Tuesday, May 31, 2011


I say my respectful goodbyes to David, adjusting my pack of supplies, and shut the door behind me.

It's a hot summer day in the middle of the desert state and the ash has finally let the sun through again. Other than being empty, the streets haven't changed at all. There are no signs of riots, no scorched buildings, no mangled bodies. Everything just happened too quickly.

It is six-and-a-half miles from David's hideout to mine and I make it there in twenty-six minutes. The seven-speed does just fine over the uneven ground, even though there is a large bubble in the tire. The sun beats on my neck, but the wind in my face is cool enough to stop me from complaining.

Surprise was a small city in Arizona. It was founded in 1938 by Homer Ludden and he named it after his hometown in Nebraska. There were no riots or fires like the larger cities, but once the infection hit it spread like wildfire. Nearly all of Surprise was infected before Patient Zero started losing it.

Patient Zero was all over the news, the first victim of a brain parasite. Her name was Sarah Thompson and she begged on live cameras to be killed. Sarah, in the last few days of her life, reportedly pulled most of her hair out and skinned her arms with her fingernails. Some of them were lost in her flesh, but she was completely silent until the last five minutes of her life, when she started screaming quotes from books and detailing childhood memories.

Sarah supposedly killed herself, but the way she did it wasn't released to the public.

The house I've taken refuge in means nothing to me. I never lived here. I never knew the person who lived here, although from the pictures I can see that they were a family. There are no traces of them leaving, nothing missing. It's as if I woke up and was the last person on earth. Once upon a time I was devout Christian, so this couln't be the Rapture.

They can't open doors, so after I slam the door shut behind me it's useless to rush to the lock. Through the window, in the daylight, I can see that nothing followed me anyway. When I turn around to examine the house, I feel safe. I've stripped away some of the carpet to safely build a fire, and I've made a hole in the ceiling for both ventilation and quick escape. Water bottles and jugs have been gathered from the stores and other locations, and my food stock is nothing to worry about.

There's a reason David and I live so far away from one another. We both have resources, we both have adequate shelter, and we don't trust each other in the least. Greed is human nature, and we've accepted its existence. We try to hold on to things like greed.

David and I met at gunpoint in an abandoned Target a few seasons ago. We helped one another for as long as we could stand, but eventually our eyes began to covet and our empty hands began to hunger and thirst. Those days are known as The Fall - the three years when humanity died more than humans. Again, there's a reason why we try to hold on to things like greed. Those things are our legacy, our nature. It's ironic, but things like wanting are all we have left.

I set the backpack down on the ground near my sleeping bag. My body is covered in a thick layer of dry sweat and grime, and my shirt stings my nostrils when I pull it off and over my head. Doing my best to get comfortable on the treated carpet, I close my eyes and listen to the silence.

For the record, I hate the silence. It means that there are no animals. It means that there is nothing. There's never anything.

Birdsong wakes me in the night. According to my watch, it is three. The house is pitch black and I feel a draft. A door or a window is open and I instinctively run fo rthe rope that will deliver me to the attic. I hear shuffling that is not my own and I climb fast. The shuffling comes closer until stopping right under me and I feel a very light swipe at the bottom of my shoe.

There is a flashlight and a handgun in the attic in addition to those I keep next to me when I sleep, and I reach for the flashlight. Shining it below me, I illuminate the face of the intruder.

Her face is very pale and there are almost no signs of decay. The meat on her arms has been slashed and lacerated; it is the same with her legs. She has no shirt on and blood has splattered the chest that rises and falls as she struggles to breathe. Her eyes were gray, lifeless, and her head cocked to the side while we examined one another.

her arms reached up to me and her fingers bent like a baby's, so I cocked the gun in response. Her mouth opened and she tried to snap at me. I extended my arm and her fingers grew more coordinated. A low growling appeared in her throat and rose to a loud wailing. She began trashing at me and jumping up and down, screaming inaudibly and snapping her jaw.

The first shot struck her shoulder and drew no blood. She paid no mind, but when the second shot struck her forehead she fell limp to the ground and laid there.

Silence returned to me and it was rushed along by the birdsong a few seconds later. I couldn't move until I felt the sun's warmth, and I pushed myself up and off the dusty ground to climb slowly back down.

Flood detected my ass.

She had somehow pried the unlocked sliding glass door open and made her way in. Some of the water bottles had been emptied onto the carpet. Most of my food except for the canned items had been opened and devoured or strewn about. I gathered my essentials and moved onto the house next door, a two story.

The parasite makes them like cows, I've noticed. Cows mourn their dead. if a cow is buried on a hill, the other cows will make sure to avoid that hill. One of the safest places to be in the Post-Fall is right next to a body. So long as you don't disturb it and let it rot, the cows will make sure to avoid it.

The infection isn't like it is in movies. The parasite is found in your fecal matter and can be transmitted through the air. While the infected feel no pain, they are still human. Enough shots to any point on the body will kill an infected individual. I've never seen one as it eats, fortunately, but I've been hunted by them; they're clever and persistent.

The bubble has grown a quarter in size. The sun once again beats on my neck as I ride to David's house, and there is no breeze. The streets are still empty and the ash is still falling like snow.

According to the news, the ash is from an entirely different continent. Somewhere in Asia, they just nuked everything. Sometimes I think something like that would have saved me a lot of trouble.

David is dead when I force the door open. I shut it quickly behind me and watch him lay still on the carpet, covered in his own blood, and I let out a heavy sigh. No maggots have found their way into his collapsed skull, but I suppose it's only a matter of time. I watch him out of the corner of my eye while I reach into his fridge and remove a water bottle; to my pleasure, he seems to twitch only slightly.

I send a quick kick to his head and it rolls on the ground, connected limply to his neck. His eyes are in the back of his head and he is still dead. I frown. I drink. I swallow and pour some of the water on his head, smirking.

Again, as if it has become my addiction, I trace my fingers along his writings on the wall. I can hear his voice screaming at me while I whisper the desperate phrases and I lose my mind as I nvestigate how he lost his.

attacks the brain
what the fuck is a HOT ZONE?
I'm not sick

The charcoal rubs off on my fingers and I wipe it on my pants. David's body is completely still as I heave another sigh and take a long drink of the water. Gathering some canned foods and a few bags of potato chips, I say goodbye to David again and head out the door, shutting it behind me.

The tire blows out halfway home and my mind immediately begins to race. The tire's failing - athough it wasn't the loudest sound one could make - was in sharp contrast to the silence of a summer day. I drew my gun, scanned the horizons, and crouched to see if I couldn't repair the tire.

I use a knife to take the tube out. I've tied a roll of masking tape to the bike's frame and I use the last of it as an improvised patch. Footsteps come from behind me and I turn to see one of them charging at me, its mouth agape and its eyes empty.

I fired four shots into its chest and watched it fall, then rushed my bike and tube over to its body. More came out of the woodwork, but they would not approach their fallen kin. I replaced the tube and pumped it with a small pump I retrieved from my bag.

They all have their mouths open, snapping at me but not moving any other part of their bodies. Their eyes are empty and they all hum quiet and low.

The tire is fixed and I flip the bike right-side up. My gun drawn, I take aim at one of them. A single round to the head drops and and it lays motionless. I take aim at a another, clearing a route for my escape. The shot misses and my heartbeat quickens even more. Another shot hits its chest and I curse loudly. Their humming grows louder and I'm suddenly aware of how much I'm sweating. Another shot kills it and I aim for a third. I miss again and scream at it when the gun reports that it is out of ammo.

The humming becomes a sort of yelling and I throw the gun down into the dirt. The bike's seat is warm when I sit on it and I pedal hard toward the survivor. They all begin to wail like the girl did and I pedal faster.

I'm pulled from my bike on contact, but I hit the ground, stumble, and start sprinting away. I hear teeth snapping behind me and their wailing becomes a screech. I'm just over three miles away from shelter and my legs become loose and weak. My lungs burn and it becomes hard to breathe.

I feel a hand tug at my bag and I gain renewed vigor. My legs move faster and my arms pump harder but the adrenaline only lasts for a few seconds. Two hands tug at my bag and I throw it off, stumbling again. More hands reach or my shirt and I draw my knife. I turn around to be tackled onto the ground, but they all freeze when I cut one's throat.

Its body falls on mine but doesn't bleed. I lay there, looking up at them as they stand with their mouths open, catching my breath.

The night comes and the cool breeze has returned. It is silent. They still stand around me and I haven't moved.

I slowly begin to push its body off of mine and they stand still. Rising slowly and cautiously to my feet, they don't sway at all. Their breaths pierce the silence; they are slow and deep. They're sleeping.

My legs are running before I can tell them to. I run through the empty streets and hear nothing behind me. The door swings open in front of me and I am under shelter. I slam it shut and lose my balance, falling on my side.

Heat and exhaustion force me to vomit. I wipe at my mouth and retch a few times more. The house is silent and the air is still. I hear no birdsong. I hear nothing but my own dry heaving.

My legs barely move. I've gotten little rest and exhausted myself. Looking around for water, I find my lips are dry. I drink. I choke. I vomit again.

My arm itches.

My fingers run up and down desperately before I can tell myself to stop, before I can tell myself that I'm okay. Soon my mind isn't comforting enough and I have to speak out loud. It's calming to hear that I still sound human. It's calming to hear someone's voice.

But soon, even my voice isn't reassuring enough. I have to see my words, to run my fingers over them as I whisper them to myself.

I search the house for some sort of writing tool and settle for a pen. The doors are all wooden and painted white, so they seem a beautiful place to start.

David is just sleeping
i'm not SICK
it's safe here
it's safe everywhere

I stop to scratch furiously at my arm. It inflames the itch instead of extinguishing it. I scratch harder, faster. Blood is drawn. I try to keep writing while clawing at myself as well.

how did I get this way?
no one else
no one else exists

I run out of room on the door and scream with frustration. My second gun is by my sleeping bag, laying on the ground with no one to hold it. I pick it up and cock it, screaming into the barrel.

My finger pulls the trigger.


I curse loudly and start clawing at my neck. I feel a fingernail break off and the sound excites me. I pull the trigger again and again, slouching down against the wall.

My finger pulls the trigger.


My finger pulls the trigger.


My finger pulls the trigger.

A draft enters the room.

Pokemon Blue

I love Pokemon. It was the first game I ever really got into when I was young - maybe sixteen or seventeen - and it stayed with me as I grew up. I always thought I'd play Pokemon all my life because I could never put it down. It just has that effect on you. You already probably know what I mean, right?

I guess I was a bit older than the average Pokemon fan when I got my hands on my first game, which I remember quite clearly being a copy of Pokemon Blue. Like a million of other kids that year, I received it as a Christmas gift. Across the country, countless Pokemon games were being unwrapped that very morning. They all came from the very same factory in Japan, crafted together by the same hands. They were all stuck in shiny new Game Boy handhelds and turned on for the very first time. I remember I had the biggest smile on my face when I began my adventure, nestled beside the Christmas Tree, decked out in full winter pajamas.

I selected Bulbasaur as my starter, caught a Pidgey and a Caterpie, and brought my strong three-man team through the first couple of gyms without a hitch. I thought everything was going well. Brock and Misty were a piece of cake - Bulbasaur IS easy mode, though. Rock and Water types bow down to Gross. Admittedly, Lt. Surge gave me some issues, but I eventually triumphed after a bit of grinding. It was one after the other.

Eventually, I came across the HM Cut and was given access to Route 9 and soon after, Rock Tunnel. It took me a day to navigate through the darkness, but I did it. By then, the month of December was reaching its close. I'd shut myself up in my room for a few hours every day playing Pokemon, grinding Pidgeotto, Butterfree, and Ivysaur up a few levels each time. I didn't care. I was having a blast. A friend of mine even traded me a Sandslash for a herpaderp, which brought my team up to four strong. I didn't think the game could get any better. Then I stepped foot into Lavender Town.

For a few seconds, I stared at my Game Boy's screen as the color scheme turned gloomy. The music began playing and I made a face. Lavender Town's melody was melancholy and sad - completely unlike all the other themes I'd heard so far. I immediately realized this place was something else, something the developers wanted to set apart from the rest. I didn't know any other reason they would have gone to the lengths they did to make Lavender Town seem so dark. The haunting music followed me into every building, even the Pokemon Center. No longer smiling, I waited impatiently for Nurse Joy to heal up my pals as the depressing sounds wore on. I thought they'd never end.

Having hung around Lavender Town long enough, I made my way to the western exit. Everything was going according to plan until I realized I had majorly goofed and forgot to check out the town's main feature: the Pokemon Tower. Lying back on my bed, I pulled the Game Boy close to my face and squinted. Pretty much everything was har to see because the Game Boy obviously didn't have a bcklight, so I turned on myroom's lamp and glanced at the window. It was maybe nine or ten PM about then. Everyone in my house was going to head off to sleep soon.

I decided to play on. As I walked into the Pokemon Tower and talked to the depressed NPCs, I began to lose some of my focus. My eyelids were getting heavy and I was mashing buttons subsconsciously. I talked to the same girl over and over without realizing it. Her dialogue filled the bottom of my screen a few times. "Growlithe, why did you die? Growlithe, why did you die? Growlithe, why did you die?" It was weird how the characters always say the same thing over and over again. You'd think it was an error or something - that these poor NPCs are glitchy fragments of real people, doomed to say the same thing over and over until the end of time. Here, at least, it seemed fitting. They were only mourning.

I progressed up the levels of the tower, beat my Rival, and entered the floor with the mystical healing pad. I walked over it a few times, tentative to breach the edges, let another unidentifiable 'Ghost' appear. I was getting tired of my Pokemon being immobilized with fear.

While facing one of the Pokemon tombs, I selected Sandslash and scrolled down his options. The friend that had given him to me already taught him Strength. Curious, I opted to use the move and was intrigued to read the game's note: "You can now move heavy boulders around!" I know a tombstone wasn't what the developers had in mind for Strength's purpose, but I had Sandslash push at it anyway. To my surprise, it moved, revealing a small black hole in its place. My character immediately dropped through it.

I thought I would appear on the floor below, but I didn't. Instead, my character was surrounded by a black screen with the Lavender Town music playing. I scootched back on my bed and brought the Game Boy right up under my lamp, thinking I'd be able to pick out some features of the new level if the screen was better lit. There was nothing to be seen. I tried to move my character, but the game just emitted that 'dunt dunt' sound it always does when you walk into something.

Next thing I knew, the Lavender Town music stopped playing; it cut off right in the middle. I figured the game froze, but when I tried to move my character's feet still jostled and I still got that 'dunt dunt' sound telling me I couldn't walk anywhere. I swallowed; there was a lump in my throat. I was nervous. I hadn't saved my progresss in a while and I didn't want to lose everything I had accomplished by flicking the power off. Plagued by indecision, I set my Game Boy down, reeled my legs over the side of the bed, and put a hand to my forehead. I was sweaty and clammy. My attention darted back to my Game Boy and I saw that the sides of it where my hands had been resting were slick with sweat as well. I must have had a fever.

I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the lights, looking at my gaunt reflection in the mirror. I was pale as a sheet, my eyes seemed milky and glassy, my lips were pale, and my hair was unkempt. I stunk from devoting all my time to Pokemon and not hygeine. Just as I reached forward to turn on the faucet, something on the corner of the counter caught my eye. It was my Game Boy. I hadn't brought it in with me, had I? I retracted my hand from the faucet and set it on the small electronic device instead, pulling it up and frowning at the screen. It was all black now, but still dead quiet.

Maybe it was partially because I was in a daze from having a temperature or I was just really tired, but I couldn't drag my eyes off the screen. My eyelids peeled back and I kept staring into the black abyss, wondering where my character had gone. The Game Boy's power light was lit, so it hadn't shut itself off. The game was still running.

After a minute or so, the chill from my bathroom was starting to get to me. The feeling of little icy fingers dragged up my spine and fixed around the back of my neck. I breathed in deeply and looked back up in the mirror.

My reflection was gone.

Instead, I was seeing the reflection of my empty bathroom and the dopen doorway leading into the dark hallway by my room. I rubbed my eyes a few times, but my reflection didn't appear. It was obvious I was having some sort of nightmare. Smiling to mysel fand thinking it stupid to get scared over what was clearly a fever-induced dream, I picked up my Game Boy and rolled it over my fingers a few times. Ready to pinch myself and wake up, I looked at the screen one last time and froze. I was now looking into a very pixelated, distorted version of my reflection. My eye sockets had gone black and my empty mouth was gaping open, stretched down my face. My fingers were digging into my temples. Music started playing and got louder and louder, even though I wasn't touching the volume dial. It wasn't Lavender Town's theme. It was eerier, less constructed. It didn't take me a minute to realize it was the song being run backwards.

I dropped the Game Boy, which clattered against the bathroom tile. The back popped open and the batteries flew out and rolled towards the doorway. Throwing my hands into my sweaty, messy hair, I went weak at the knees and sunk back against the wall, pinching at myself, trying to wake myself up. The music was getting louder still, even with the Game Boy face down, without batteries. My glazed eyes darted to the mirror.

It was entirely black, as if it and the Game Boy had swapped visuals. My heart began beating really fast and I could feel those icy fingers scraping down my back, forcing me to look over my shoulder. It was then that the lights in the bathroom went off, making everything pitch black. I screamed and jumped out of my skin, spinning around and feeling for the light switch, trying to turn it back on. I must have turned the wrong way because I was no sooner facing my mirror, which had the faintest glow to it, like a weak electronic screen. I cried and beat my hand against it, waiting to feel the glass-like sheet to shatter against my fist. It didn't Nothing broke. All I heard was a soft 'dunt dunt.'

I spun away and tried to feel around the darkness, but it was as if all the walls had closed in around me. The music was blaring in my ears, hot and unnerving, making my head want to burst. Tears streamed out of my eyes as I struggled, but there was nowhere to go. Dunt dunt. Dunt dunt. Dunt dunt.


Macho Man Randy Savage !WtlVui1RWQ's Stories

All of these stories take place in the same general area.

The first incident I can clearly remember happened when I was four or five. After speaking to others in the area, I learned that the events I experienced were far from the only things to have ever happened in that area; but I digress.

It was a typical summer night and I was settling down to watch SNICK. My dad was doing some work outside and my mom was in the kitchen cleaning up from the dinner we'd all just finished eating when my dad came in pale as a sheet. My mom asked him what was wrong and he replied, "I heard something outside. Get me my gun."

My mother, of course, complied.

With the gun securely in hand, my dad went back outside and my mother, brother, and I watched him from the doorway. Then we heard it, too. It sounded like a woman screaming or something. I know that a lot of animals sound that way, but I've lived in the country my whole life and never heard that sound before. The closest I've come is some videos of big cats, but that raises the question of what a big cat would be doing in the middle of Indiana.

My dad paused for a second when he heard it again but, not wanting to look like a pussy in front of his wife and kids, he proceeded to the section of the field next to our house where the sound seemed to be originating from, his pistol held ready. Now, it's important to note that when this happened there was no house in the field next to ours. It was pure country darkness at the time.

My dad vanished into the gloom where the sound seemed to be originating from and, for a few breathless seconds, we heard nothing. Then my dad screamed, "OH FUCK!" and we heard the sound of gunfire. At this point my mom shoved my brother and I into the house and closed the door on us. I heard my dad yell, "Are the kids in the house?" The panic in his voice was evident.

Once my mom assured him that we were safe, they both came back inside, drew the blinds, locked the doors, and refused to speak about it. Later that night I was eavesdropping on my parents through the vent in my room and heard my dad say," I don't know what that was, but I never want to see it again. If the kids ask, tell them it was just someoneplaying a trick on us."

I never asked when I was younger, but once I was older I asked him about it on a few occasions. He always refuses to talk about it. After that night, he began drinking heavily (He's thankfully given it up now).

Some strange things happened after that, though nothing as major as that noise was. In retrospect, they all seemed to be building up into some sort of crescendo.

My mother walked into the kitchen one night and saw an Indian (feather) lady standing at our back window, crying. She was alone in the house with us at that time. I did some asking around and apparently the land we lived on was used as a trading ground of some sort before the settlers came. I don't know any more than that, or even if it's true.

One winter, my mother saw someone looking at her through our bathroom window. It's important to note that our bathroom window was a good nine feet off the ground. She got my dad to look outside. Despite the heavy snowfall, there were no footprints leading away from or to the house. But there WERE a set of footprints in a circle right outside the bathroom window, again, with no footprints leading to or away from them.

During this time, my dad's drinking was increasing exponentially. This seems to be common in those who had experienced things in the woods, as it happened to a friend's father as well.

We would often hear heavy metal coming from inside the walls. This happened up until we moved out fifteen years later. No one who lived near us listened to heavy metal.

My brother, two years my junior, began talking about how he would see our dead great-grandfather in our house all the time. I wouldn't give any credence to his, due to his age, except for the fact that he apparently described the suit our great-grandfather was buried in in detail. He wasn't at the wake or the funeral.

My father's drinking culminated in abuse to my mother and they got divorced when I was ten or eleven. That's the last you'll hear of my family problems, though I do feel what I've shared is relevant to the story. My father was the nicest guy in the world before that night. I have to wonder what it was he saw that brought him to that point.

After the divorce, my mother bought my brother a dog. It was the sweetest dog in the world. We kept him chained up outside. Every now and then he would break loose, but he would never be gone for more than an hour or two.

One day he broke free and never came back. My brother was, understandably, heartbroken. My mother promised him a new dog if that one didn't come back within a week.

A week to the day after we found out what happened to the dog. Well, sort of.

My brother's screams woke me up that morning. My mother and I walked outside to see what was wrong. Well, it was pretty obvious what was wrong: the skin from the top of the dog's head was laying on our back porch. Just the skin, just from the top of its head. It looked as if someone had ripped it off; the cut wasn't clean at all.

We never did find the body. We buried the skin in the backyard.

Once I entered middle school, I made a friend in the grade above me. He lived about a half-mile down the road, so that was very convenient for me. One night, I was over at his house and he began telling me stories that his brother had told him. Stories about a beast with red eyes that lived in the woods and would get you if you weren't careful.

He told me he'd seen it a few times. Once watching him from the top of a mulberry tree that grew across the road from his house. Once while walking back from another friend of his' house, watching him from the treeline across a cornfield. Again at the same friend's house, on the roof of the garage. The fourth time he saw it, he said, was right outside of a screen door at his grandfather's house. he said it was crouched down on all fours, like some kind of animal. The other times had been too far away for him to make out its shape; apparently it was humanoid, but comprised entirely of darkness and shadow, except for the burning red eyes.

I, of course, didn't believe him. But I still looked over my shoulder the entire way home.

When I got home, I was greeted by my brother's sobbing. I told him to calm down and tell me what happened. He told me that he and a friend of his were walking back from another friend's house. It should be noted that this is the same house my friend claimed to see the beast on top of the garage. My brother said they'd gone down the trail we took through the woods on a daily basis on their way home, but it sounded like someone was following them and keeping pace. He turned around and saw two glowing red eyes set close to the ground. They then rose up to a height of over nine feet and started coming toward them.

My brother ran all the way home, presumably being chased.

It should be noted that he ran all that way in the dark.

My experience with the beast was to come later.

After hearing about my brother's experience, I had my friend tell me everything he knew about the thing in the woods. He told me the story of his father, who had also seen it. I believe it drove his father crazy, and I also believe that my own father saw it as well, given the parallels between the two stories. The only difference was that my father and mother divorced and my father moved away. His father ended up getting shot by his mother due to the abuse his drinking brought about.

Being young (15-16) and fearless at this time, I naturally thought it would be a good idea to fuck with the thing - whatever it was - to see what it was made of.

This proved to be a mistake.

I went into the woods with a dagger, which I thought would protect me; I don't know what I was thinking. I sat in a clearing until it was dark, when I started to taunt the thing. You know, general stuff a teenager would say, like "You're a fucking pussy and I don't believe in you," and, "Looks like everyone is afraid of nothing because the only ghost here is a gigantic fag." I know, I was cool, you guys haven't got to tell me.

The only problem for me was that what I was doing worked. The woods went quiet. Quieter than I'd ever heard them. Then, in the distance, I heard the "snap...snap...snap" of something heavy taking slow, methodical steps toward me, breaking branches under its feet. "Snap...snap...snap." I was still brave. I stood my ground.

When the sound got to about thirty feet away from me, I heard a tree crash into the ground, followed by the same "snap...snap...snap." I started to get nervous at this point. If it could push a tree over, it could seriously fuck me up. The walking started to get faster. "snapsnapsnapsnapsnap." A sense of dread came over me at that point, which I experienced later with my face-to-face encounter.

I pissed myself, dropped the dagger, and ran home.

Did I mention I was home alone that night?

I got inside, slammed the door behind me, locked it, deadbolted it, got a clean change of clothes, and hopped in the shower. While I was showering, the noises started. It was like something with large claws was scratching the side of the house. Sometimes it would hit the house hard enough to shake pictures off of the walls.

I put on my headphones and huddled in my room until my mom got home, which is when the noises stopped. I didn't tell her anything.

The next morning, I looked outside and there were no scratches on the side of the house, nor were there the dents you'd expect from something hittting it that hard.

I walked out to the clearing I was in and found my dagger lying on top of a tree stump, bent at a perfect ninety degree angle. I took it, but it has since been lost to me.

I never went into the woods at night again.

Things were as calm as they ever were after that, though the heavy metal coming from our walls was as loud as ever. By this point I had begun listening to metal, so it didn't bother me as much as it did the rest of the family.

But I digress; I want to get to the meat of this section right away.

We were at my grandfather's house the Christmas Eve after my experience in the woods. We left and were driving through a wooded section when my mom caught something in the headlights.

Time seemed to slow down when I saw it. It was walking across the road, from one wooded area to the next. The whole encounter couldn't have lasted more than fifteen seconds, but it seemed more like fifteen minutes. It stood around nine-feet tall. Its body was humanoid in shape, but it was made up entirely of darkness. Tendrils of darkness drifted off of its body when the headlights struck it. I'm unsure if that was caused by the headlights or if it was simply some strange aspect of the beast. Its arms noticably moved, though in a manner that is hard for me to demonstrate adequately. Its entire range of motion seemed alien and unnatural to me.

I was filled with dread. It turned and looked at me, its eyes two glowing coals floating in the physical darkness that was its body. The head turned, but not in the way yours or mine would. It was more as if the eyes shifted...it's very hard to describe. I made eye contact with it for what seemed like eternity. Then it looked forward and walked back into the woods on the other side of the road. Time sped back up and the sense of dread left me.

We all looked at each other with a, "did you just see that?" look on our faces. We didn't speak a word about it until we got home.

These days, when I bring it up to my mom, she says it was a raccoon. But the look in her eyes lets me know she remembers; that's all I want, to know I'm not crazy.

I haven't seen it since.

We moved a year after that. I went to college, but kept in touch with my friend who lived in the area.

He became obsessed with the thing in the woods during that period. He would often go out into the woods at night with nothing but a tape recorder and some candles. I don't know if he ever picked anything up on the tape recorder, and to be honest, I wouldn't want to hear it if he did.

The last words he said to me were, "I went out into the woods and promised it my soul if it would give me [name of the girl he loved]."

He got her, but she destroyed him.

He's now a broken down junkie who lives day-by-day eating from trash cans and stealing for a hit of whatever drugs he can get his hands on. He was the smartest person I knew.

I've since moved back to an area that's a ten-minute drive away from where these events occurred. I'm interested in going back sometime, but not without backup.

(This story is credited to a person called Macho Man Randy Savage.)


Growing up, I knew very little about my mother's side of the family. They had basically disowned her after she decided to do the unthinkable and go to medical school in a time where (particularly in the deep, rural south) women would never be doctors. My relatives were scowling faces that wandered in and out of holiday gatherings, pausing just long enough to pass judgement and leave my dad outraged for about a week.

The only one out of the mob that really made an impression was my mom's older sister. This woman sent me acne medication for my birthday one year when I had started that awkward break-out phase. She once lectured me for twenty minutes about how, since I had inherited my mom's desire to work when I got older, no man would ever love me. I was ten.

I only give you this background so that you'll understand how unsettling it was when my grandmother called my mom one evening and asked her to fly down there to see them. My aunt had experienced what they called a "severe psychotic break" or something along those lines, and none of the relatives knew what to do. Or had the money to do it. My mother dutifully packed her things and I was somehow swept along for the ride. I was only fourteen at the time and still hadn't perfected the art of saying no to my parents.

The best thing about that age was that because I was awkward and mousy, people tended to ignore my existence. I got to sit in while the grandparents told my mom everything they knew about this breakdown and mom stressed over and over that she wasn't a psychiatrist. My aunt's latest ex was a meth dealer. Who knew what kind of stuff they had been brewing and sampling. There were also probably diet pills. She'd become obsessed with ouija boards. Depression runs in the family. She was always a little off. Etc. Etc. Etc.

All they knew was that after her work had called them asking for her, they'd found her completely naked in her living room, curled up and talking to herself. She had covered pages and pages of notebooks with nonsensical symbols and equations about gods and demons.

With few other options in BFE Georgia, my grandparents had locked my aunt up in the guest room and called my mother. Once again insisting that she was not a psychiatrist, my mom told my grandparents that they had to get my aunt sent to some kind of hospital where she could get the proper care and in the meantime they needed the supplies to hold them over while they decided what to do. Mom called in some prescriptions and got ready to head into town.

Unfortunately, the downside to being fourteen is that you're old enough to be expendable and somehow in the shuffle I was assigned the task of waiting at the house with my aunt and making sure nothing happened while they were gone. Mom promised they wouldn't be long and assured me waiting at home was better than being trapped on the hour-long drive into town with my grandmother.

Many Southerners will tell you that not all of the South is barren fields and terrifying locals. Some parts have amazing natural beauty. This is completely true and anyone close-minded enough to bypass an entire section of the countryside based on stereotyping is really missing out. Unfortunately, this house was not located in any of those ares. This was miles of red clay, tobacco crops, pine trees, power lines, the family house, me, and my batshit aunt in the back room. There was no cable, no internet, and next-to-no cell reception.

I was stuck listening to my CD Player and playing Tetris on the couch, counting the agonizing minutes until my mom came back. Because time moved so slowly out there, I can't really tell you when I was clubbed from behind.

The thud was dull but the pain exploded in the back of my skull. I used to think that cartoon characters seeing stars was just a cutesy animation, but I swear my vision erupted into different colors as I tried to regain my senses. I didn't drop like people in the movies do, though. I was vaguely aware of someone grabbing my arms and dragging me from the sofa to the chair. I even stumbled a little in response.

Unfortunately, the static wouldn't clear enough for me to stop them as my hands were tied to the arms with something thin enough to cut. It was only after my midsection had been bound and my throat was well on its way that I snapped to. I rocked my head back and forth to get away, but it was no good. What I now realized was brown twine was roped around my neck to keep me upright. I can't look at the stuff anymore without itching.

Her work momentarily finished, my aunt moved around the chair to face me. She'd never been an attractive person, but at that point she looked like topless holy hell. The meth had left her with open sores, some of which she had scratched into ragged, weeping holes. Her arms were covered in blackening holes all oozing rot. When she grinned, I got a good look at the infamous meth mouth. I can't even describe the smell. That wasn't just from her wounds, either. She had caked shit all over her legs, up to the scratches around her sagging breasts. But the worst part was the strange glint in her eyes.

There was someone home up there, but it was more feral than person.

When my eyes locked on hers, she grabbed a bit of her short blonde hair and tugged hard enough for her eyebrows to raise. "You see this? They say I can take your hair for myself."

Panic was finally starting to register as I realized what the hell was happening. Too tiny to be much of a fighter, I mostly just started hyperventilating and staring. I remember realizing that I couldn't remember the word for what Indians used to do to their war victims, but it was definitely about to happen to me. I started squeaking a little and trying to yell out as she disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and reappeared with a knife.

Thankfully, she just grabbed a clump of my long brown hair and started trying to saw it off inches off my scalp. It still hurt enough for me to finally cry out over it. Likely unsatisfied with her results thanks to a dull knife and thick hair, her attention turned back to my face.

"That's nothing," She hissed.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Journal Entries

(Story's quite long, so if you want to read the entire thing you'll have to click "read more" at the bottom)

My brother was a whopping eleven years older than me, so I don't remember much of when he was still living with us during his college years. I was only thirteen when he moved out. But he was always weird. His self-professed hobby was to watch people. I remember there were times when he would pick me up from school, and, as we drove home in the afternoon sunlight, we would see something like a group of children walking home in their uniforms, and those little mundane scenes--old ladies feeding birds, shops closing down for the day--were heartbreaking to him. He took pictures of seemingly innocuous things. He was very nostalgic about things that had never happened to him.

I distinctly remember that on a weekly basis he would sit in a corner of his cramped room and scribble into an old notebook that he used for school. Sometimes I would ask him what he was drawing or writing. He would of course tell me to leave. He kept it well-hidden when he wasn't writing, because several times during my childhood I looked for it while he wasn't home, and never found it.

I don't remember a whole lot else about my brother. He mostly kept to himself, but was willing to oblige when I asked him to play video games or something with me. He wasn't very much for sports, and he had a small but recurring circle of friends. They were generally as weird as him and Mom didn't like them around the house. But he didn't seem lonely or hurt, he got good marks and generally he appeared satisfied with his life. He was the opposite of my sister (seven years older than me), who has always been socially adaptable, self-confident and outgoing.

Whenever my brother went out, it was either to take pictures of the seedier parts of the city, or heading straight to a friend's house, probably to listen to music. He was big on music, especially anything that used "found sound", i.e. recordings picked up from somewhere else.

My brother died in a car crash last year. We have made our peace with it by now. My parents decided to keep his room as it was when he left. But I haven't been able to contain myself. For years the mystery of the notebook had settled in the far back of my mind, but months after his death it resurfaced. I needed to find it.

I scoured his room again. I checked under and inside everything, with meticulous care to make sure my parents didn't notice I had been moving things around. And finally, by sheer luck, I came across a loose floorboard under where his bed used to be.

It was a clever hiding spot, and I never would have found it as a child. I pried the board loose with anxious expectation, hoping that this was, at last, where I would find the notebook. And I was right.

My brother kept loose documentation of his feverish scribblings. By now, time, humidity and insects had taken their toll on his writings, but most of it was entirely legible. It was kept in a pile of unassuming school notebooks, lined paper, ring-bound, bland black covers. There are marks on the cover that indicate that they were once covered with something, possibly labeled, but those aren't there anymore.

For the past four or so hours I have been poring over my brother's lost oeuvre with unbroken interest. What he wrote (and occasionally drew) there is of extremely varied nature. It includes lists of people he "loves", but these are populated with people like "7:30am cleaning lady, ____ Av. ____ Hotel, wears pink ribbon" or "kindly old doorman from childhood house". These are people who, I assume, he only knew via his personal brand of nostalgic voyeurism.

There are also interviews with people from the city about varied subjects. My brother would sometimes do this; he would pretend to be a Communications or Journalism major of some sort and interview strangers on the street about various things. Many of the interviews are recorded here.

And then there are also personal (or sometimes impersonal, stated as if they were fact) accounts of strange things that go on in the city, written as if they were the most mundane things in the world. Yet they are anything but. Sometimes his friends pop up in these writings.

I am transcribing these as I go, so you'll have to forgive me if I go slowly. I don't have a scanner at hand to show you the writings directly; and my brother's handwriting is undecipherable chicken-scratch to anyone not familiar with it, anyway.

Just to be on the safe side, I will replace all street names, locales, and people's name, etc. with pseudonyms or blanks.

A few other notes: I have not gotten in contact with any of my brother's friends ever since his passing, though all of them came to his funeral and were very supportive throughout. Naturally they are all much older than me and we don't have many shared interests. Given the close nature of my brother and his friends, it's entirely possible that some of what was written here is not his own, but his friends', and that this was their collective project of sorts. This is substantiated by two facts: first, the writing style changes considerably between documents. Sometimes it's like my brother's (clinical, distant), and other times it's unlike him (flowery prose, or liberal use of slang).

And also, there is no guarantee that everything--or anything--documented here actually transpired. It may have been an elaborate exercise in fiction. My brother read a lot of it. He was especially fond of authors like Borges, who have an almost mathematical grasp on fiction, and others like Cortázar, who are fond of letting it intermingle with reality.

Finally, I should mention that both my brother and my native language is not English, and these notebooks are not written in English, either. So I a have the double task of transcribing and translating here. If any of the following prose seems awkward, that may not necessarily be my brother's fault.

Some of what is here is not written, but was typed out and printed, then pasted into the notebooks with tape or glue (and most of it is falling apart), lending credibility to the theory that my brother's friends participated in this project, or whatever it was supposed to be.

I suppose that's more than enough preamble. I will now post excerpts from my brother's notebooks. There are five of them in total, of varying size. The third is by far the largest; the other four seem like additions or further explorations on ideas first explored in the third notebook.

But I'm probably reading too much into all this anyway.

Exc. from Notebook 3: Untitled List #4

1. [___] St., corner store, mom & pop shop, Chinese sweets. Rat infestation.
F. told me that what they really do is take them to the back and cut them up and this is why the radio in that store is really loud.
2. DRAMATIC shortage in dove population thanks to the "DOVE STRANGLER", anonymous assassin of winged pests.
3. Group of children in [____] Park, use carbines. They used to gut fish at the lake in [District] but we all know what happened in '98.
Although A. doesn't know. Most agree that the fish all turned up dead one morning because of a poisonous leak but I disagree.
4. Doors fan in [Record store] enjoys making films of this, K. is a friend of hers.
5. Do you remember those commercials that started airing past 3am back when pet dogs were turning up dead, strangled or poisoned? And it was like a bunch of grainy footage of this dead animal asking people to report whoever was doing it? Good job guys.
6. Nobody ever figured out where it was buried, not even us.
7. Ask A. about that guy from Architecture who is into torture porn.
[this entry is crossed out.] CONFIRMED FALSE


I was never one of the popular kids in school; actually, I had no friends. There seemed to be something about me, an aura or something, that kept people away. I wasn’t always friendless; I use to play with the kids from my neighborhood all the time. We would play tag, street hockey, soccer, baseball, all kinds of games. I miss those days. It all changed the day before my thirteenth birthday.

I got into a fight with my parents about something so stupid I can’t even remember what is was about. But I do remember what I said; I said that I hated them and that I never wanted to speak to them again. I stormed out of the house with my parents trying to catch me. Next door my friends where playing soccer and one of the kids over kicked the ball and it went flying towards me.

I kicked it into the street were a car ran over it and popped it, I just kept running away. I ran through my neighbors’ yards and up to Altec Rd, a busy street that led to the highway, my parents where right behind me begging me to come back home. I took the first chance I had and ran across the road in between a clearing of cars and into the forest on the other side of the road. I ran to the treehouse me and my buddies built. We made a pact that it was our secret spot and we wouldn’t tell anyone about it, not even our parents, so I knew I would be safe there.

Every day of my life I wish I had never said the words I said or did the things I did. I wish that I just suppressed that childish tantrum and went to my room to calm down instead of that treehouse. Because after I calmed down and came home my mom was crying hysterically and my dad was comforting her, I felt really bad and I wanted to apologize but instead I went up to my room to sleep.

That was the last day I had any friends; they were still mad about the soccer ball incident and they must have told everyone else in school to not be friends with me because no one talked to me ever again. My parents didn’t even talk to me, I must of really hurt them. So here I am, seventeen years old, a junior in high school, and without a friend in the world. I’ve grown use to it, though the loneliness still pains me. The lunch bell rang and I head over to the library.

I use to go to the mess hall and eat with the other kids my freshmen year and I had a few sparks of hope I might actually talk to someone when kids would near my table to eat. But every time there was a remote chance that I could have a meal in the company of others they would stare towards me, no one ever make eye contact with me, and then just walk away and find another table to sit at. I prefer the library better then the mess hall anyway, much quieter and I’ve grown to love reading ever since I’ve been wiped from existence.

I found the book ‘huckleberry finn’ placed on the table where I usually sit and it has been years since I read that book so I started reading it. I sat in the library reading the book until I was finished. I skipped my classes for the rest of the day. I knew I wouldn’t get in trouble because just like my parents and all the kids the professors ignored me also. When I finished the book there was a half hour of school left, not wanting to go to class I left early.

While walking home I was thinking about Huck and how he ran away and then pretty soon I was thinking about running away myself. I spent the whole afternoon planning what I was going to do. I had no money to my name and no experience at all except at being self reliant I figured that it was better than nothing. I figured my best bet would be to head south. If I go past Altec Rd and through the forest there is a graveyard that I’ll sleep at tonight.

It is only eight to ten miles away with the path that I will be taking. I would stay at the treehouse if it wasn’t so close to my house and falling apart. There is a town fifteen miles away from the graveyard that I will head to in the morning and from there I will figure out what I’m going to do and where I’ll go next.

Its midnight now and I have my backpack packed with spare clothes, a blanket and other items I may need. I slowly open the door to my parents room to give my mom a kiss goodbye, I hear her cry my name at night in her sleep every once in a while. Even though she refuses to speak to me I know she still loves me. I stand over her sleeping body and I give her a kiss on the forehead and hug her goodbye.

A tear rolls down her cheek and she whispers “I miss you baby, why did you have to leave” In her sleep.

I cry. Even though she is sleeping she spoke to me. The first words I ever heard directed towards me in four years. “I’m sorry momma, but I can’t stand being alone anymore. I need to leave.”

“You’re not alone. I’m always here for you baby. I love you.”

Now you are but when you’re awake I’m all alone. I thought to myself. “Goodbye momma.” I said to her for the last time. And I walked out of the room hearing a faint goodbye from behind the closed door. I couldn’t stop crying as I began my journey to my new life. It has been so long since I heard her speak to me, so many nights I went to sleep wishing to have her tuck me in and say that she loved me.

I’ve been alone for so long and I could tell by the voice she spoke in that she was alone also. Both of us wanting the same thing but neither of us did anything about it. After about an hour I sobered up and continued through the woods.

I came to a clearing and I could see the gate to the graveyard and some tombstones scattered about. I climbed the fence and started wondering around seeking a place to rest for the night. I tried opening several mausoleums until I come across an unlocked one. I laid the blanket on the stone ground and used my backpack as a pillow and before I knew it I was fast asleep.

“Get out of there you punk!” a raspy voice yelled, startling me from my sleep. I opened my eyes slowly to get use to the bright sunlight shining in. “Get out here now before I call the police on you!”

I sit up, moving my head into the shadow of the old man to block the sunlight, and looked at him completely bewildered. “Are you talking to me?”

“Of course I’m talking to you. And you’re trespas…” He stopped talking mid sentence and stared at me. Not through me like everyone else seemed to do but at my eyes, he even shifted his body to see my face in the sunlight. He closed his eyes and his angered face turned stoic. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up. I never forget a face.” He said in a soft voice.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

His face softened into a sorrow look. “You poor child, you haven’t realized have you? Come, follow me.” I had no idea what was going on, but I did what he told me to. I left my bag in the mausoleum, still stunned that he talked to me. Not only that having a conversation with me. But before I could speak he started talking to me again as I followed him.

“I’m the caretaker of this here graveyard. I dug all these graves myself, and like I said… I never forget a face.” He looked at me, his face full of grieve. “It must have been tough growing up all on your own; your face has changed a lot but your eyes are the same…” I was going to ask him what he was talking about again, he must be drunk or something. But instead he motioned me to look at the tombstone we stopped in front of.

JUNE 16TH 1982 – JUNE 15TH 1995

(This story is credited to a person called Skoal.)

Our Group

“Shut up Louise! You shouldn't waste you life and die like a little bitch!”

“You shut up, Natasha! I'm going to kill you right now if you don't stop being such a stupid pussy!”

The girls were having an argument about whether or not should we explore the abandoned house near our college. I, Gregory, was just quietly listening, amusing myself with the strong sense of friendship amidst the insults.

Louise was pro-exploration, and was doing her best trying to convince us to lose fear and just go. Natasha, being a major pussy, was heatedly arguing with Louise, trying to stop us.

“Look, it's pretty much decided that we're already going, if you really don't want to go, you can just wait outside or something.” Said Leon, trying to intervene.

“Yeah, it's not like we're going to stay inside that long, we're brave, but we're not suicidal; Besides, all we need is your huge-ass flashlight.”

It was just like Fred to use these sort of terms.

Natasha was still terribly uneasy, but finally decided to give up and go with them... She was clearly worried about her friends, since she was very superstitious, and wouldn't dare anger any sort of supernatural being.

Louise, however was almost the opposite, she was also somewhat superstitious, but instead of fearing it, she just loved exploring and discovering the higher unknown.

Leon was your usual calm, softhearted young adult. He would never pick up a fight (or physically hurt someone, for that matter), but had a sharp tongue and would hesitate to prove anyone wrong whenever he feels like it.

Fred was an easygoing, cheerful teenager. He didn't care about circumstances or opinions, all that mattered to him was his friends and family.

Me? Well, what can I say about me? I was the oldest of our group, but unfortunately, not the biggest (that would be Leon). I was pretty passive and didn't like to interfere with what I considered “other people's business”. I was generally quiet, but had no problem talking if I needed to. I had a massive crush on Louise, I wanted her by my side as soon as possible, but I was too timid to ask her out.

We were all close friends, we used to do everything together; From homework, to homemade video game tourneys and marathons, to helping out Fred’s grandma's restaurant when she was in need of some working hands.

But apparently, for the first time, one of our members would be missing, since Natasha wouldn't join us inside the house... Oh, that's right, I forgot to explain said house; It was an abandoned, decaying house down the street.

We would always pass by on our way back home and comment about what was the deal with that house. It just screamed terror, with it's broken windows and rotten wood. It was already like that since we all started coming to this college. Two years later, we finally decide it's time to infiltrate that house. Looks like there's absolutely no one living inside, so chances are we shouldn't worry about being kicked out.

Days passed by, and we eagerly await the night we would get some mad bragging rights.

“Tonight's the night” - said Leon over the phone

“I can't wait... so, we still have one hour left to ready ourselves, what are you going to bring?”

“Oh, I'm the one responsible for the food, since...”

Leon kept talking, but my mind was somewhere else... Thinking back, I was supposed to bring my father's toolbox, for finding a way in and getting rid of possible mechanical problems... That was already taken care of, but it wasn't the only thing I was going to bring.

I also decided to bring a kitchen knife, just for the sake of any possible unexpected encounters.

I could use the supernatural as an excuse, but I was also afraid we could end up encountering a mugger, as we were going there late night and we were no match for these lurkers. Not to mention I could also pull a prank on my friends. Why yes, that's a wonderful idea.

So, it was finally time, and we all met up outside the house.

“Hey Nat, did you bring your flashlight?”

“Sure, here it is, Louie”

“And you, Fred, did you bring your radio communicators?”

“Of course, here they are”

“We can leave the food and the tool box here, can you stay here and watch out for us, Nat?”

“No worries, sorry about that day”

“It was nothing, I understand your concern... So, let's go”

We searched for an entrance, the front door was conveniently enough open, so went in... As expected, a terrible stench of decay and corruption filled our noses. It was clear that whoever used to live here wasn't sane, since everything in the living room was thrown around like there was a big brawl around here. There were also some blood marks around the place but we couldn't be too sure, since it had already dried, and we wouldn't be able to distinguish the smell.

There was a staircase to the left, and a long corridor to the right

Each one of us went to look around a different room. I decided to explore the single bedroom at the end of the corridor that connected all rooms. The first thing I saw when I got inside were the ominous scribblings that filled the entire room with a sense of lunacy.

There was a terribly decayed bed and some broken glass on the floor. Everything else was unrecognizable. But the scribblings were the highlight of that showcase of pure insanity. I was carefully examining them, when suddenly Louise called us through our communicators;

“Guys, I'll need your help, come over to the basement...”

I couldn't believe she was brave enough to go straight to the basement, all alone. We all went to her aid, expecting bad news, but what we found was truly impressive; Inside the basement, on a wall right beside the entrance, was a suspicious white door.

There were no marks on it, but it had a weird, inviting feel around it.

Louise couldn't open it herself, so she asked for our help. We tried everything we could, but even the three of us ramming against the door wasn't doing the trick. Then I remembered I brought the toolbox just in case something like this happened, and promptly went outside to get it.

“Wait what?” I exclaimed to myself

There were no signs or Natasha anywhere... Leon's and my backpacks were still there thou-

A chill ran through my spine. Mine was left open...

I rushed over to try and clear my mind of the worst... but it was obvious. The knife was missing.

I just froze...

Then I remembered Natasha was also given a receiver. I instinctively tried to contact her.

“Natasha! Where are you? Where did yo-”

I froze once again...

I heard my voice, raspy, like it was coming from another communicator... I heard it... It was right below my backpack.

What the fuck was her communicator doing below by backpack?

Where did my knife just go?

I started to panic. Louise started asking me what was going on... I couldn't explain it.

“Well, maybe she just went home... But why would she take my knife?”

I was desperately trying to come up with a good conclusion, but it was obvious that whatever just happened, it wasn't good. That's when I noticed Louise had ceased trying to talk to me...

So I went inside again to try and fill her in...

But she wasn't there... None of them were, actually. The spot I expected them to be waiting for me was empty

“Okay guys, you can come out now, this is not funny, I'm serious here!” I screamed, but nothing happened.

Pissed off, I went outside again, that's where I saw Fred.

“Yo Greg, were where you? We were tired of waiting for you and got worried, so I went to check you out, but I didn't see you out here...”

“Really, weird, I was here until just a while ago, besides, where did the everyone go?”

“Nowhere, they said they would wait for us there...”

“That's odd, I went back there, but they weren't anywhere to be seen”

“I think they went to look for us inside the house”

“Yeah, that's plausible”

So we both went back in... I went to the attic, he went to the kitchen. I ran upstairs and entered the attic as soon as I could,expecting to eliminate that from the possibilities and go look somewhere else. But what I saw just broke all my hopes of ever smiling again.

Corpses. A huge pile of corpses right in the middle of the attic...

Leon's huge figure was spread like a ragdoll who fell on it's back; His torso was tore open, and one of his ribs was firmly stuck into his eye. Louise's face was downright unrecognizable, as it was evidently repeatedly stabbed until there was nothing left of it; She was stark naked, and her vagina had clearly been stabbed and dis-configured to the point it now resembled a red mass of shredded paper.

I inevitably screamed in terror.

Fred came rushing inside the attic. I turned around just as he saw the corpses.

He looked at me and said, “It was Nat all along, wasn't she, being that superstitious whore, huh, I be she did that as some sort of sacrifice”

He didn't look as surprised as I expected him to be. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I couldn't make heads or tails of what the fuck was going on.

It was all too sudden, I knew it would be scary, but I didn't expect this sort of shit to happen. I closed my eyes and remembered all the nice days we had, all the time we spent playing around, and how we used to be so close. I realized I could be in danger, so I quickly opened my eyes again.

He wasn't there... Where did Fred just go?

Oh, there he is, in the corpse pile... Despite the fact he no longer had his cheerful smile (or his head, to begin with), and his legs were missing, he seemed to be having fun with Louise and and Leon.

I wish I could be having fun with them now, only if Natasha and I could join in, our group would be complete... Hey look, guess who is there as well.

Natasha was also there waiting for me, despite her noticeable lack of eyes, she was inviting me to join them... I think this knife here will do the trick... I don't know for how long it has been resting on my hand, it feels natural.

I think about the fun I'm about to have with my friends. I can barely wait. I wonder if it's going to take long; I did stab a pretty vital vein in my neck.

Oh, there they are. As I lose my senses, I feel their embrace. We're finally going to be together. Such a strong friendship should last forever. It's going to be so much fun!

Approx. 26 bodies were found in the attic of [HH].

Underground researches revealed that [HH] used to be a chemical research facility.
They were studying the proprieties of a gas that causes the victim to hallucinate and become inhumanly aggressive, while having out of body experiences and not realizing their current situation (gas [S]).

[HH] was shut down after many employees feel victim to gas [S], and an elderly couple inadvertently bought the house that was used just as a mask for the original lab. Corpses on the attic are believed to be of unsuspecting intruders who murdered themselves under the effects of the gas.

Witnesses say the house was abandoned, which leads us to believe that the original elderly couple was long dead before the discovery of the bodies. We are further investigating the house. Some of the bodies have yet to be identified.

(This story is credited to a person called Leonardo. I didn't do much editing on this one, by the way, so if there are spelling errors, deal with it.)