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 Posted: Fri Jul 02, 2010 1:00 pm
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NOTZI + LOVECRAFT
In May of 1938, Hitler was desperate to find the Holy Grail. He believed it would bestow more power upon him, and that with it he could over take anyone. To accomplish this, Hitler sent a group of his finest men to Tibet, in hopes of finding the legendary artifact that he so craved.
The Expedition lasted for almost an entire year, and towards its end the men were becoming tired. But they trekked on, fearing the punishment for failure.
They were, of course, over joyed when the found the vault. They had been told by a guide that it was where they could find great and lost treasure. Things that had the power to change the world.
The Vault was hidden deep inside some lesser known ruins. Upon arrival they were awed by the sheer size of the door. It was a circular door, with a diameter of at least 100 feet. It had shrubs and growths of various natures all over it. Most of which were plants they had never seen before.
The troops spent several hours removing the plant life so the vault could be opened. They used knifes, flame, anything they could. And it was only after they had completed this task that they realized they had no way of opening the vault.
The door looked like it was made for a giant. They couldn't so much as reach for the handle, for it was 50 feet in the air. Finally though, after much hard work and thought, they decided on a plan.
The strongest men got their strongest rope, attached a hook to the end, and they tossed it in the air towards the handle. Managing to wrap it around the handle was difficult, but they eventually succeeded.
It took ten men to make it even budge, and twenty to really get it moving. But they managed it. They got the Vault open as they intended.
Upon opening it they sent in a small three man team to try and scope it out. They entered with high hopes of something, anything to bring back to Hitler. They feared him more then anything, which was most definitely a mistake.
After 3 hours they began to worry for the safety of their reconnaissance squad. But before more men could venture in, they heard a screaming, like that of a mad man.
One of the men ran out of the Vault. He was screaming, laughing, and covered in blood. They questioned him, but all he would tell them is that he had made sacrifice for the great old ones.
After some debate the remaining men entered the Vault. They cautiously walked through what seemed like an ancient city. Full of statues of giant beasts, some resembling squid, but with more human features added on.
In the center of the city was a large platform with stairs leading up to it. There was, in the center of this platform, a book. The binding and pages were odd in texture. Almost like flesh. The words in the book seemed odd and foreign, not like anything they had ever seen. And the cover almost looked like it had a face...
They thought the book to be rare, and took it. Proceeding down the platform. Reaching the bottom they felt a great thunderous shaking, and saw the Vault door close before their very eyes. Much faster then they ever though possible for something that large to move, they were trapped.
Torches in hand they did the only thing they thought to do. Search for alternative exits. They marched through more and more odd ruins, filled with the same statues and art that they had seen previously. Finally they came to a great lake, one which seemed to extend deep into the Earth.
Then they saw something which chilled them. A slab, a large stone one, with a German helmet sitting on it. The slab was covered in blood. Fresh blood. Only hours old from what they could tell.
They collected the helmet and explored around the underground lake. When suddenly the one among them carrying the odd book began to laugh. He pulled his side arm from its holster and took one of his own men hostage.
Forcing him to the slab, he shot him point blank, and drained a small amount of blood onto it. Then he tossed the body into the waters below. It happened very fast, but the second it registered with the rest of the troops, they shot the renegade as well, sending him to rest with his victim.
Another great quake ran through the city.
From the depths of the lake came a large tentacle, like from one of the squid creatures seen in the sculptures. It wrapped around a large rock. Then came another, and another. More and more came from the waters, and soon it seemed like 100 tentacles were all around them.
And then, shortly after, they beheld a sight that no sane man had seen. A grand beast rose from the depths. It seemed god like. Suddenly they all felt they understood everything, and they began to kill each other in fits of rage and madness.
The beast swept the bodies, both living and dead, into the sea. Consuming them. By the end of the massacre only one man remained, and he began to shuffle out holding the book they had found earlier.
As he left, he put the book back in its place, and then the door proceeded to open. He left that Vault, loosing more then the book. He had lost his sanity.
He made it back to his base camp, where they questioned him thoroughly. He responded only with gibberish about the "old ones". Saying the men had been sacrificed.
The only thing that is known for sure past that is that they never recovered the book. They tried several times, Hitler sending more men, but only one ever coming back from each group.
All of which were mad. All spoke in gibberish. And all praised the old ones.
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Posted: Sat Jul 03, 2010 8:36 pm
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SELF PRESERVATION
If you’re reading this, then I am hopefully long gone. It’s been… two months now since the meteor struck Mississippi. There was a lot of public interest in it, astrologers and the like all gathering around for a look. They took samples of the rock and shipped them all over the world to museums in every country. Hell, I almost made a trip to have a look myself, but I had an interview with a potential employer. If he hadn’t called me up the previous day, I’d be dead now. Three days later, after the initial hype died down, the news reported nothing on the meteor for a couple of days.
The next thing I heard about it was when I got home from the pub and turned on the late-night news. I was just in time to catch a breaking news article. The worried-looking reporter informed me that almost everyone who had been in the vicinity of Mississippi when the meteor went down had been hospitalised. Their symptoms were similar to those that a corpse experiences during decomposition. Ten people had already died, mostly the elderly and the very young. Scientists and geneticists from all over the globe were working frantically to try and find a cure. Being smarter than the average bear, I gathered some supplies and prepared for an epidemic. Years of being paranoid beyond reason was finally about to pay off.
The news the next day had a lighter tone. A Chinese scientist had worked out that the meteor had contained an alien strain of bacteria that slowly broke down flesh tissue. The scientist also remarked that the bacteria were only affecting humans. He had also worked out that if a victim consumed a living being, such as an insect, it would delay the progression of the bacteria, giving the scientists more time to figure out a permanent cure. Anyone who thought they may have contracted the infection was to eat as many live creatures as they could. The reporter also explained that the US Army was attempting to contain the infection.
They failed.
Anyone who has read Stephen King’s book, The Stand, will have an idea of how the bacteria made its way around the world. It passed through the air, but to catch it, you had to be near someone infected. Because the symptoms took between three to five days to kick in, people didn’t realise that they were infected. In a week, Victus Somes Disease, as it had been named, was global.
I had barricaded myself in my house, with towels and blankets stuffed into every crack. I had the TV tuned to the news all day and night. The scientists had not predicted that the bacteria would adapt to the infected people’s efforts at trying to keep it at bay. Victims all over the world were claiming that the insects were no longer working. People were starting to catch small mammals and eat them.
As the days went by, people were slowly eating larger and larger animals. The first reported case of cannibalism was, ironically, the last broadcast made. The anchorman’s hair was falling out and he was missing three teeth. He nervously told America that there had been a reported case of cannibalism in Southern Europe. He also said that there would be no further broadcasts. All survivors were to lock themselves in their house and not let anyone in.
For the next week and a half, I watched the infected shamble up the street, knocking on doors. One of my neighbours, a couple of houses down from me, was stupid enough to open the door. Three people dragged him out and started biting his flesh. They started with his arms and legs, trying to keep him alive for as long as possible. They were crying as they ate. Their meal was shrieking in pain, and the three people eating him were apologising furiously through mouthfuls of his arm. I don’t think they were unable to control themselves; it looked more like they were disgusted by what they had to do to stay alive.
They tried to break into my house five or six days later, but my barricades held. They were outside, begging me to let them in. “Just one bite. Please, be generous.” I listened to their pleading all night, too scared to sleep.
I suppose I should explain why I’m writing this. I’m infected. Yesterday I coughed and lost a canine. I spent the night pulling out my teeth, easing them out one by one. It didn’t hurt; they just slid out, like pulling up carrots. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m infected. The bugs have stopped working, and all the wild animals have long since run away. I have decided to lure someone into my house and attack them. It sounds so wrong writing that out, but I don’t want to die. And I’m so hungry.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
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Posted: Sun Jul 04, 2010 11:54 pm
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This is yet another Lost Episode pasta ripped from Suicidemouse.avi, but here it is anyway
SQUIDWARDS SUICIDE
I want to start off by saying if you want an answer at the end, prepare to be disappointed. There just isn't one. I was an intern at Nickelodeon Studios for a year in 2005 for my degree in animation. It wasn't paid of course, most internships aren't, but it did have some perks beyond education. To adults it might not seem like a big one, but most kids at the time would s**t themselves over it. Since I worked directly with the editors and animators, I got to view the new episodes days before they aired. I'll get right to it without giving too many unnecessary details. They had very recently made the Spongebob movie and the entire staff was somewhat sapped of creativity so it took them longer to start up the season. But the delay lasted longer for more upsetting reasons. There was a problem with the series 4 premier that set everyone and everything back for several months. Me and two other interns were in the editing room along with the lead animators and sound editors for the final cut. We received the copy that was supposed to be "Fear of a Krabby Patty" and gathered around the screen to watch. Now, given that it isn't final yet animators often put up a mock title card, sort of an inside joke for us, with phony, often times lewd titles, such as "How sex doesn't work" instead of "Rock-a-by-Bivalve" when spongebob and patrick adopt a sea scallop. Nothing particularly funny but work related chuckles. So when we saw the title card "Squidward's Suicide" we didn't think it more than a morbid joke. One of the interns did a small throat laugh at it. The happy-go-lucky music plays as is normal. The story began with Squidard practicing his clarinet, hitting a few sour notes like normal. We hear Spongebob laughing outside and Squidard stops, yelling at him to keep it down as he has a concert that night and needs to practice. Spongebob says okay and goes to see Sandy with with Patrick. The bubbles splash screen comes up and we see the ending of Squidward's concert. This is when things began to seem off. While playing, a few frames repeat themselves, but the sound doesn't (at this point sound is synced up with animation so yes that's not common) but when he stops playing, the sound finishes as if the skip never happened. There is slight mummuring in the crowed before they begin to boo him. Not normal cartoon booing that is common in the show, but you could very clearly hear malace in it. Squidward's in full frame and looks visibly afraid. The shot goes to the crowd, with Spongebob in center frame, and he too is booing, very much unlike him. That isn't the oddest thing, though. What is odd is everyone had hyper realistic eyes. Very detailed. Clearly not shots of real people's eyes, but something a bit more real than CGI. The pupils were red. Some of us looked at eachother, obviously confused, but since we weren't the writers we didn't question its appeal to children, yet. The shot goes to Squidward sitting on the edge of his bed, looking very forlorn. The view out of his porthole window is of a night sky so it isn't very long after the concert. The unsettling part is at this point there is no sound. Literally no sound. Not even the feedback from the speakers in the room. It's as if the speakers were turned off, though their status showed them working perfectly. He just sat there, blinking, in this silence for about 30 seconds, then he started to sob softly. He put his hands (tentacles) over his eyes and cried quietly for a full minute more, all the while a sound in the background very slowly growing from nothing to barely audible. It sounded like a slight breeze through a forest. The screen slowly begins to zoom in on his face. By slow I mean it's only noticeable if you look at shots 10 seconds apart side by side. His sobbing gets louder, more full of hurt and anger. The screen then twitches a bit, as if it twists in on itself, for a split second then back to normal. The wind-through-the-trees sound gets slowly louder and more severe, as if a storm is brewing somewhere. The eerie part is this sound, and Squidward's sobbing, sounded real, as if the sound wasn't coming from the speakers but as if the speakers were holes the sound was coming through from the other side. As good as sound as the studio likes to have, they don't purchase the equipment to be that good to produce sound of that quality. Below the sound of the wind and sobbing, very faint, something sounded like laughing. It came at odd intervals and never lasted more than a second so you had a hard time pinning it (we watched this show twice, so pardon me if things sound too specific but I've had time to think about them). After 30 seconds of this, the screen blurred and twitched violently and something flashed over the screen, as if a single frame was replaced. The lead animation editor paused and rewound frame by frame. What we saw was horrible. It was a still photo of a dead child. He couldn't have been more than 6. The face was mangled and bloodied, one eye dangling over his upturned face, popped. He was naked down to his underwear, his stomach crudely cut open and his entrails laying beside him. He was laying on some pavement that was probably a road. The most upsetting part was that there was a shadow of the photographer. There was no crime tape, no evidence tags or markers, and the angle was completely off for a shot designed to be evidence. It would seem the photographer was the person responsible for the child's death. We were of course mortified, but pressed on, hoping that it was just a sick joke. The screen flipped back to Squidward, still sobbing, louder than before, and half body in frame. There was now what appeard to be blood running down his face from his eyes. The blood was also done in a hyper realistic style, looking as if you touched it you'd get blood on your fingers. The wind sounded now as if it were that of a gale blowing through the forest; there were even snapping sounds of branches. The laughing, a deep baritone, lasting at longer intervals and coming more frequently. After about 20 seconds, the screen again twisted and showed a single frame photo. The editor was reluctant to go back, we all were, but he knew he had to. This time the photo was that of what appeared to be a little girl, no older than the first child. She was laying on her stomach, her barrettes in a pool of blood next to her. Her left eye was too popped out and popped, naked except for underpants. Her entrails were piled on top of her above another crude cut along her back. Again the body was on the street and the photographer's shadow was visible, very similar in size and shape to the first. I had to choke back vomit and one intern, the only female in the room, ran out. The show resumed. About 5 seconds after this second photo played, Squidward went silent, as did all sound, like it was when this scene started. He put his tentacles down and his eyes were now done in hyper realism like the others were in the beginning of this episode. They were bleeding, bloodshot, and pulsating. He just stared at the screen, as if watching the viewer. After about 10 seconds, he started sobbing, this time not covering his eyes. The sound was piercing and loud, and most fear inducing of all is his sobbing was mixed with screams. Tears and blood were dripping down his face at a heavy rate. The wind sound came back, and so did the deep voiced laughing, and this time the still photo lasted for a good 5 frames. The animator was able to stop it on the 4th and backed up. This time the photo was of a boy, about the same age, but this time the scene was different. The entrails were just being pulled out from a stomach wound by a large hand, the right eye popped and dangling, blood trickling down it. The animator proceeded. It was hard to believe, but the next one was different but we couldn't tell what. He went on to the next, same thing. He want back to the first and played them quicker and I lost it. I vomited on the floor, the animating and sound editors gasping at the screen. The 5 frames were not as if they were 5 different photos, they were played out as if they were frames from a video. We saw the hand slowly lift out the guts, we saw the kid's eyes focus on it, we even saw two frames of the kid beginning to blink. The lead sound editor told us to stop, he had to call in the creator to see this. Mr. Hillenburg arrived within about 15 minutes. He was confused as to why he was called down there, so the editor just continued the episode. Once the few frames were shown, all screaming, all sound again stopped. Squidward was just staring at the viewer, full frame of the face, for about 3 seconds. The shot quickly panned out and that deep voice said "DO IT" and we see in Squidward's hands a shotgun. He immediately puts the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. Realistic blood and brain matter splatters the wall behind him, and his bed, and he flies back with the force. The last 5 seconds of this episode show his body on the bod, on his side, one eye dangling on what's left of his head above the floor, staring blankly at it. Then the episode ends. Mr Hillenburg is obviously angry at this. He demanded to know wht the hell was going on. Most people left the room at this point, so it was just a handful of us to watch it again. Viewing the episode twice only served to imprint the entirety of it in my mind and cause me horrible nightmares. I'm sorry I stayed. The only theory we could think of was the file was edited by someone in the chain from the drawing studio to here. The CTO was called in to analyze when it happened. The analysis of the file did show it was edited over by new material. However, the timestamp of it was a mere 24 seconds before we began viewing it. All equipment involved was examined for foreign software and hardware as well as glitches, as if the time stamp may have glitched and showed the wrong time, but everything checked out fine. We don't know what happened and to this day nobody does. There was an investigation due to the nature of the photos, but nothing came of it. No child seen was identified and no clues were gathered from the data involved nor physical clues in the photos. I never believed in unexplainable phenomena before, but now that I have something happen and can't prove anything about it beyond anecdotal evidence, I think twice about things.
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Posted: Mon Jul 05, 2010 1:02 pm
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FLIP BOOK
As a kid, I loved making flip books. They were all I did in art class, whenever I had it. I worked really hard on one particular flip book. It was around 50 pages long, I guess. It had a simple stick figure walking into the page, waving at me, and then walking off. I would look at it at least a dozen times the day that I made it. Then it got boring. You know how kids are, not entertained by one thing for very long. I tossed it under my bed and never gave it a second thought.
A few months later, I was cleaning up my room and swept the stack of paper out from under my bed. I couldn’t quite remember what it was. I flipped through it once and got a sweet taste of nostalgia. I flipped through it once more and noticed the pages hadn’t aged or gained dirty at all. I flipped through a third time. The little stick man walked onto the page, waved at me, but didn’t walk off.
Instead, a second stick man joined him. It waltzed up, having either an item in its hand or a severely disfigured arm; its not like anyone could tell the difference. The second stick man walked next to the first stick figure, stood there for a moment, then whacked the poor fellow upside the head. The stick figure fell, and the second stick man swung his stick at the other man. Again. And again. And again.
What I assume was its blood ran from the stick figure’s rather jagged body. It looked like nothing more than smeared pencil stains. The killer stick man proceeded to bend down, and tear apart the first stick man’s body, limb by thin limb. Once he was done, he bent each one into characters and letters. He set them upon the page to form a single word. He grabbed the base of his own round head and tore it off. Then he tore off his legs, and then one of his arms. His zig-zagged body parts formed themselves into a second word. What I read made me burn the flip book.
“You’re next.”
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Posted: Mon Jul 05, 2010 1:04 pm
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STRING THEORY
Have you ever had an experience that suggested someone else was in your house, and just thought “I don’t wanna know” and left it? Sometimes, fear of the unknown just seems like the preferable option than facing a real, concrete danger. Normally it’s nothing, though. One time, the beeper function of my wireless housephone went off, when I was the only one home. It could only be called from the living room. Another time, I swear someone took some change from my desk. They’re all probably just slightly disconcerting tricks of the memory.
But what would you do when something truly suggestive happens? Would you run, or just ignore it, like I did?
Last Monday was a normal day. I got up, brushed my teeth, changed into school clothes… All little parts of my morning ritual. It seemed like it would be another totally un-noteworthy day, until I saw the strings.
There were three or four thick twine strings in my room. They criss-crossed between the walls around my bed, one attached to the door. No way would I have missed them before; I should have tripped over them. They were tied to pins in the walls, which had also not existed before ten seconds ago.
Nobody could have been in my room while I was in it, let alone set this up. It was early, and my brain wasn’t processing correctly. I simply discredited the sight, untied the strings and left for school, leaving them balled up on my desk.
It didn’t get any better later. Outside my house there were hundreds of them, tied between houses, around cars, across streets… This had to be some super elaborate prank. One of those hidden camera shows, or a comedy improv blog. They had gotten everyone else to play along too; passer-bys were tangled in them, tying them to objects they were walking towards and away from, as if they had been and were continuing to follow the course laid out for them.
I nervously continued my journey to school. On the bus, every except me was tied to the door. At school, groups of friends were tied to each other; teachers were tied to their desks and boards. Oddly enough, at this point all I could wonder was why I had been left out.
When my friend Lucy sat beside me in first period, she simply plonked her bag down on my lap and rested her chin in her hand, looking right past me to the window outside.
“Hey Lucy.”
No response.
“Come on, I didn’t expect you to be in on this too. “
She sighed and started taking books from her bag. All the books were tied to her hands. I grinned, and yanked one of the strings off a book. She didn’t seem to notice, instead simply disregarding the book completely, letting it drop to the floor without a moment’s hesitation.
“Um.” I leaned down, picking up her book and placing it back on her desk. She took no notice.
“Well, if that’s how we’re gonna play it.” I smiled, trying to look playful, but really just trying to hide my nervousness. I bundled all the strings attached to her together with one hand, then pulled them all free.
She blinked, turning to stare at me.
“Holy crap, Martin. You’re like a ninja or something.”
“I’ve been sitting here for maybe ten minutes.” I smiled again, relieved my friend had finally “noticed” me.
“Where did all these strings come from??” She gasped, seemingly noticing for the first time.
“I assumed you were all ******** with me…”
She stood up, backing into a corner. No one else in the class noticed.
“They weren’t here just a minute ago! Do you see them too??” Her tone made it clear she was genuinely scared.
“No. Didn’t you-. “ I was interrupted by my teacher slamming the door behind her. Everyone except me and Lucy murmured a good morning, and still, no one seemed to pay either of us any notice.
“People have been ignoring me all day.” I said to Lucy, before turning to our teacher. “Hey! Dumb b***h! You can’t teach for s**t!”
No reaction.
“I’m getting away from all this s**t.” Lucy pulled a few strings aside and left the class. I followed, and surprise-surprise, no one else noticed.
We wandered the corridors, leaving and entering classes as we saw fit. Whenever we untied a chair or book from someone else, it was like it suddenly didn’t matter to them. It didn’t exist.
I showed her the street outside; there were more strings than when I came in this morning. Twice as many. We carefully picked our way through the tangle, making our way to a nearby coffee shop. Not particularly grand, I know. But what would you do in our situation? As I said, fear of the unknown sometimes seems like the safer option. On a few occasions, I suggested we untie a few more people. Lucy was opposed to it, remembering how terrified she’d been.
In the coffee shop, we grabbed a couple of sandwiches and drinks from the fridge. We found a table, untied all strings attached to the chairs, and sat down. We both ate in silence, both of us too scared, both of us distracting ourselves by watching the strangers in the shop, oblivious to the strings.
After twenty minutes, Lucy spoke up. “Now she’s gonna take that sandwich.” She said, pointing at a woman across the shop. Sure enough, she walked to the fridge and took the plastic wrapped sandwich she was tied to. “She pays for it and leaves.” She did so, according to the prophecies of the strings. “That guy doesn’t intend to pay.” I watched as a man took his coffee and ran out of the store, the two servers just looking too exasperated to go after him.
“This is horrible.” She whimpered. “Let’s go. Please.”
Outside wasn’t much better. Everyone just followed the strings’ instructions, going about their daily lives. Lucy announced she was going home to sleep this off, and I agreed to walk her home. She only lived ten minutes away.
Away from the busier part of town there were fewer strings. It was nicer; we could pretend it wasn’t happening.
When we turned onto Lucy’s street, she stopped, her mouth falling open.
“What now?” I broke the silence, my voice sounding surprisingly small.
”Look.” She pointed outside one of her neighbours houses.
I saw it clearly, and I’ll take my memory of that moment ‘til the day I die. A little dark imp, maybe three feet tall, walking along with its knuckles on the ground, almost like a monkey. It had two bulbous yellow eyes taking up about half its face, and no mouth or any other facial features. It was holding a hammer and a ball of twine, which it was letting out behind it.
It walked quickly and quietly from the front door of the house to the mailbox. It stopped, hammered a nail into the side of the box, and tied it’s string around it. It turned to face us, and stopped when it spotted us.
My bottom fell out even further than it had already been, but it just stared with a look of surprise and curiosity. You could almost say it was the more frightened one. Suddenly, it beckoned to us with its tiny hand.
I looked at Lucy, she hadn’t moved. I looked back at the imp, which stared at me.
I halved the distance between us, and then halved it again. This wasn’t fear of the unknown anymore; it was fear of this little guy. Didn’t seem like anything to be scared of. When I was a meter away from it, it extended its hand.
“Uh. Hi.” I shook it. It nodded in approval, blinking its massive yellow eyes up at me.
“So you’re the ones in charge of the strings?” It nodded eagerly. I called Lucy over, but she stayed where she was.
“There are more of you?” Another nod. I wanted to ask it so many questions, about what it was and where it came from, but it seemed for now I was stuck with only yes or no questions.
“Do we even have free will?”
It just looked at me, almost sadly. I immediately felt sick to my stomach, and couldn’t bear looking at the little monster anymore. I grabbed Lucy, who had been listening to our exchange, and now sat on the curb with her head in her hands.
“Come on.”
We entered her house, and I made her a cup of tea. When I found her in the living room, she had untied her dog and was curled up with it, crying. I set the tea down and sat beside her.
“I’m so scared.” She whispered after a good ten minutes of sobbing. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“I’m going to sleep” She mumbled suddenly, and was under within the minute. Sleep was starting to sound pretty good all of a sudden, my eyelids suddenly felt like they were being weighed down.
I collapsed to the rug, and the last thing I heard before I fell asleep was the scurrying of several sets of little feet nearby.
I felt much better the next day, as if the whole affair had been a dream. I’d probably have believed that if I hadn’t been awoken by Lucy’s mother that morning, wondering what I was doing sleeping over without permission or something.
Over breakfast, Lucy asked me why I looked so pale and nervous. I turned to her and smiled, mumbling something to her about feeling sick.
But the truth was, I was scared because I couldn’t see any strings, and was wondering whether my actions were truly my own.
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XxHushXHushxX Vice Captain
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Posted: Mon Jul 05, 2010 9:10 pm
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Idk if anyone thinks this is major creepy, but I got a bit of a chill. ><
Aren't you Glad you Didn't turn on the Light?
I heard about a girl who went back to her dorm room late one night to get her books before heading to her boyfriend's room for the night. She entered but did not turn on the light, knowing that her roommate was sleeping. She stumbled around the room in the dark for several minutes, gathering books, clothes, toothbrush, etc. before finally leaving.
The next day, she came back to her room to find it surrounded by police. They asked if she lived there and she said yes. They took her into her room, and there, written in blood on the wall, were the words, "Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light?" Her roommate was being murdered while she was getting her things. |
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Posted: Mon Jul 05, 2010 9:14 pm
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Creepy Scuicide O.o
Read this from a friend who heard this story @ Thanksgiving from a friend of his, an ex-New York cop.
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Roland Opus leaped off a Goddamned high Manhattan residential building on a June morning in 1994.
The body had been caught in a suicide net erected at the 8th floor to discourage jumpers. He died regardless, but the net enabled the autopsy to be performed. Immediate cause of death was found to be a shotgun blast to the head.
Since he would have normally survived the jump a murder investigation was begun.
At the time of the jump, NYPD received a call from a woman on the 15th floor who had heard a gunshot from the apartment next to her.
The responding officers had found an old man and an old woman squabbling in their apartment, the old man holding a 12-gauge shotgun. Their argument largely resided around who had loaded the weapon.
It turned out that as part of their regular, "To the MOON, Alice!" routines, the old man would point an unloaded shotgun at his wife and pull the trigger. This time, however, the gun had been loaded. The blast had missed his wife, taken out the 15th-floor window, and blown away the head of the jumper as he passed.
The odds of this, of course, are incalculable.
The husband swore up and down that they never kept the gun loaded. The only other person who had been in the apartment an hour earlier was their son. Police went to question the son but couldn't find him.
Meanwhile, further investigation by the coroner's office had revealed that the jumper -- Roland Opus -- had had serious financial difficulties (they run a credit check when you kill yourself. Scary, no?) And though his parents were very monied, they'd cut him off.
The coroner's office had found that Roland Opus's parents lived on the fifteenth floor of the building from which he had jumped. They were actually on the phone with the parents of the deceased, relaying the infomation of his death when they recieved a call from the NYPD officer in charge of the attempted murder investigation, who had just heard word of a jumper "minus a head" at the base of the same building and corresponding timewise with reports of the discharge of the shotgun and wanting to know what THAT was all about.
It took them a while to figure this one out...
It turned out that the jumper had indeed been in his parents' apartment earlier that morning. Knowing full well his parents' histrionic routine with the shotgun, he had loaded the weapon, figuring that sooner or later his father would threaten his mother with it, and pull the trigger. Then, with his mother dead, and his father in jail, he stood to inherit the entirety of his family fortune.
However, disconsolate, Roland Opus flung himself from the roof of the building less than an hour later. At the same moment his father and mother were in the midst of a typical argument and Carl Opus, as always, pointed the shotgun at his wife and pulled the trigger. This time the weapon discharged. The blast missed Mrs. Opus but struck their son, young Roland, in the head as he sailed by, killing him instantly.
After much debate, the coroner's office ruled this Death by Misadventure, since for all practical purposes, the young Roland Opus had indeed killed himself.
This won an award at the 1994 National Council of City Coroners meeting for "most innovative death of 1994."
The story was sold to "Law and Order," who refused to run it for fear that no one would believe that it ever happened.
Happy Holidays. |
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XxHushXHushxX Vice Captain
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Posted: Mon Jul 05, 2010 10:22 pm
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DINER
You just moved into your new apartment, in a very big city. After a year of this life, you have almost given up hope of making any friends; be it at work or any other means. You feel very lonely. After looking for a peaceful place to spend your time, you find a quiet diner on the outskirts of town. The waitress is very attractive. Also, she seems to be the only employee there, ever. You never see anyone else eat there either, ever. The place is perfect for you.
Making love to her becomes a routine. You go there every night for dinner, and then to see her.
You eventually make other friends, and eat at the diner less and less. After some time you stop going completely.
At a bar with your best friend, you tell him about the fun you had with the waitress at the diner. He says he absolutely must see her. You take him there one night, but the building is in a state of ruin. The front door barely opens. The grimy insides of the diner are disgusting, and, behind the counter, is moldy corpse, reeking of pus and rot.
When the police come to the scene, they interview both you and your friend. You are shocked to hear that the body is of a runaway girl from another province. The police tell you this is a homicide, and that she was also raped dozens of times, after she was killed. The police say they can get a match for DNA and eliminate you as a suspect. You are suddenly very worried.
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Posted: Tue Jul 06, 2010 10:15 pm
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INSPIRATION
You know those long, involved ritual creepypastas, the ones that involve a million different steps, the ones where if you breathe at the wrong second you die? Ever wonder who figured it out? It couldn’t have been trial and error - you don’t get a second try at something like that.
The answer’s actually pretty simple. Nobody figured it out.
He already knew.
There’s… an entity, I suppose you could call it, although I always think of it as a him. A little boy, to be exact. He seems to enjoy playing around with people, you see.
And he knows all the rituals, or at least all the real ones. So sometimes he spreads out the information. Ever felt inspired to write some piece of horror that seemed to contain elements that didn’t even exist in your nightmares? Ever had a disturbing idea for some horrible but compelling rite, that seemed to ‘just come to you’? It might have been him working through you.
If you get one of those flashes, write it down and post it. I can’t guarantee your health if you don’t - he can be awfully persistent about getting his little messages out, and even if you’re just babbling it to your safe padded walls you’re still saying it.
But, at the same time, if you get one of those flashes… halfway through writing it, stop, open up the instant messenger of your choice, and IM yourself. If all you see are your own normal words echoed back at you, give up there. Either it really is just your imagination that gave you the idea, or he doesn’t want to talk.
But if the message comes back with odd typos that weren’t there before, or new capitalization, or different punctuation marks… well, I’m sure you’ve seen enough pasta with puzzles in it to know what to do to find the message and respond.
If he likes you, or finds you amusing, he’ll talk to you directly there. If he gives you a new puzzle… keep going, but be careful. They get harder and harder, turning from simple wordplay to numerology to esoteric mystical references to God knows what else, but also more and more compelling. It’s harder to just close the window and walk away, and the feeling that you’re just about to reach a solution never eases. And so the next time some poor soul’s found slumped over their computer, killed by starvation and exhaustion and neglect… well, maybe it was just some game, right? But maybe he just wanted to solve that one damn puzzle.
If he does greet you directly, you can name three things you desire - any three at all. He will give you, in complete detail, rituals to achieve those three things - if you’re lucky, it will be a single rite that grants all three. They may be dangerous, but they will be clear and detailed paths to gain what you want through paranormal means.
But, of course, there are catches.
The first: you have to spread the rituals on. You can embellish them as you wish, add your own spin, even lie outright, but you have to leave the goal and most of the steps intact, and you have to put it somewhere where people will see - a forum, a notice board in real life, on the door of a building, wherever. The more popular it is, the happier he will be, and you want his blessing.
Because the second catch is that he always omits some key step. As long as you’ve posted the ritual up in public, you will know when the time comes what that step is - but it could be anything from drawing a simple squiggle to murdering your true love in cold blood. You could have to give up your soul, or mutilate a limb, or drown yourself… or you could just have to hop backwards two times. And you won’t know what it is until you’re buried deep in the rite, unable to stop.
So when you talk to him, be nice and friendly, and make sure you amuse him. He’s kind enough, most of the time. Just a bit mischievous.
How did I learn all this, you ask?
I don’t really know. It just came to me. Inspiration, you could say.
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Posted: Fri Jul 09, 2010 6:57 pm
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Posted: Fri Jul 09, 2010 6:57 pm
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HALLWAY
Yup that dream again...that same ******** dream. Have you ever had it? You must of. You wake up, but you aren't awake. No, still dreaming. But you THINK your awake. You dont see anything bad happening....but your so so wrong... You stand up, yawning. "Huh...thats funny...clock says its 1pm but its pitch black out...peice of s**t...." You step into the hall, but the hallway isn't your own. IT IS NEVER YOUR OWN. No. You will never know whos it is, but you KNOW, that no matter how much it looks like it. No matter how much it SMELLS of it, FEELS of it, IT IS NOT your own. But you don't see it in time...hahaha no you never see it in time... You begin to stumble to the kitchen, but see something odd....
"Huh....that painting wasn't their before...."
Your girlfriend didn't spend the night last night did she? You are unmarried. You live alone. And you sure as HELL didn't put that there. So...
"Who....?"
The walls begin to slowly brown around you as the painting comes into focus. Is it a person? No. No just god would create a person like that. The creature in the image is black as coal. They have orange eyes. Firey. They stare at you. Its tall. You estimate 7...maybe 8 feet. Its face, at first glance seeming human, is long. Like an oval. It has something similar to the mouth of a boar. It has claws that extend from its hands, like knives. Its arms long, dragging the ground. Its legs partly bent at the knees (if you could call them knees) Its "knees" bend inward, as do all its joints. You continue to stare at the image. The hall a dirty brown now, a sickly color. After a moment your pupils widen, as you realize the image is now moving. Slowly tears of blood come down its face. It starts to come alive. You turn to run. What was once a long hallway now seems endless. You see nothing in the distance, just blackness, but you run for it anyway. Then you make a classic mistake. Looking back. The thing is now crouched in the hallway. Head dragging touching the ceiling, claws dragging the floor. It begins to walk towards you.
It moves quick for its size, but still isn't fast enough to keep up. You, after what seems like forever, reach the kitchen. But this is no longer your kitchen. Its filled with rotting meat, and blood is overflowing from the sink. You have no time to think. You run to the door but its nailed shut. Same for every window, every exit in sight. You run down the steps, hoping the backdoor is unlocked. Hopping from the top floor, the best crashes down in front of you as you reach the bottom of the steps. It grabs for you, latching onto your right arm. You feel anxious, terrified. You can't move. Eyes locked. Neither of you looking away for even a second. Your heart beat quickens as it slowly pulls you to its face. It grins, revealing what seems like 100 pointed teeth. They open just enough to let its foot long tongue slowly slide out. It runs its tongue across your left cheek. You try to pull away, put the claws dig deep into your arm. It speaks with a loud screeching voice, destroying your ears. Its voice sounds like that of a humans, but twisted. You have never heard the language it speaks, but you dont hear it long, as the your ears begin to ring.
With unimaginable force it slams you to the ground. You cough up blood, and your vision goes blurry. You wake up to screams, but soon they stop as you realize that they are yours. You feel wet. Your bed is soaked to the core with sweat. But its more then that. Theres something else...something sticky. You look down. Blood. Your own blood covers the right side of your bed. You begin to panic.
"It was only a dream..only a dream...only a dream...a dream..."
You go to wipe the sweat from your face...but its not sweat you feel...its almost like...saliva.... You look at your arm, and see the deep wounds, fresh and still bleeding. You decide that you need to get to the hospital, and you stand up. You check the time. Its 1pm. But its pitch black out.
"Piece of s**t clock..." you mutter through your quick shallow breath.
You step out into the hall You begin to stumble to the kitchen, but see something odd....
"....that painting wasn't their before...."
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Posted: Fri Jul 09, 2010 7:01 pm
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OHH, IS IT Y?
This is a story I heard from my friend Y. Y's grandad died about two years ago. Y loved his granddad almost too much, and at the funeral he cried like a baby, not caring that other people were watching.
It happened on the seventh day after his granddad's death. On that day there was a storm warning for the area where Y lived and in spite of the murderous wind Y didn't have enough money on him to take a bus and had to walk home from school. He struggled all the way to keep himself from blown away and it was already past seven in the evening when he finally arrived home. He took out the key from the bag and opened the front door.
As soon as he was in, he saw the door to his own room, which was visible from the front door, open, as if to welcome him. He could see from the opening that the light and the TV had been switched on, as well as the halogen heater, which was the sole source of heat in his room.
It must be mum. She was considerate enough to have my room warmed up before I got home. Y thought happily, and he called out to her in a voice more cheerful than usual.
But strangely, no one answered Y. He looked around the front door and noticed there was only one pair of shoes that belonged to Y (note:Japanese people leave shoes at the front door before entering the house) and neither his mum's nor dad's shoes were there. Then Y remembered everyone in the family apart from Y was going to be home late, due to them attending a memorial service that was being held for his granddad. Who could be home then? Y was afraid that it might be a burglar.
Y tiptoed to his room, and fearfully peeked inside through the door. In the room there sat Y's dead granddad with his back to the door. The moment Y realized that it was his granddad, his fear vanished into thin air. Y was the sort who could never watch horror movies without having someone beside him, but although he knew he was seeing a ghost it was different when the ghost was his granddad's.
Tears rushed to his eyes out of love and gratitude that his granddad cared enough about him to visit him even after death. Granddad gave a few of his characteristic coughs and clumsily scratched at the back of his head. "Granddad." When Y called, grandad slowly stood up and turned around. And as he turned, as if by a trick, the outline of his body became slightly blurred.
Granddad's face looked as if covered in red ink. "Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?" Granddad called Y's name. The voice was as he remembered it, but the intonation was somewhat strange. It was too monotonous. Granddad used to speak with a strong accent, but his voice sounded artificial as if it had been computer-generated. Granddad took one feeble step towards Y. "What happened to you, granddad?" Y said, growing anxious because granddad was acting strange. Granddad again coughed a few times and scratched his head.
"Granddad, did you try to come home?" When Y asked, grandad looked up at the ceiling as if he was trying to think a little, and said; "Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?," uttering exactly the same phrase and in the same intonation as before. Y found that disturbing, and began to think maybe what he was seeing in front of him was not his granddad at all. Granddad was still staring at the ceiling. From his fingers some purplish-red liquid trickled to the floor, making a small pool on the carpet. Moreover, when Y looked at him more closely, he noticed that granddad's arm was bent at an unnatural angle; and the length between the shoulder and the elbow was longer than a normal person's upper arm should be. Granddad wasn't like that at all when he was alive. Maybe this thing was something that was pretending to be his grandad.
Y slowly start to back away, being careful not to make any noises. Despite that the thing that was pretending to be his granddad seemed to have realized Y's intention and, stretching only its neck, he stared at Y. Oh no, it's looking at me - the moment Y thought it, the thing's face was right in front of him. Its body was still standing where it was; the only parts that moved were its head and neck. The neck was now like a over-stretched rubber band. Before his eyes, purplish-red bubbles formed around its mouth. "Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?" Y screamed.
He ran for his life and took refuge in the nearest bookshop. He was scared to be alone in the house. He couldn't go back until the rest of the family was home, by which time it was past 9pm. He told them what happened to him but no one took him seriously.
That night he was forced to sleep in his own room, where the red granddad appeared. Y felt uneasy. Whenever he closed his eyes he feared that he would see that red face the moment he opened his eyes again. But in the end fatigue took the better of him and he fell asleep.
When he woke up the next morning, his face somehow felt itchy. He went to the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror; his face was wet with purplish-red juice.
From then on he stopped sleeping in his room. Because he wasn't sure if he could manage to escape like the last time if the thing appeared to him again.
To this day Y still says, "that was definitely not my granddad.
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XxHushXHushxX Vice Captain
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Posted: Fri Jul 09, 2010 7:04 pm
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