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 Posted: Thu Sep 16, 2010 2:19 am
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Da bLu J C4T S0UP You wake up to find yourself lying flat in an unfamiliar and utterly filthy room. Your head pounds as you sit up and survey your surroundings.
“Ohhhhww. . . What hit me?”
You notice the room is dimly lit by a hanging bulb that threatens to flicker out any moment. Large piles of debris are scattered about the small room, and there are no windows.
“Hey, who said that? Where am I?”
To your left, right and straight ahead of you there are sinister looking doors. You do not fully comprehend your situation, but you must choose one of these doors. One door-
“Hey! Are you ignoring me?”
-Leads to salvation. One leads to an endless maze of halls and passages that will trap you forever, and the third leads to eternal damnation. You must-
“Wait, what? Are you serious?”
YOU MUST CHOOSE A DOOR.
“Why? The exit’s right there.”
In the cold, frightened core of your heart, you know that there is no escape from the desolate predicament you now find yourself in.
“Dude, the doors right there. It even says so. See? ‘Exit’, right on the front. Big letters too.”
After a moments struggle, you come to realize the futility of resistance and return once more to the crossroads of passages. There is no way out.
“Only because some b*****d locked up the exit-”
You grumble to yourself as you contemplate-
“It was you wasn’t it? Jerk.”
CONTEMPLATE YOUR FATE.
“Fine, fine. Eenie, meenie, miney. . . That one.”
-You say to yourself as you chose the door to your left. Unbeknownst to you is that that particular door leads only to misery, death, and the destruction of your very soul.
“What? Oh HELL no!”
A sudden burst of intuitive clarity causes you to leap away back before the door closes behind you, sealing your fate.
“It wasn’t intuition, you just said-”
You must make your choice between the remaining two doors.
With a sigh, you go towards the one in the middle.
“I know what I’m doing-”
You mutter-
“-I don’t need you telling me. p***k.”
You take hold of the doorknob to the passage that will lead you to wander the maze for all eternity, oblivious to the fate that will soon befall you. Deathless, mindless and hopeless, your rotting corpse will still walk on long after-
“Gah!”
-You cry as you once again leap back from your choice of passage.
“Don’t get snappy with me. So, one door left? Salvation, ho.”
-You say as you head towards the final door and grasp the handle. The path you have chosen will be long and frought with peril. You will face unsurmountable, blood thirsty foes and travel farther than the simple realms you think of as ‘life and death’. Should you fail, your tattered soul will serve as one of the tortures spectral servants of the lord of the underworld, Gwyn ap Nudd. Should-
“Wait a minute. . . ”
-You succeed, you will have all the unimaginable pleasures of this world and the next, though you will be doomed to remain in the underworld as Gwyn’s right hand man-
“HOLD UP YOU OMNISCIENT LYING PACK OF DOG CRAP! You said one of the doors would get me out of here! Salvation, remember? How is being trapped in the underworld salvation? Get me out!”
There is no escape-
“Don’t give me that! There’s always a way out.”
There is no- What are you doing? Where did you get that pipe?
“It was lying in one of those piles of trash. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going to bust down the exit.”
You can’t do that! It’s against the rules!
“Oh, there are rules now, ehy? What happened to your big, scary, narrorator voice?”
There is no escape!
“There will be, just give me a minute! Just, a little. . . There! Ha, got it!”
You can’t-
“I just did. Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Scary voice. I’m going home, go find another stooge.”
I, ah-oh, ********. I’m out of here too! This place gives me the willies. I read that hoping to be creeped out. Instead I was offended because this is like a parody of saw lmao
I should've said it was a funny one, haha.
I enjoy it, though. I like it when there's little funny nuggets amongst all of the creepy. |
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Posted: Sun Sep 19, 2010 10:36 pm
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C4T S0UP Da bLu J C4T S0UP You wake up to find yourself lying flat in an unfamiliar and utterly filthy room. Your head pounds as you sit up and survey your surroundings.
“Ohhhhww. . . What hit me?”
You notice the room is dimly lit by a hanging bulb that threatens to flicker out any moment. Large piles of debris are scattered about the small room, and there are no windows.
“Hey, who said that? Where am I?”
To your left, right and straight ahead of you there are sinister looking doors. You do not fully comprehend your situation, but you must choose one of these doors. One door-
“Hey! Are you ignoring me?”
-Leads to salvation. One leads to an endless maze of halls and passages that will trap you forever, and the third leads to eternal damnation. You must-
“Wait, what? Are you serious?”
YOU MUST CHOOSE A DOOR.
“Why? The exit’s right there.”
In the cold, frightened core of your heart, you know that there is no escape from the desolate predicament you now find yourself in.
“Dude, the doors right there. It even says so. See? ‘Exit’, right on the front. Big letters too.”
After a moments struggle, you come to realize the futility of resistance and return once more to the crossroads of passages. There is no way out.
“Only because some b*****d locked up the exit-”
You grumble to yourself as you contemplate-
“It was you wasn’t it? Jerk.”
CONTEMPLATE YOUR FATE.
“Fine, fine. Eenie, meenie, miney. . . That one.”
-You say to yourself as you chose the door to your left. Unbeknownst to you is that that particular door leads only to misery, death, and the destruction of your very soul.
“What? Oh HELL no!”
A sudden burst of intuitive clarity causes you to leap away back before the door closes behind you, sealing your fate.
“It wasn’t intuition, you just said-”
You must make your choice between the remaining two doors.
With a sigh, you go towards the one in the middle.
“I know what I’m doing-”
You mutter-
“-I don’t need you telling me. p***k.”
You take hold of the doorknob to the passage that will lead you to wander the maze for all eternity, oblivious to the fate that will soon befall you. Deathless, mindless and hopeless, your rotting corpse will still walk on long after-
“Gah!”
-You cry as you once again leap back from your choice of passage.
“Don’t get snappy with me. So, one door left? Salvation, ho.”
-You say as you head towards the final door and grasp the handle. The path you have chosen will be long and frought with peril. You will face unsurmountable, blood thirsty foes and travel farther than the simple realms you think of as ‘life and death’. Should you fail, your tattered soul will serve as one of the tortures spectral servants of the lord of the underworld, Gwyn ap Nudd. Should-
“Wait a minute. . . ”
-You succeed, you will have all the unimaginable pleasures of this world and the next, though you will be doomed to remain in the underworld as Gwyn’s right hand man-
“HOLD UP YOU OMNISCIENT LYING PACK OF DOG CRAP! You said one of the doors would get me out of here! Salvation, remember? How is being trapped in the underworld salvation? Get me out!”
There is no escape-
“Don’t give me that! There’s always a way out.”
There is no- What are you doing? Where did you get that pipe?
“It was lying in one of those piles of trash. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going to bust down the exit.”
You can’t do that! It’s against the rules!
“Oh, there are rules now, ehy? What happened to your big, scary, narrorator voice?”
There is no escape!
“There will be, just give me a minute! Just, a little. . . There! Ha, got it!”
You can’t-
“I just did. Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Scary voice. I’m going home, go find another stooge.”
I, ah-oh, ********. I’m out of here too! This place gives me the willies. I read that hoping to be creeped out. Instead I was offended because this is like a parody of saw lmao
I enjoy it, though. I like it when there's little funny nuggets amongst all of the creepy.
lol its okay. Retarded creepypasta is a nice break once in a while
anyways here's a fresh one
When I was young I lived in Ichor Falls, I remember being restless often, frustrated, oddly violent and yet silent for a child - but I suppose all children are different.
At the tender age of 8, my mother and father divorced, and me and my mother moved away, leaving my father behind.
At first all was normal, My father often sent me post-cards and letters describing his experiences at his new job working for a logging company. He would tell of how he missed me, of how sometimes he woke up at night thinking he could hear my laughter. Missing someone can do such things.
My mother was bitter, and ill with her bitterness. She refused, absolutley, to allow me to visit my father. Indeed, if I even asked for the simple pleasure of calling him she would launch herself into a tirade - I remember such tantrums clearly, her face distorting into a look of absolute rage, spit flying from her mouth at me. And later, when she would calm, become quiet, smoking cigarette after cigarette as she muttered, "He's with the other girl now."
I assumed prehaps, that they had divorced due to my father being unfaithful.
Neverless, soon things started to get strange.
Fathers postcards came less and less, and when they did they talked of strange things. Trees in the forest, where, if you looked at them from the corner of your eye, look almost like men. Twisted knarled hands reaching out from the wood, knots in the bark resembling distorted faces. He spoke of hearing my laughter on rainy nights - it driving him half insane. He questioned several times in his letters "You're sure you're not here, right?" At first I thought this was a joke but then the question would be repeated several times in one letter. I got a picture sent with such a letter in one of his postcards. It depicted him standing with a big smile in front of the forest, his arm hanging in the air, looking as if it were wrapped around someone's shoulders though no one was there. Written at the bottom was a single phrase: smudged thick black letters spelled out, "I'm so glad you're here!"
The trees in the forest behind him looked ominous, and the colors of the photo were strange, as if the photo was very old when it wasn't. My fathers face looked longer somehow, gaunt.
The photo for some odd reason gave me the creeps. It was probably a joke, or meant to make me feel better, but instead it made me feel disturbed. I ripped it up and threw it in the garbage, but still for many nights I thought of my fathers ashen face staring out at me from the photo.
I slept with the doors locked and the lights on.
After that the letters didn't come for a long, long time, when one finally came it was just a simple line of script. "Light's in the forest again last night, sorry I got home late."
Another came years later "Don't be afraid of the nights when it rains."
The last came on the eve of my graduation, the script was smudged and another photo was enclosed. It was the same photo as last time, but more distorted, father's back looked bent somehow at an odd angle, his whole body gaunt and long and crooked. The arm hanging in the air resting around an unseen figure's shoulders seemed to beckon at me. His eyes were sunken. As smudged as the script was I was certain it said "I'm so glad you're here!"
I stuffed it back into the envelope and shoved it into a box under my bed.
I didn't go to grad the next day, I called my date and told him I was sick. That night it rained - I slept with the nights on.
Years passed, I moved out, I went to college, and then I was to be married. The date was very important, preparations were being made and soon came the time to send out invitations. To hell with my mother, I hadn't seen my father for almost a decade. I looked up our old address and I sent him an invite.
Weeks later the invite came back to me marked "RETURN TO SENDER"
Furious, I looked up our old number, and called. It was out of service.
I looked up the name of father's logging company but it wasn't in any phone book I could find. I googled it. It didn't exist.
I was tearful and frustrated, I called my mother and demanded to know what was going on. She flew into histerics, I could hear a noise in the background, like glass shattering. "I TOLD YOU! HE'S WITH THE OTHER GIRL NOW!" She screamed at me and hung up, but not before I heard a ragged sob.
Then I remembered the photo, and as much as it frightened me, the envelope would probably have a return address on it.
I didn't have to search long for the box, I had avoided the spot it was in for almost six years, like a black spot in my apartment. I opened the box and dug out the envelope. I looked carefully, there was no return address. Stranger still, I noticed that it didn't even have a stamp. It started to rain softly outside and I flipped the envelope open, pulling out the photo, it was just as distorted and frightening as it has always been. "I'm so glad you're here!" smudged along the top. I studied it carefully as rain started to pelt at the window. In the place where my father's arm was extended, as if over someone's shoulders, there was something odd in the background. Just behind one of the trees I could see something poking out, a hem of a skirt it appeared to be, made out of pink lace. Something a little girl would wear.
I cancelled the wedding. |
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Posted: Sat Sep 25, 2010 5:34 am
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PLAYING WITH SOUND
Does anyone remember talkboys? They weren’t anything special, just a nifty looking tape recorder. They came out roughly around the same Christmas that Home Alone 2 was released, there was a whole load of hype over them, remember the trailer where Kevin plays back his hotel order down the phone after recording it? He uses the function that let’s you slow down the voice, posing as his dad. I thought that was awesome, I figured if I had one of those I’d be able to fool adults with ease, calling people up and ordering a new TV and stuff for the house…maybe my dad would even keep it, he’s pretty forgetful - you never know!
I never got one that Christmas, never really knew why but the huge collection of presents that Santa did bring me were enough to distract me from it’s absence, I was pretty happy with my new bike, that was the obsession of the moment. I forgot all about asking for it, actually, although I do remember seeing the ads on TV for a while. Instead I just let the snow clear and spent the next few months obsessing over the toys and games that I was given.
My birthday came in November much later the next year, I remember turning eight and having a party thrown for me at the house. Thankfully, the talkboy came too - along with Home Alone 2 on video of course. It was great unwrapping it, I mean I was never selfish and I didn’t really demand much as a kid but getting what you’ve asked for is a fantastic feeling. I ripped it out of the box straight away, tore off the packaging and carefully lifted it out in front of my friends. I was so pleased with it, it even looked cool. The microphone was extended towards you and it was so easy to hold, I grinned and laughed and pressed the record button.
“Hello!” I yelled into it before rewinding and playing it back.
“Hello!”
My voice sounded so odd, I’d never actually heard myself speaking before, it was such a strange sensation to hear how different it seemed. I looked at my dad, puzzled, and he laughed. Everybody laughed and I eventually joined in. I remember that Andrew reached over and tried to take it off me, demanding a chance to play with it but I pushed him away and shook my head.
“Nuh uh, I’m not done yet.” I lifted the receiver again and spoke into it:
“Andrew smells!”
He huffed and folded his arms, pouting and looking angry with me but I wasn’t phased, this was why I’d wanted it so badly in the first place. I rewound quickly, flicked that little black switch to make the talkboy repeat what I had said in the slow, deep voice like in the movie, I held it up so that everybody could hear me insulting Andrew in slow motion.
”Yes, he does,” said the talkboy.
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Posted: Thu Oct 07, 2010 3:56 am
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Posted: Thu Oct 07, 2010 12:33 pm
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Glad to know I'm not the only one who still checks this guild. : )
Whit With Red
A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.
The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.
This disinclination saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn't make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.
At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, "Did you look through the keyhole?" The man told her that he had and she said, "Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red."
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Posted: Thu Oct 07, 2010 4:14 pm
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Sweet_Lil_Beth Glad to know I'm not the only one who still checks this guild. : )
I check everyday actually just to see if someone found a new creepypasta that I haven't found yet lol .w.
DEAD FRED
I was out late at night, returning home from a dinner party with my family. My way home took me past the local cemetery, and I decided to visit the grave of a recently deceased friend of mine. It was rather eerie, walking past all those dark stones and trees in that sea of sepulchers, but I wished to pay my respects.
If only I hadn't. If only I'd kept driving that night, gotten home, and buried myself under the covers. But I didn't. I was a little drunk from the party, and waltzing through a graveyard late at night registered as a fine idea in my mind.
I eventually found my way to his grave, stumbling in the dark. Upon finding that flat chunk of rock that bluntly announced my friend's departure, I was surprised to find a disk there, among the flowers.
This disk didn't have a professional label; it was the kind you could buy by the hundreds, the kind to burn files on. It was in a plain, square case, with no writing on the clear plastic. The only words were scribbled onto the CD's white sticker; using my phone to illuminate the disk, I read the two words scrawled there, hastily and unceremoniously in black marker.
They said, "Dead Fred."
What really perplexed me was the handwriting; it was clearly my friend's. He used to own a video rental store, with hundreds of old VHS tapes that couldn't be found anywhere else. He had written the receipts by hand, and it seemed to match up with the disk's title...and, after his recent suicide, his note had been found, covered in gibberish scribbled on with the same, messy script.
Intrigued, I wondered who had left this here. I hadn't seen anyone with it at the funeral.
Tears were starting to burn my eyes. I missed my friend so much, and this disk must have been something very important to him, to be on his grave like this. Then why hadn't he told me about it? We told everything to each other. It wasn't right for him to keep the secret to himself, carrying it to the grave.
How dare he leave me out?
In a fit of drunken rage, I swatted the tears from my eyes and stormed out of the cemetery, disk in hand.
Only later, when I arrived home and was already popping the disk into my computer, did I realize what I had done. I had taken something off of my closest friend's grave, something I knew nothing about. It wasn't right; this was worse than him keeping secrets from me.
Bitterly, I went to eject the disk before the WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO? OPEN DISK WITH ITUNES, VIEW FILES, etc menu popped on screen when, unexpectedly, a video opened.
This surprised me for two reasons: one, I had assumed the disk had either audio, image, or text files. I hadn't even thought it could be video. Two, it hadn't asked me if I wanted to open the video with so-and-so program. It just started playing.
It was an episode of Courage the Cowardly Dog, my friend's favorite show. I hadn't really ever been into the show myself. I found it very disturbing, and had only watched the first season or so.
So, when the title, "Dead Fred," appeared murkily on screen, I didn't know that something was wrong. I had seen the original "Freaky Fred" episode with my friend once, and I assumed this was just another episode starring the deranged, poetic barber.
Disgusted at myself for taking the disk, I went to exit the video only to find that my cursor was frozen. The keys rendered no assistance either, so I reluctantly turned up the volume on my speakers and started watching the video.
It started out just like "Freaky Fred," with Fred on the bus and Muriel spreading that yellow quilt over the bed. Fred wasn't reciting his poem, though; in fact, there was apparently no audio to go along with the video.
I thought that it must have just been the original episode with the title shooped until I saw Courage. The small dog was looking out a window, glaring down at Fred with a mixture of fear and malice in his eyes.
Courage turned from the window and looked angrily into the distance...then he started having flashbacks. All that s**t he had always had to put up with, all the terror, all the abuse...it came crashing down.
Courage was crying in his frantic, animated style as he ran downstairs and to the basement. He started rummaging through a trunk, throwing out various objects (an ugly mask, a shrunken head, and other objects coordinating with the show's signature, disturbing style) until he pulled out a cartoon double-barreled shotgun, tears still streaming down his face.
Lugging the thing upstairs, he stood, aiming it at the doorway, tiny paw on the huge trigger. The adventurous background music started playing; however, the video was still without sound effects.
Muriel ran excitedly downstairs (I guessed that the doorbell had rang, as I couldn't hear anything) and swung it open to greet her nephew.
There stood Fred, with his wide grin and messy hair, looking just as freaky as ever. He opened his mouth to speak, looked down, and saw Courage standing there, trembling shotgun aimed at his chest. A look of shock and fright overcame Fred before a shot rang through the house.
By 'the house,' I mean MY house. The shot was the only thing with sound other than the music, and I shat a brick.
I had just expected a "bang" flag to pop out of the gun, but no. Fred stumbled backwards as cherry-red blood started spouting out of his chest, spraying everything in the house. Fred fell to the floor, dead. Muriel started sobbing. Courage looked horrified at what he had done, and ran upstairs to the bathroom. He was soon locked in, as what happens in the normal episode.
At this point, I was a little shocked. This was disturbing, even for courage. For the next few minutes, Courage sat on the floor, sobbing, fur spattered in blood. Then, words started coming through my speakers, long and low.
"Hello, new friend."
Courage looked up, looked around, and saw nothing.
"My name is Fred."
Courage stood up and spun around. He went to the window, trying to find the source of the voice. Muriel and Eustace could be seen dragging the body to Eustace's truck, a trail of blood streaming behind it. Muriel was still crying.
"The words you hear are in your head."
Courage backs away from the window, looking at the shotgun beside him. The flashbacks return, all the name calling, all the times he'd risked his life to receive no reward, all the horrible things he'd seen. All the things Eustace had done to him, even after he'd tried so hard.
"I say, I said, my name is Fred."
Courage picked up the cartoon weapon, balancing the barrel on the windowsill, aiming down his sights at Eustace's head.
"And you've been very..."
Courage pulled the trigger. In a fraction of a second, Eustace's head exploded into a goopy mess. He dropped on the body of Fred, his falling on top.
"Naaaaughty....."
Muriel screamed mutely. There was no bang of a shot this time, either; the audio was still off, except for the creepy poem.
As courage turned the gun on himself, I yanked the computer's plug out of the wall. I stood up, pacing the room, thoroughly disturbed. My friend's suicide note had only said the word "naughty" several dozen times.
"Hello, new friend."
I jumped. I must've left the speakers on, and just unplugged the computer. Although, the video still should have gone off, so it made no sense.
I went back to turn off my speakers, when I saw that they were off.
"My name is Fred."
I had turned them off after the first gunshot...long before I had started hearing the poem.
"The words you hear are in your head."
They were in my head. And they have been in my head ever since I watched that video.
I can't take it anymore. I'm going insane...have gone insane, I suppose....or maybe I've just gone bad.
It's too much. I'm going now. I had to tell someone, so I'm telling you..
Goodbye, my friend, for I'll be dead.
I'm putting a bullet through my head.
I'm glad that you've read all that I've said.
But, now, I must do something...
Naaaaughty...... |
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Posted: Thu Oct 07, 2010 4:17 pm
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Here's another "missing episode" pasta
Featuring the fresh prince of Bel Air. (and no, there is no lulz in this one)
Has anyone heard of the lost Fresh Prince episode? I used to be a close friend of Andy Borowitz's son, and I would go over to their house at least once a week. I was young at the time and didn't really know about Fresh Prince; I was too busy watching cartoons and collecting pogs and probably wouldn't have understood it anyway. As I got older, his son and I began to grow apart; we would hang out maybe once a month and rarely talked. In high school, I started watching the re-runs on Nick and Nite. The show was great, and I couldn't believe I had been so close to the creator's son all this time. I started watching it more and never missed a night. One night, I noticed that the mothers were different actresses; I was confused as to why they had just abruptly switched the wives. Did they think that no one would notice?
My senior year we had to do a huge project that required us to be in a group; Andy Borowitz's son was in my class. We grouped up and decided to meet at his house at 6:00 PM for researching. Before going to his house, I came home and turned on my DVR; I had some Fresh Prince on there and decided to watch one before I left for his house. It was one of the newer ones, where they had the new mom. As I was watching, I figured I might as well ask Andy what the deal was in switching.
I got to his house and we began to work, but after a few hours of frustrating research, we took a break. I went towards the bathroom and noticed his dad in the kitchen, so I figured this would be the best time to ask about it.
"hey, Mr. Borowitz. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. How's the project?"
"Tough. We're all taking a break right now."
There was some awkward silence, and finally I just blurted out what I've been wanting to say for so long.
"Hey, I was watching Fresh Prince the other day...What was the deal with the second mom in the later seasons?"
"Well, the original actress' contract was up and she didn't want to do it anymore, so we got someone to replace her."
"Well, I just think it's confusing to the viewers. Why not have a divorce, have her move a way, or even kill her off?"
He stood,m frozen, as if he had just seen a ghost or a badly mangled body.
"What do you know?" He asked.
"What?"
"What do you know, mother ******** stared blankly at him. I tried to move, but was way too scared.
"I...I...I don't know what you're talking about, sir."
"Bullshit. Who told you?"
By this time, I was getting really scared and was looking for anything I could use as a weapon just in case.
"Honestly, I don't know what you're talking about!"
He stared into my eyes for about two minutes; I didn't blink.
"Come into my office."
He left and my heart was pounding; I was covered in sweat and felt like complete s**t. I ran into the bathroom and splashed some water onto my face, trying to regain composure, but I was just too scared. I slowly walked into his office; I could hear some sort of papers ruffling and something scraping against a box. I crept in. "Sit down," he told me. I didn't want to piss him off, so I did just that and sat the ******** down.
He was rummaging through an old brown box; it wasn't labeled and didn't have any markings on it. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a tape. The tape had a label with something written in permanent marker, but I couldn't make it out as it looked smudged and worn.
He threw it on his desk and sat down, massaging the side of his head...then he looked straight at me.
"In '93, when Janet said she didn't want to continue with the show any longer, we came up with a couple of ideas as to how to continue with the show. There were three ideas: have her move to New Jersey, where she got a job teaching a Princeton, leaving the family behind in Bel Air. The second was to simply find a replacement like they've done on other shows. The third idea..."
He paused, looking as if he was ready to vomit. His face became extremely pale and his eyes seemed deeply sad; he almost started crying.
"Excuse me. (clears throat). The third idea was to end the show and kill her off completely. We shot all three and decided to put them all up for a vote at the end."
"The first two were written and filmed within good time. We got it to the editing floor and they were all good to go. However, shooting the third was the hardest. A lot of the crew didn't want any part of it. The ones who did stay never fully recovered from what they saw. The atmosphere while shooting was tense and no one smiled at all. Normally, between takes, the actors would talk amongst themselves, but during this shoot they would go and sit or stand with their arms crossed, looking at the ground until it was their time to go up and shoot."
By now, his voice was cracking and his upper lip couldn't stop trembling. He gave me the tape and told me to get the ******** out, and to not come back or he would call the cops.
I quickly grabbed the tape, my stuff, and went home.
When I got home it was already 11:00 PM. My family was asleep, and they had left some food in the microwave for me. I didn't feel like eating. I just wanted to watch the tape.
I went into my room and put the tape into my DVD Player / VCR that I got for Christmas, but his pause and went to close the door. I came back, threw myself onto my bed, and hit play on the remote. For the first five minutes, it's just black. Finally, after what seemed ages, the camera fades in and you see the mansion's living room. Uncle Phil is sitting down, watching TV, and Carlton is seen coming down the stairs. The two start talking about Carlton's plans for college, but you can barely hear what they are saying. The volume spikes up and down throughout the whole thing, and there is no laugh track, is I'm not even sure if what they were saying was supposed to be funny because they all had a dead serious look on their faces.
Eventually, the entire family is in the living room except for the mother. The phone rings and Uncle Phil answers it. Immediately, he starts sobbing; it was at this pint that you could finally hear what they were talking about. Uncle Phil falls to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably and screaming in agonizing pain. The others sit there with blank expressions on their faces. The screaming continues for five minutes before Carlton picks up the phone and starts talking to the person on the other end. He just says, "yeah," and, "goodbye." Carlton walks out of frame and you can hear something said in Latin followed by a gunshot. Uncle Phil is still sobbing and screaming, but the cast looks to stage left where Carlton went. Vivian comes into frame with a shotgun, also crying, and muttering something in tongues or Latin. The entire cast scatters and runs except for Uncle Phil, who by now is having a seizure. Vivian points the gun to his head and fires a shot. She then chases Carlton up the stairs and fires one into his back. He screams in pain, but is not killed. Hillary makes it out with Will and they run to the next-door neighbors.
They knock on the door, but there's no answer. They continue to knock and ring the doorbell with the same result. They check the knob and open the door, walking in and looking around; there's no power and no lights. They immediately become freaked out, but go and search for a phone. The video then cuts to some grainy footage of Vivian tying up Ashley; she is sobbing, but muffled by a gag. Vivian then drags in Carlton and begins to sing an old crooner song. She has this weird, creepy smile and tears start coming down her cheeks. Carlton begin to say a prayer, but Vivian quickly hits him with the gun and tells him to stop. She turns to Ashley and pulls out a knife; she slowly starts walking toward her, saying in a sing song voice...
"Ashley, honey!"
"Such a good girl!"
"Such a beautiful girl!"
"My favorite girl!"
She raises the knife and brings it down toward her neck. Before the knife makes impact, the scene cuts to black. This is followed by ten minutes of applause, which turns into yelling and then screaming. The screaming gets louder and louder, then it fades in to Will and Hillary finding the dead bodies on the couch and the floors and walls covered in blood, but no sign of Vivian. Hillary urges Will that they leave, but he says, "No, I want to stay." Hillary starts screaming at Will to leave, but eventually she gives up and runs out of the house. It doesn't explain why they went back in. All you see is Hillary running away. Again, the tape fades to black for about one minute.
The show fades in and the credits roll. In the background is a still photo of Uncle Phil with his head blown off, Carlton with a huge wound in his stomach, Ashley looking as if someone had skinned her, and Will with his limbs torn off. The whole family is sitting on the couch like this with Vivian in the middle, smiling and covered with blood. After the credits stop rolling, the picture stays there for a good thirty minutes.
I jumped off of my bed and hit eject. The VCR returned the tape, but the ribbon had jammed inside of it. I cut the tape with scissors and cleaned up the mess, beginning to examine the tape, and noticed that almost all of the film was still wound on the left side. My heart sank and I threw it in the garbage.
That night, the picture from the end credits haunted my dreams, except instead of seeing the Banks family on the couch...it was my own, with me in the middle, smiling.
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Posted: Tue Nov 02, 2010 2:52 pm
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Mr. Widemouth
During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger.
Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know they are real.
We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn’t see in the five months we resided there. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour’s commute to my father’s place of work.
The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents alone), I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day, and these served the function of being my primary from of entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery.
I don’t exactly recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth, because his mouth was large. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest.
“You look kind of like a Furby,” I said as he flipped through one of my books.
Mr. Widemouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “Furby? What’s a Furby?” he asked.
I shrugged. “You know… the toy. The little robot with the big ears. You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet.”
“Oh.” Mr. Widemouth resumed his activity. “You don’t need one of those. They aren’t the same as having a real friend.”
I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. “I lay under your bed,” he later explained. “I don’t want your parents to see me because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.”
We didn’t do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. “I have a new game we can play,” he said. “We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can’t see us play it. It’s a secret game.”
After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. “We have to go the the room at the end of this hallway,” he said. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in.
The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below.
We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. “I like to play pretend up here,” Mr. Widemouth explained. “I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. I want you to try.”
I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. “It’s a long drop,” I said.
“But that’s all a part of the fun. It wouldn’t be fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline.”
I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. “Maybe some other time,” I said. “I don’t know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt.”
Mr. Widemouth’s face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. “If you say so,” he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.
The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. “I want to teach you how to juggle,” he said. “Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons.”
I looked in the box. It was full of knives. “My parents will kill me!” I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. “I’ll be spanked and grounded for a year!”
Mr. Widemouth frowned. “It’s fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it.”
I pushed the box away. “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble. Knives aren’t safe to just throw in the air.”
Mr. Widemouth’s frown deepend into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me.
I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn’t see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump.
He wasn’t so fun to play with anymore.
My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Exstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face.
Mr. Widemouth was waiting for me. “I have something I want you to see,” he said. I must have given him a weird look, because he then said, “It’s safe, I promise.”
I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. “This is an important path,” he explained. “I’ve had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You aren’t ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there.”
I returned to the house, wondering what kind of place lay beyond that trail.
Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck. I would be in the cab of that truck, sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature’s intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise. For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret.
My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennyslvania by lunch time tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still.
“Early enough for you?” he asked.
I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “This is the last move, son, I promise. I know it’s hard for you, as sick as you’ve been. Once daddy gets promoted we can settle down and you can make friends.”
I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. Widemouth’s silouhette in my bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the main road. He gave a pitiful little wave good-bye, steak knife in hand. I didn’t wave back.
Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house stood upon was empty except for the foundation, as the house burned down a few years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejeesus out of me, but I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to the house that no longer existed.
The trail ended at the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery.
I noticed that many of the tombstones belonged to children.
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Posted: Thu Nov 11, 2010 2:36 am
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Not long enough
Until recently, it was thought that Matt Groening had completely recovered from whatever was making him act so strangely during the Dead Bart incident and that it had affected his normal life afterward. Recent claims from the employee who found the Dead Bart video, however, indicate that Matt Groening went through another, similar, incident ten years ago.
It was the summer of 1999 and Futurama had recently premiered. Matt was working on two shows now and had started showing signs of stress...when he announced that he was working on another episode that would be 100% of his own writing. This terrified some of the staff who worked on both shows, but they were hesitant to bring up Dead Bart and the Futurama crew saw no reason to reject Matt's idea. An early version of it was made and the employee who found Dead Bart managed to make a digital copy of this as well. The episode was called "Not Long Enough."
The episode started with Fry, Leela, and Bender making a delivery for Planet Express. They never revealed exactly what they were delivering or where they were going, and everyone seemed to be upset about an unexplained event that had happened recently. Leela and Bender were angry at Fry, who kept apologizing but was coldly rejected by his friends. They eventually reached a planet that seemed to have only one house surrounded by empty, desolate fields on all sides.
They knocked the door and a grotesque alien that seemed to be very old answered. They took the box without a word. He opened it, took a knife out of it, and stabbed himself. The Planet Express crew didn't seem to find this odd or surprising; they simply left the body on the ground and walked back to their ship in silence.
The next scene was of the Planet Express ship flying through space. A dissonant piece of music made of extremely loud instruments playing a very slow tune played in the background while the ship flew through an empty, black space. They finally reached Earth and landed in a deserted New New York. Fry started apologizing again as they walked through the empty streets (there was no sign of the Planet Express building), but Leela and bender glared at him in silence.
Fry gave up and separated from his friends. He walked for quite a while, never encountering a single person. He reached the cryogenics building where he had been frozen, looked inside, and began to cry. The crying went on for a few minutes before he entered the building. Fry went to one of the tubes, set the timer on it to a huge number with more zeroes than I could count, and locked himself in.
The screen faded out and when it came back in the view was entirely on Fry. The machine must have partially stopped working, as parts of Fry were decaying; bone was poking through his skin in several places. Fry mumbled, "It's what I deserve," and climbed out of the freezing device. He was in a surreal, indescribable place. There were a huge variety of shapes and colors, but it wasn't bright or fanciful.
It was closer to the faint colors you see if you close your eyes too hard. Fry started walking, the surreal void he was in seeming to go on and on. He kept walking for a few minutes. The colors kept making shapes you could kind of make out, but none of them were pleasant.
After his long walk, Fry found a picture on the ground. It was completely out of place in his new environment; it looked like something drawn in the normal Futurama style. It was a photo of himself, Leela, and Bender. Fry looked at it for a few seconds before beginning to cry again. The picture soon turn to dust and Fry continued walking.
The view zoomed out until Fry couldn't be seen until the colors all blended together and turned to solid black. The view continued to zoom out and we see that the black was a tiny fragment of the pupil in Fry's eye. His frozen body had fallen out of the freezing unit and was lying in an abandoned room. He was drawn in the same hyper-realistic style as Bart's corpse (from the Simpsons episode, "Dead Bart").
Bender and Leela walked into the room. They saw what Fry had done to himself and Leela said, "He got what he deserved." She checked her watch and said, "Looks like we need to leave for our next delivery." She took a knife out of her pocket, put it in a plain cardboard box, and headed to the ship.
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Posted: Mon Nov 15, 2010 9:02 am
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Posted: Tue Nov 30, 2010 6:27 pm
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Sweet_Lil_Beth Glad to know I'm not the only one who still checks this guild. : ) Whit With RedA man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.
The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.
This disinclination saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn't make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.
At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, "Did you look through the keyhole?" The man told her that he had and she said, "Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red." |
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Posted: Sat Dec 11, 2010 9:12 am
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Failed Rituals
I really wish I had left that ******** light switch alone. Who would have thought the flick of a switch could mean the difference between life and death. Actually everyone’s thought that. That’s why I turned it on. Stupid little rituals that we take from childhood. The light will chase the monsters away, the blanket over your head will save you from the boogie man. And you just get more of these rituals as you get older. As long as you lock the doors and turn on the home security system, you can rest your head happily in your cozy little fortified home. No killers or psychos, monsters or boogie men.
But it doesn’t work. None of it. We always slip up some how. The one time you forget to lock that door. That’s when they get you. I would have been sound asleep if I hadn’t been woken by the loud slam as the front door blew open. I stumbled out of bed and down the hall to see it swinging back and forth. I moved quickly down the hall to secure it. A moment of panic swelled inside of me. My home felt like a crime scene. It wasn’t my safe little sanctum anymore.
Despite the overwhelming feeling of intrusion, there was no sign of disruption. Just the door. Just my careless mistake. I couldn’t comprehend it at first. It had to be a burgler or some psycho. I looked around the rest of the house. Checking every cupboard, every crevice. Nothing. I felt stupid but relieved. I just wanted to get back to bed, to forget this whole embarrassment. I flung myself back down on my bed, closed my eyes for just a second. I sat back up. There was no way I’d fall asleep unless I double-checked that I locked the door this time. I mean I was sure I had done it this time but I felt this was justified paranoia.
I got to the door and twisted the handle roughly about a dozen times, each time feeling the resistance of the lock. I smiled. Safe. I turned on my heels to go back to bed. But it was just a glimpse, a flicker of something in my peripheral vision that sent me swinging back into a panic. A shadow from the kitchen. I rushed in only to be confronted by my normal kitchen, bathed in moonlight. I sighed, questioned my sanity and decided that this, the longest night of my life must end. I went towards the bedroom once more. Another odd shadow crossed my path. As a shiver travelled down my spine, my tired mind braced apathetic denial and decided that it was probably the neighbours cat passing by the moonlit window.
I sat wide awake in my bed. Trying to lull myself to sleep. Counting in my head until I might eventually nod off. But everytime I closed my eyes that feeling of intrusion was still there. The hands of something unseen looming above my head. Every creak and every shadow filled my mind with the dread of my childhood. Those nights after being tucked in by my parents. Those same fearful thoughts of lurking terror. But it was nothing… right? More creaks. More movement in the shadows. I turned and pushed my face into the pillow. I felt something brush passed my foot which stuck awkwardly out from under my blanket.
I jolted upright, looking deeply into the darkness. Swirling shadows. The monsters. The boogie men. I felt around sheepishly for my phone. The dull light of the screen could put me at ease. Nothing on the nightstand and when my fingers roamed around the edge of the bed, instinctively I retracted them for fear of the unknown. I was alone but in the shadows I saw them, the monsters. Inky abominable beasts.
It was the only thing I thought could help me. I lunged from the bed directly at the switch. My palm slammed down on it and the room erupted into light. My eyes burned momentarily and I glanced round the room. Empty. Safe. Just paranoia. I shook my head and hit the switch once more. Climbing into bed in the pitch black. No shadows without my nightvision. But now I hear them. I can’t see them now. I don’t know what they want but I know I can’t leave. The rituals have failed. They’re on the other side of this blanket and all I can do now is hope that they’re gone in the morning.
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Posted: Thu Dec 23, 2010 3:06 pm
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C4T S0UP You wake up to find yourself lying flat in an unfamiliar and utterly filthy room. Your head pounds as you sit up and survey your surroundings.
“Ohhhhww. . . What hit me?”
You notice the room is dimly lit by a hanging bulb that threatens to flicker out any moment. Large piles of debris are scattered about the small room, and there are no windows.
“Hey, who said that? Where am I?”
To your left, right and straight ahead of you there are sinister looking doors. You do not fully comprehend your situation, but you must choose one of these doors. One door-
“Hey! Are you ignoring me?”
-Leads to salvation. One leads to an endless maze of halls and passages that will trap you forever, and the third leads to eternal damnation. You must-
“Wait, what? Are you serious?”
YOU MUST CHOOSE A DOOR.
“Why? The exit’s right there.”
In the cold, frightened core of your heart, you know that there is no escape from the desolate predicament you now find yourself in.
“Dude, the doors right there. It even says so. See? ‘Exit’, right on the front. Big letters too.”
After a moments struggle, you come to realize the futility of resistance and return once more to the crossroads of passages. There is no way out.
“Only because some b*****d locked up the exit-”
You grumble to yourself as you contemplate-
“It was you wasn’t it? Jerk.”
CONTEMPLATE YOUR FATE.
“Fine, fine. Eenie, meenie, miney. . . That one.”
-You say to yourself as you chose the door to your left. Unbeknownst to you is that that particular door leads only to misery, death, and the destruction of your very soul.
“What? Oh HELL no!”
A sudden burst of intuitive clarity causes you to leap away back before the door closes behind you, sealing your fate.
“It wasn’t intuition, you just said-”
You must make your choice between the remaining two doors.
With a sigh, you go towards the one in the middle.
“I know what I’m doing-”
You mutter-
“-I don’t need you telling me. p***k.”
You take hold of the doorknob to the passage that will lead you to wander the maze for all eternity, oblivious to the fate that will soon befall you. Deathless, mindless and hopeless, your rotting corpse will still walk on long after-
“Gah!”
-You cry as you once again leap back from your choice of passage.
“Don’t get snappy with me. So, one door left? Salvation, ho.”
-You say as you head towards the final door and grasp the handle. The path you have chosen will be long and frought with peril. You will face unsurmountable, blood thirsty foes and travel farther than the simple realms you think of as ‘life and death’. Should you fail, your tattered soul will serve as one of the tortures spectral servants of the lord of the underworld, Gwyn ap Nudd. Should-
“Wait a minute. . . ”
-You succeed, you will have all the unimaginable pleasures of this world and the next, though you will be doomed to remain in the underworld as Gwyn’s right hand man-
“HOLD UP YOU OMNISCIENT LYING PACK OF DOG CRAP! You said one of the doors would get me out of here! Salvation, remember? How is being trapped in the underworld salvation? Get me out!”
There is no escape-
“Don’t give me that! There’s always a way out.”
There is no- What are you doing? Where did you get that pipe?
“It was lying in one of those piles of trash. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going to bust down the exit.”
You can’t do that! It’s against the rules!
“Oh, there are rules now, ehy? What happened to your big, scary, narrorator voice?”
There is no escape!
“There will be, just give me a minute! Just, a little. . . There! Ha, got it!”
You can’t-
“I just did. Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Scary voice. I’m going home, go find another stooge.”
I, ah-oh, ********. I’m out of here too! This place gives me the willies.
You win the game! This is one of my all time favorites, but I hadn't seen it in a long time because I'd forgotten the name. Thank you for posting this! |
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Posted: Thu Dec 30, 2010 9:23 am
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Sweet_Lil_Beth
Failed Rituals
I really wish I had left that ******** light switch alone. Who would have thought the flick of a switch could mean the difference between life and death. Actually everyone’s thought that. That’s why I turned it on. Stupid little rituals that we take from childhood. The light will chase the monsters away, the blanket over your head will save you from the boogie man. And you just get more of these rituals as you get older. As long as you lock the doors and turn on the home security system, you can rest your head happily in your cozy little fortified home. No killers or psychos, monsters or boogie men.
But it doesn’t work. None of it. We always slip up some how. The one time you forget to lock that door. That’s when they get you. I would have been sound asleep if I hadn’t been woken by the loud slam as the front door blew open. I stumbled out of bed and down the hall to see it swinging back and forth. I moved quickly down the hall to secure it. A moment of panic swelled inside of me. My home felt like a crime scene. It wasn’t my safe little sanctum anymore.
Despite the overwhelming feeling of intrusion, there was no sign of disruption. Just the door. Just my careless mistake. I couldn’t comprehend it at first. It had to be a burgler or some psycho. I looked around the rest of the house. Checking every cupboard, every crevice. Nothing. I felt stupid but relieved. I just wanted to get back to bed, to forget this whole embarrassment. I flung myself back down on my bed, closed my eyes for just a second. I sat back up. There was no way I’d fall asleep unless I double-checked that I locked the door this time. I mean I was sure I had done it this time but I felt this was justified paranoia.
I got to the door and twisted the handle roughly about a dozen times, each time feeling the resistance of the lock. I smiled. Safe. I turned on my heels to go back to bed. But it was just a glimpse, a flicker of something in my peripheral vision that sent me swinging back into a panic. A shadow from the kitchen. I rushed in only to be confronted by my normal kitchen, bathed in moonlight. I sighed, questioned my sanity and decided that this, the longest night of my life must end. I went towards the bedroom once more. Another odd shadow crossed my path. As a shiver travelled down my spine, my tired mind braced apathetic denial and decided that it was probably the neighbours cat passing by the moonlit window.
I sat wide awake in my bed. Trying to lull myself to sleep. Counting in my head until I might eventually nod off. But everytime I closed my eyes that feeling of intrusion was still there. The hands of something unseen looming above my head. Every creak and every shadow filled my mind with the dread of my childhood. Those nights after being tucked in by my parents. Those same fearful thoughts of lurking terror. But it was nothing… right? More creaks. More movement in the shadows. I turned and pushed my face into the pillow. I felt something brush passed my foot which stuck awkwardly out from under my blanket.
I jolted upright, looking deeply into the darkness. Swirling shadows. The monsters. The boogie men. I felt around sheepishly for my phone. The dull light of the screen could put me at ease. Nothing on the nightstand and when my fingers roamed around the edge of the bed, instinctively I retracted them for fear of the unknown. I was alone but in the shadows I saw them, the monsters. Inky abominable beasts.
It was the only thing I thought could help me. I lunged from the bed directly at the switch. My palm slammed down on it and the room erupted into light. My eyes burned momentarily and I glanced round the room. Empty. Safe. Just paranoia. I shook my head and hit the switch once more. Climbing into bed in the pitch black. No shadows without my nightvision. But now I hear them. I can’t see them now. I don’t know what they want but I know I can’t leave. The rituals have failed. They’re on the other side of this blanket and all I can do now is hope that they’re gone in the morning.
I actually got the chance to read this when it was first introduced on /x/
Also check this out
The hands that resist him is a cursed painting that was sold on E-bay. With an actual creepy background story on how it was found. The fact that it's legit is what creeps me out |
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