet, and therefore your ability to gather leverage against the glass prison is virtually impossible. You crumple back to the center of the glass bowl, helpless and defeated. This could not possibly get any worse. But now, you can feel the hairs on your head, singing, burning, on fire. The smell of your burning flesh makes you sick, but euphoric at the same time. At least soon, this will all be over.

You've read that third degree burns are the worst pain in the world for those who manage to survive them. You know that in the next few seconds, your entire form will be engulfed in a blazing inferno. You can feel flakes of yourself falling to the glass. The clear black walls of the cone have turned a brilliant red, now, glistening with the burning moisture and hydrogen contained within your body. You have fully combusted, and yet you are not gone. You feel like you're floating. You've been jerked through the small hole at the center of the circle. Something terribly strong has a hold on you, now. You feel no hands or touch on your body because you don't have a body, after all. You are now a vaporized spirit, doomed to float around in transparent nothingness. But, for some reason, your life still has not ended. Perhaps you have not yet accomplished your purpose.

You've crested the light at the end of the tunnel, and the overwhelming heat has lifted. You are in clear air, now, but only for a fraction of a second. You see two massive, cracked surfaces, one over the other, with a slight gap inbetween them. This gap is utterly dark and widening by the split second. You know that the force is too strong for you to resist, and soon you are plummeting through the blackness. As you fall, you are adjusting to the darkness. The walls of this massive well chasm are covered in something red and sticky. Pustules of pulsating, living tissue. You've been ingested by someone, or something, that is beyond your scope of comprehension.

You are still flying through the wet chasm at speeds unknown, but soon, you are rising.... faster and harder than you fell before. You're being ejected, pushed out to dissolve and waste away in the atmosphere that you were once fully enjoying a few minutes ago. As you rise and begin to fade in the air around you, your consciousness catches a last image of your captor. You can hear his voice in the distance.

"Hey man, you want another hit?"


-Credited to Violent Harvest

Breathing Pains.

There have been very few times in my life when I've been begged by someone. I'm not talking about your five year old, jerking on your shirt sleeve to get two quarters for the bubble gum machine at Wal-Mart. I'm talking about real, genuine, unbridled humility. Someone reaching out to you from their knees on the ground, tears streaming down their cheeks, all because they want you to fulfill that one request.

I thought my wife and kids were selfish. Can you believe that? But I did. When my brother sat me down on a park bench and held a nine millimeter to his head, I told him he was being dramatic. "No", he said. "I'm only inclined to do instantly what you've been doing to yourself, slowly but surely, for thirty years." Not exactly fair, if you put in that perspective.

I spent around two thousand dollars. Out of all the hair-brained strategies, acupuncture was the worst. Call it ironic, but the most effective route, in the end, was absolutely free. Not a cent. What's in it for them, I wonder? They have nothing left, and therefore nothing to gain from their existence. They linger on the edge. Is their purpose for remaining here to stop my demise? I doubt it. To provide an example and a bit of realistic persuasion? Maybe so.

Or, maybe, God just has a sense of humor.

When I woke up in the room, I was terrified. I never would have believed that my loved ones were the cause, the motivation behind it all. That's why it worked. I could think of nothing other than the fact that I knew I was going to die here, alone. I would never be able to bid them a fare thee well. It's unsettling, to know that your life is going to end under circumstances that prevent you from saying goodbye.

The first thing that hit me was the stench. An overpowering, stinking atmosphere of absolute filth. It wasn't the smell of death. Rather, I could more accurately describe it as "stale." Imagine air that's been trapped in a sealed off chamber, with no way to circulate or get out, for hundreds of years. I was breathing it in, and desperately trying to use my mouth. It made things about ten percent better. I still felt as if I would asphyxiate, but you'd be surprised what your physique will tolerate when your survival is at stake. My body seemed to yield, eventually, although my eyes were burning. It seemed as though my lungs were talking to me. No fresh air, huh? We'll take what we can get, but you'd better bust out of there soon. We don't work overtime.

If you really think about it, "nothing" can scare the shit out of you. It did me. I was sitting in a room with NOTHING. Some dirt on the floor, perfectly smooth stone walls, and dead air, of course. I'd rather be hit by a semi and die instantly than waste away slowly, day by day, in this God-forsaken chunk of hell.

It's impossible to describe how they got in there with me. The English language does not provide any sort of vocabulary or terminology for what these things were. There are simply no words for it. They were just there.... at the corners, slinking towards me with their dead, sunken features. My instincts told me not to blink, to watch them carefully. I could hold my eyes open for days and allow them to protest with their searing, white-hot flashes of pain through my sinuses. That was perfectly fine with me, as long as they didn't reach carved mound of rock that I was stuck to. When I say stuck, I don't mean I was tied up. There were no physical bonds that kept me from rising to my feet and walking out the door, if this place had a door. I couldn't fucking MOVE. It took me a few more moments to realize that even if I wanted to blink, it was impossible. Why were my lungs working? Why was I still alive?

I assumed that there were only two of them, but that's because I could only SEE two of them. The others were coming up behind me, and as they crept in to my peripherals, I screamed. My mouth didn't move, but trust me, I screamed.... on the inside. My eyelids felt like they were stretched up and down and glued to my cheeks and eyebrows. The first one had slinked silently to my cone of vision, and now it was staring at me, straight in the face.

I can't really say it stared, because it didn't technically have eyes. I wanted to say that the closest thing they resembled were cadavers. Their bodily orifices were rotted out, but when I looked at them, they weren't entirely "there." They shimmered, like they were suspended in a half-plane of nonexistence between the ethereal realm of the dead and the charred confines of this room. They were gaseous, malformed, and although this may sound odd to you, they floated along the dirt floor with some measure of hypnotic grace.

I realized that they were lining up, single file, one by one. The first's face was now inches from mine. It was leaning forward, and shimmering now more than ever before. All I could do was breathe and watch. Its features were changing. Slowly, the black, scabby skin gained color. Eyes were beginning to form deep in the base of its head, slowly radiating outward and coming forward as they filled in. Hair was sprouting. Then, that pang of realization hit me, and it was without a doubt the most horrific moment of my life. I was staring at myself in the face, and all I could do was breathe. It didn't help anything. The doppelganger was beginning to fade, inch by inch, starting with the top of his head. I was breathing him in. That sounds half-ass crazy, I know, but you've been with me so far. You shouldn't be surprised.

I wish I could have stopped my own breathing, but I couldn't. All I could do was sit there, and the next one was in my face before I knew it. God, my lungs wouldn't stop. They were so greedy for the stale, musty surroundings. I didn't notice so much with the first one, but after the second had been fully inhaled through my body and the third was taking its place, something was happening. My hands were starting to scab up with that dried out, black affliction. I could feel my face, my insides, my feet, hardening in to flaky husks of malignant death.

I could move.

It wasn't much, just a twitch. My pinky, maybe. It was barely anything, but I felt it. It required all of my will power, more determination in those next few moments, than I've ever mustered in my whole life. I can't explain why, but I heard my family on the other side of this stone prison. Somewhere, way out there. A crease was opening in the wall, but when I shattered whatever malevolent force that kept me bonded to the stone, my foot crumbled in to dust when I tried to step on it. I was still breathing, and the fourth one was at my face, now. They moved, glided, stepped with me whenever I made any sort of progress forward.

The crease was ever widening, and I could see hints of sunlight. The deafening roar of old stone grinding against stone made me feel as though my head might explode. I was crawling, and the tips of my fingers were bleeding out on to the floor with the force that I exerted upon them. The fourth was almost completely within me, and I knew I would not survive another. I had to stop breathing, or break out. I preferred the latter. The sight of green grass and the hints of a blue sky on the outside of the tomb encouraged me further. The fifth would not move away from my face. With every breath I took, I inhaled more of the copies of myself. They were killing me.

When my fingers sank in to soft grass rather than dead earth, I stopped breathing. I was too weak to build enough momentum to escape quickly, and another round of whatever these things were doing to me would be it. I just knew...... I could feel it deep down. I was sapped of strength, but empowered with a burning desire to live, to survive.

I'm sorry. I want to live. I won't be selfish anymore. Please don't let me die.

My brother's hand was gripping my own, now, and he was pulling me upward, in to fresh air. That first breath in that instance was the most delicious air I have ever tasted. Glorious, filled with life.

If it were not for my family's begging, perhaps I would have never woken up in that room. Those things, as terrible as they were, were one of the best things that ever happened to me.

I never smoked another cigarette again.

-Credited to Violent Harvest