The scary thread

[Mcupobob]

Been snoping around form more scares found a awesome youtube channel.


enjoy and shit a brick.

Hate to break it to you, but that wasn't very scary. In fact, none of the stuff here was that scary. Unsettling, yes. But scary? No.

If aren't scared then you don't have to come on here and say it, every one else is having fun and are big enough to admit that they're scared. Just don't be an ass. And don't reply or quote me back I'm not going to aruge with you here.

 

[Iffat Nur]

*shudder*
doesnt help im reading the pokemon story at night

 

[Riccan]

Soviet Pasta

Where did you find those, they're brilliant.

 

[Diligent]

 

[Zirat]

Here, enjoy. And if I remember correctly they showed this on T.V. during Halloween at some point.

 

[JoeBattisti]

Go to ED and search creepy pasta.

Spoiler

You ... BASTARD!Almost gave me a heart atack!

Can you tell me what it is in a private message please, Judging from other peoples comments I'm way to scared to go on it.

I second this. I am too much of a pansy to look at it myself. Someone PM me what it looks like.

Could someone tell me what ED is?

 

[skystryke]

Don't think this was posted yet so sorry if it was.

Spoiler

NetNostalgia Forum - Television (local)

Skyshale033
Subject: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Does anyone remember this kids show? It was called Candle Cove and I must have been 6 or 7. I never found reference to it anywhere so I think it was on a local station around 1971 or 1972. I lived in Ironton at the time. I don't remember which station, but I do remember it was on at a weird time, like 4:00 PM.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
it seems really familiar to me...i grew up outside of ashland and was 9 yrs old in 72. candle cove...was it about pirates? i remember a pirate marionete at the mouth of a cave talking to a little girl

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
YES! Okay I'm not crazy! I remember Pirate Percy. I was always kind of scared of him. He looked like he was built from parts of other dolls, real low-budget. His head was an old porcelain baby doll, looked like an antique that didn't belong on the body. I don't remember what station this was! I don't think it was WTSF though.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Sorry to ressurect this old thread but I know exactly what show you mean, Skyshale. I think Candle Cove ran for only a couple months in '71, not '72. I was 12 and I watched it a few times with my brother. It was channel 58, whatever station that was. My mom would let me switch to it after the news. Let me see what I remember.

It took place in Candle cove, and it was about a little girl who imagined herself to be friends with pirates. The pirate ship was called the Laughingstock, and Pirate Percy wasn't a very good pirate because he got scared too easily. And there was calliope music constantly playing. Don't remember the girl's name. Janice or Jade or something. Think it was Janice.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Thank you Jaren!!! Memories flooded back when you mentioned the Laughingstock and channel 58. I remember the bow of the ship was a wooden smiling face, with the lower jaw submerged. It looked like it was swallowing the sea and it had that awful Ed Wynn voice and laugh. I especially remember how jarring it was when they switched from the wooden/plastic model, to the foam puppet version of the head that talked.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
ha ha i remember now too. do you remember this part skyshale: "you have...to go...INSIDE."

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Ugh mike, I got a chill reading that. Yes I remember. That's what the ship always told Percy when there was a spooky place he had to go in, like a cave or a dark room where the treasure was. And the camera would push in on Laughingstock's face with each pause. YOU HAVE... TO GO... INSIDE. With his two eyes askew and that flopping foam jaw and the fishing line that opened and closed it. Ugh. It just looked so cheap and awful.

You guys remember the villain? He had a face that was just a handlebar mustache above really tall, narrow teeth.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i honestly, honestly thought the villain was pirate percy. i was about 5 when this show was on. nightmare fuel.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
That wasn't the villain, the puppet with the mustache. That was the villain's sidekick, Horace Horrible. He had a monocle too, but it was on top of the mustache. I used to think that meant he had only one eye.

But yeah, the villain was another marionette. The Skin-Taker. I can't believe what they let us watch back then.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
jesus h. christ, the skin taker. what kind of a kids show were we watching? i seriously could not look at the screen when the skin taker showed up. he just descended out of nowhere on his strings, just a dirty skeleton wearing that brown top hat and cape. and his glass eyes that were too big for his skull. christ almighty.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Wasn't his top hat and cloak all sewn up crazily? Was that supposed to be children's skin??

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
yeah i think so. rememer his mouth didn't open and close, his jaw just slid back and foth. i remember the little girl said "why does your mouth move like that" and the skin-taker didn't look at the girl but at the camera and said "TO GRIND YOUR SKIN"

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
I'm so relieved that other people remember this terrible show!

I used to have this awful memory, a bad dream I had where the opening jingle ended, the show faded in from black, and all the characters were there, but the camera was just cutting to each of their faces, and they were just screaming, and the puppets and marionettes were flailing spastically, and just all screaming, screaming. The girl was just moaning and crying like she had been through hours of this. I woke up many times from that nightmare. I used to wet the bed when I had it.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i don't think that was a dream. i remember that. i remember that was an episode.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
No no no, not possible. There was no plot or anything, I mean literally just standing in place crying and screaming for the whole show.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
maybe i'm manufacturing the memory because you said that, but i swear to god i remember seeing what you described. they just screamed.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Oh God. Yes. The little girl, Janice, I remember seeing her shake. And the Skin-Taker screaming through his gnashing teeth, his jaw careening so wildly I thought it would come off its wire hinges. I turned it off and it was the last time I watched. I ran to tell my brother and we didn't have the courage to turn it back on.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i visited my mom today at the nursing home. i asked her about when i was littel in the early 70s, when i was 8 or 9 and if she remebered a kid's show, candle cove. she said she was suprised i could remember that and i asked why, and she said "because i used to think it was so strange that you said i'm gona go watch candle cove now mom and then you would tune the tv to static and juts watch dead air for 30 minutes. you had a big imagination with your little pirate show."

On a related note this thread finally convinced me to disable images after the first screamer image.

 

[skystryke]

Could someone tell me what ED is?

He's referring to encyclopedia dramatica, I don't actually go there as my only experience with it are the offended and kittens pages.

 

[Jfswift]

I'm not sure if this counts but after you see this I bet you'll never look at Mass Effect 1 or 2 the same again.

Behold, Tali's face. *cringe*

Spoiler

 

[Isaac The Grape]

This shit is worse then the time I was on 99chan and visited /<3/ at night.

 

[David_G]

Soviet Pasta

Where did you find those, they're brilliant.

4chanarchive.org is your friend, though it's kinda on the NSFW side because of its advertisements, and um... it's 4chan.

Don't think this was posted yet so sorry if it was.

Spoiler

NetNostalgia Forum - Television (local)

Skyshale033
Subject: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Does anyone remember this kids show? It was called Candle Cove and I must have been 6 or 7. I never found reference to it anywhere so I think it was on a local station around 1971 or 1972. I lived in Ironton at the time. I don't remember which station, but I do remember it was on at a weird time, like 4:00 PM.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
it seems really familiar to me...i grew up outside of ashland and was 9 yrs old in 72. candle cove...was it about pirates? i remember a pirate marionete at the mouth of a cave talking to a little girl

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
YES! Okay I'm not crazy! I remember Pirate Percy. I was always kind of scared of him. He looked like he was built from parts of other dolls, real low-budget. His head was an old porcelain baby doll, looked like an antique that didn't belong on the body. I don't remember what station this was! I don't think it was WTSF though.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Sorry to ressurect this old thread but I know exactly what show you mean, Skyshale. I think Candle Cove ran for only a couple months in '71, not '72. I was 12 and I watched it a few times with my brother. It was channel 58, whatever station that was. My mom would let me switch to it after the news. Let me see what I remember.

It took place in Candle cove, and it was about a little girl who imagined herself to be friends with pirates. The pirate ship was called the Laughingstock, and Pirate Percy wasn't a very good pirate because he got scared too easily. And there was calliope music constantly playing. Don't remember the girl's name. Janice or Jade or something. Think it was Janice.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Thank you Jaren!!! Memories flooded back when you mentioned the Laughingstock and channel 58. I remember the bow of the ship was a wooden smiling face, with the lower jaw submerged. It looked like it was swallowing the sea and it had that awful Ed Wynn voice and laugh. I especially remember how jarring it was when they switched from the wooden/plastic model, to the foam puppet version of the head that talked.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
ha ha i remember now too. do you remember this part skyshale: "you have...to go...INSIDE."

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Ugh mike, I got a chill reading that. Yes I remember. That's what the ship always told Percy when there was a spooky place he had to go in, like a cave or a dark room where the treasure was. And the camera would push in on Laughingstock's face with each pause. YOU HAVE... TO GO... INSIDE. With his two eyes askew and that flopping foam jaw and the fishing line that opened and closed it. Ugh. It just looked so cheap and awful.

You guys remember the villain? He had a face that was just a handlebar mustache above really tall, narrow teeth.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i honestly, honestly thought the villain was pirate percy. i was about 5 when this show was on. nightmare fuel.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
That wasn't the villain, the puppet with the mustache. That was the villain's sidekick, Horace Horrible. He had a monocle too, but it was on top of the mustache. I used to think that meant he had only one eye.

But yeah, the villain was another marionette. The Skin-Taker. I can't believe what they let us watch back then.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
jesus h. christ, the skin taker. what kind of a kids show were we watching? i seriously could not look at the screen when the skin taker showed up. he just descended out of nowhere on his strings, just a dirty skeleton wearing that brown top hat and cape. and his glass eyes that were too big for his skull. christ almighty.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Wasn't his top hat and cloak all sewn up crazily? Was that supposed to be children's skin??

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
yeah i think so. rememer his mouth didn't open and close, his jaw just slid back and foth. i remember the little girl said "why does your mouth move like that" and the skin-taker didn't look at the girl but at the camera and said "TO GRIND YOUR SKIN"

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
I'm so relieved that other people remember this terrible show!

I used to have this awful memory, a bad dream I had where the opening jingle ended, the show faded in from black, and all the characters were there, but the camera was just cutting to each of their faces, and they were just screaming, and the puppets and marionettes were flailing spastically, and just all screaming, screaming. The girl was just moaning and crying like she had been through hours of this. I woke up many times from that nightmare. I used to wet the bed when I had it.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i don't think that was a dream. i remember that. i remember that was an episode.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
No no no, not possible. There was no plot or anything, I mean literally just standing in place crying and screaming for the whole show.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
maybe i'm manufacturing the memory because you said that, but i swear to god i remember seeing what you described. they just screamed.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
Oh God. Yes. The little girl, Janice, I remember seeing her shake. And the Skin-Taker screaming through his gnashing teeth, his jaw careening so wildly I thought it would come off its wire hinges. I turned it off and it was the last time I watched. I ran to tell my brother and we didn't have the courage to turn it back on.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show?
i visited my mom today at the nursing home. i asked her about when i was littel in the early 70s, when i was 8 or 9 and if she remebered a kid's show, candle cove. she said she was suprised i could remember that and i asked why, and she said "because i used to think it was so strange that you said i'm gona go watch candle cove now mom and then you would tune the tv to static and juts watch dead air for 30 minutes. you had a big imagination with your little pirate show."

On a related note this thread finally convinced me to disable images after the first screamer image.

Yeah, you can feel safe reading my post on the last page, there aren't any screamers, they're just images I've saved from /x/.

Could someone tell me what ED is?

He's referring to encyclopedia dramatica, I don't actually go there as my only experience with it are the offended and kittens pages.

Oh God, I had seen the Offended page, but hadn't seen the kittens one. You can see where this is going. And while the page was loading I suddenly realized what was the matter, and when it opened it was too late, although I had already seen most of the images it didn't faze me that much, but it just shows you to know better than to be curious on the internet.

 

[Lord Monocle Von Banworthy]

Still reading through this. The Pokemon story bothered me since I live in Japan and well, we don't have guns or many ovens. Kind of obviously makes it a story written by an American.

 

[skystryke]

Oh God, I had seen the Offended page, but hadn't seen the kittens one. You can see where this is going. And while the page was loading I suddenly realized what was the matter, and when it opened it was too late, although I had already seen most of the images it didn't faze me that much, but it just shows you to know better than to be curious on the internet.

Dude the problem I had with the kittens page was that I wasn't really thinking so I had my head phones on with the sound way up.So now I only browse while muted.

Also another few stories.

Spoiler

Felt

Five hundred twenty six dollars and thirty four cents.

This is my paycheck after two weeks of full-time employment at the Thrift-Sak. It's enough to pay the rent, two tanks of gas, and the car insurance on my jalope of a ride.

My apartment is a complete shit-hole. When Sandra used to come over, she told me that the cockroaches were complaining. She was always funny in that way that would annoy you me, the more that time passed . She stopped talking, eventually. I should feel awful that it happened, but I really have no right to complain.

Forty four thousand, nine hundred dollars.

The sun is starting to crest over the city line, but that's what I won last night. What did it cost me, exactly?

Two packs of Marlboro lights (in a box), a Rockstar energy drink, and Sandra's face.

It wasn't my fault that they got her, really. I played to the best of my ability, and so did she. Maybe she caught the wrong river card on the wrong hand. Maybe I'm ten percent better than she is. Or, maybe, I just got lucky. Ask me if I got lucky, and I'll tell you --- I did, okay? I GOT LUCKY.

It's 5:43am and I have to be at work at the Thrift-Sak in seventeen minutes. I'm parked outside it, now, contemplating on whether I should go in or not. I'm leaning towards no. After all, I'm living in the fast lane now. I made my breakthrough, but not in a way that I'd thought possible.

People all over America play poker. Some for fun, some for sport, some as an excuse to see a hot girl take her clothes off, and some to make a living. I wanted to be that person for the longest time. Last night, I found a game with the highest stakes I've ever encountered, and now, I'm thinking it's possible that I could be upgrading soon. New place, new ride, new haircut.

Their game starts at midnight. Rule number one is that you don't play unless you bring a friend. Rule number two is that one person leaves a winner. Rule number three is that the game is off unless they get a full table of ten players.

Last night, I was number nine.

The buy-in is not of monetary value. In fact, the entire concept is a little distorted if the only poker game you've ever played is in Vegas. The rules are no limit texas hold em, which means that any player can go all-in for their entire chip stack at any time. The difference is, you don't buy your chips with your hard-earned.

You?re gambling, of course. Your only motivation is your own avarice. When you're invited, you know what the pot amount will be. Last night, it was forty four thousand nine hundred dollars. Tonight, it's sixty two thousand, three hundred twenty dollars. Why the sudden increase, you ask? Because they had a winner.

It runs every night except Sundays in the back room of Romantico. It's one of those yuppie-hack metrosexual clubs downtown, by second avenue. People in that place are rail thin, and they wear Under Armour, lycra, and every other tight-fitting material that you could think of. Most of them are doped up on some substance or another. It's not really my kind of place, but what goes on in the back room is completely discreet. It's under wraps, per the owner of the property, but it always starts at midnight.

I was never too fond of Sandra in the first place, really. She looked great naked (she has a tattoo of a purple crescent moon on her hip, and she smells like lilacs), but she was always a ***** to work with. She'd only come over if she got too drunk and her shift ended one or two hours before mine. For once, I actually needed her around. I asked her to go with me to the club to play cards, and she told me to go chop my dick off. I told her which club it was, and all of a sudden, she was all rosy-eyed. I guess she thinks she's a high class girl. She said she'd played poker a few times before. I didn't want to tell her that strip poker is different than the real thing, because you're playing to lose and get laid. I needed her, to get a chance at the pot. I didn't care if she lost. She was shitty with her money in the first place, so the prospect of a free tournament entry and winning forty grand sounded good to her. Like I said, she's not too intelligent.

The poker room itself is made almost entirely of stone. It's cold in there, despite the fact that it's a hundred degrees in early August before the sun goes down. There are broad, sweeping drapes that make a coverlet around the old rock, creating a perimeter around the room. There are no windows or openings whatsoever. The drapes bleed from the walls, the most vibrant of reds. The candles that are scattered around the corners cast an eerie, flamed glow towards the table itself. If you exclude the modern additions, it would look like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story. The Masque of the Red Poker Room, if you feel me.

The table is some kind of black, charred material that looks like a mixture between wood, glass, and ebony. When you fold your hands on it or rest your elbows on the rim, your skin will get warm. Keep leaning and you'll feel hot. Eventually, it feels like you just ran your hand under a boiling water faucet. For that reason, I usually try to keep my hands in my lap. I learned to memorize my cards so I didn't have to peek at them after the first time.

The felt of a poker table can have a surreal, plush feel to it. Like a pool table, except it's molded over with a top layer of plastic that allows the cards to skim across it easier. This felt was the smoothest and most exotic that I'd ever seen, except that you could feel it moving. Put your chips in the center, place your fingertips on it to raise the edge of your cards --- and I swear you could feel a heartbeat. The surface is peach-colored and smells strongly of women's perfume. For some reason, touching that felt gives me a hard on. I guess you could say I've taken gambling to an unhealthy level.

When you first enter, you'll think you've lost your mind. You'll see heaps and heaps of chips, but some of them are more of an off-colored white than the others. When it finally hits you, you'll realize that your chips are made of human bones. All ten of you will exchange a nervous glance with each other before the blinds hit and the clock starts ticking. Under the gun, just like that.

When you go all-in, you don't put any chips in the middle of the table. Instead, you stand up, walk to the back corner of the room, and they put their hands on your shoulders. They're waiting, you see. To make sure you made the right move --- that you really had the best hand. You'd better be sure. Bluffing in this game will cost you a lot more than your mortgage.

One by one, the people around me would go all in. I was surprised that Sandra was doing as well she did, honestly. People would go to the corner, they'd bust out, and they would leave with the guys in the robes through the back door. I didn't know who they were. They gave us our chips, they told us to sit, and they got pissed at me when I tried to smoke at the table. They weren't any different than the fat, cocky pit bosses at the Mirage, really.

I played tight, and I tried to trap people when I knew I had them in a tough spot. I was a table bully, and I was catching some cards. Before I knew it, there were only three of us left, and Sandra had enough chips in front of her to entertain a pack of dobermans for a year. A few minutes later, she knocks out this other poor chap in front of us, and we're down to two at around three in the morning.

I look down, and I try hard not to let a little smile break the corners of my mouth. I have two kings. "Cowboys," as some call them... or "danger rangers." The second best starting hand in poker. Although there are two of us left, the stakes are getting high. We both know that whoever wins this game isn't going to work at the Thrift-Sak ever again.

What would you do with that kind of hand? You'd go all-in, of course. And that's what I did --- before the cards even came out. I stood up from my chair, waltzed over to the corner, and the dark robed observers clamped their bony grasps in to my shoulders.

Sandra rises to her feet, as well. She flashes me that stupid, sideways grin that makes me want to spit in her face. "I'm all in too, Dicky-Dog." She walks over to the other corner, and they have her locked in, as well.

I hate when she calls me Dicky-Dog. My name is Richard. Not Dick. Not DICKY-DOG.

That's when I saw her cards on the table. She'd turned them face up, like mine. Pocket aces. Bullets. Pocket rockets. The big cheese. The number one best starting hand in no limit hold em. Suddenly, percentages were racing through my brain. I had an eleven percent chance of hitting another king and beating her in this hand. She was an eighty nine percent favorite. I hear a low grunt, hot breath expelling across the back of my neck from the robed figured on my right. Their fingers are crushing in to my flesh, now, even deeper. They know I've made a bonehead move, and that I'm probably the next one heading through the gated door. At least I know, either way, that I'm not going back to the Thrift-Sak tomorrow. Sandra's giddy like a school girl.

The turn card is a three. My winning percentage has just been chopped in half. I now have a six point five percent chance to win. One last draw.

I've never been as scared as I was in that moment, but then, the dealer in the black robe laid down the last card. The king of spades. I was saved, and the look of horror and revulsion on Sandra's face was almost classic. Her little khaki skirt does a poor job of hiding the fact that she's pissing herself. They must be really digging in to her. The voice that I hear next almost unsettles my bladder, as well. It's definitely not human.

"Three of a kind kings beats a pair of aces."

The figure at the table rises to his feet, and he extends his sleeved arm outward, pointing directly at Sandra's face. For the first time, I can see that his finger is not of human origin. It's made from the same material as my poker chips.

"We have a winner for this evening. The tournament is over."

As they escorted me out and the gate came to a close with a slow groan behind me, the last thing I could see was Sandra's face, twisted in absolute horror. She was missing her lips. I had a briefcase full of money and a head full of images that I will never forget.

It's 6:28AM now, and I am officially almost half an hour late for work. I toss my Thrift-Sak shirt in the wastebin by the gas pumps, but as I leave, Chaz is pulling in to the parking lot. Chaz is a pretty good worker, and he doesn't really give me a lot of shit. I like Chaz. In fact, I'll be inviting him to tonight's game. He's never played poker before, but I told him the stakes aren't terribly high. It won't even cost him anything to buy in. He knows a deal when he sees it.

I'm looking forward to touching that table again. There's a purple half-moon crescent on it, just at the corner by seat seven. It smells faintly of lilacs.

Spoiler

"Cut"

Ricardo's snaps were so tight that I could barely take the ball from him in time to drop back. Every time he settled in to position, he appeared as if he was about to explode. I didn't blame him, and he was the best fullback I've had in twelve years, since the peewee days, when our center offensive lineman hit a growth spurt before the rest of us and shot up to five foot seven before any of us were half that tall.

The pocket collapsed around me before I even had time to think about an eligible receiver. This other team, they weren't like us. Before the snap, I could hear their guttural breathing. They forced their way through my line like demons possessed. My offensive linebackers dropped like bowling pins, and by the time the football rolled off my index finger with a shaky release, the right defensive tackle was on me, three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. My head hit the dead, lifeless grass of the decaying field, and then I heard the hissing. They hissed on every big play, positive or negative, but this one was joyous --- celebratory. In that moment, with my head halfway embedded in the dead-field, I knew I'd thrown an interception. The others were one possession closer to victory, and that meant we would all be dead soon.

We were brought here because we weren't good enough for the National Football League. We all had starry-eyed ambitions; we aspired to get burned by Jim Rome on SportsCenter, to make people thousands of dollars with our fantasy football stats and our spreads and our yards per carry, quarterback ratings, and third down conversion percentages. None of it worked out that way.

We are the fourth stringers, the last round stragglers, who were the stars of small high schools around America. We did fairly well in college, but not well enough to merit a six figure salary and a draft pick from the AFC or NFC. We watched the star quarterbacks of Oklahoma, Florida, Texas Tech, the Heissman trophy winners, the school record holders. We watched them, and we waited. But long after they were chosen and spoon-fed multi-million dollar contracts, in the two-hundred and twentieth round of the NFL draft, we still didn't have a bid for a spot on a team.

That's when they came to us. We were the rejects. The ones who had been cut. We would actually use our college degrees, because we wouldn't be playing professional football. The problem for me was, specifically, that I had counted on the NFL. All of us had our hopes wrecked to oblivion, and we were vulnerable. Maybe that's why they came when they did. They played us like a fiddle. Our emotions were marionette strings, and they are the puppet masters. That's how we all ended up on this field, right now.

They came to me about three hours after the NFL's expression of their lack of interest in signing me to a roster. They wore black suits, wore large pieces of jewelry that resembled the over-sized, lavish sheen of Super Bowl rings and genuine Rolex time pieces. They seemed legit, until the moment I signed the contract. Their eyes were odd --- I just thought they paid for strangely-colored contact lenses. Then, something knocked me out, and when I came to, I was in a locker room, being prepped for the slaughter that's taking place on this "field." I assume the rest of my teammates were duped in the same manner. I don't even know where we are. The heat feels like we?re in Texas. The blackened sky makes me think we?re in hell.

They've pulled Ricardo to the sideline and replaced him with some other rookie. I've seen two others since the first quarter; the first was a wide receiver that dropped a solid pass on a slant route to the corner, and the other was our running back, who blazed like lightning during his high school and college career. He looked like an old man trying to get downfield against this other team's secondary. They're not human. They caught him about a split second after he broke away from the line of scrimmage and drove his head in to the forty yard line. It was the most vicious tackle I'd ever seen in my life. He shouldn't have survived, and when he did, they sent him to the other team's sideline. They're passing his body parts around the bench like his dismembered arms and legs are a quick, hydrating fix from a gatorade bottle. I couldn't see for sure, because I was freaking out and too concerned about my own performance. The first time I looked, he was making the walk of shame to the opposing bench --- which I thought was odd. When I looked back two minutes later, his body was in pieces, his head was mounted on top of the first down marker, and the safeties were eating his limbs. Their eyes glowed with a singed fire of electric fury behind black gloss visors. His sustenance gave them a lust for more blood, more violence. What better way for them to sate their hunger than on a football field, if you could actually assign that term to this place. I'd call it an expanse of athletic death.

As sick as it made me feel, and as much as my stomach churned, the players around me have rallied. They're inspired, not with the competitive desire to win, but with the raw, instinctual will to live, to survive. They don't want to die, to be consumed by the monstrosities in the black and red uniforms on the other side of the ball. Ricardo was being carved up, and he was our friend, our companion. As our defense went out on to the field, my guys were voracious to get back out there. We had to stop them, get the ball back, and push.

"Grind your heels," my father always said. "Grind your heels hard enough, and you'll get to the endzone, son."

We needed the big "W," but the points didn't matter. We had to make sure we weren't pounded in to a scurvy pulp by these hulking monstrosities. They were out for blood. They probably could have lost by ten thousand points, but as long as they tore in to us like ravenous ghouls, the thousands of hissing shades in the stands would be happy. They weren't drinking beer and eating chili dogs. Their viscuous, cloudy black figures were there to witness our torment, our downfall. We had to emerge victorious. And, then, we needed to find out how to get out of this infernal stadium.

I didn't know how or why, but there were TV cameras on the sidelines. The tall, robed figures operating them didn't appear to be employees for any major entertainment network that I was aware of. They had pads and pens with them, scribbling down furiously as they talked on their cell phones. As a football player, I knew what was going on there. They were bookies, and they were taking bets from someone on the other side. People who were aware that this was going on. It infuriated me, and I was ready to exact revenge on the fans, the red-eyed "franchise owners" who deceived us all, and most of all, the ogres at the line of scrimmage.

Our defense, bless their hearts, looked tired and defeated as they came to the sideline. The shade-warriors have failed to score a touchdown from my interception.... a "pick six," if you will. I saw the terror in their eyes, but thank the Gods, none of them were being taken to the other sideline. It was time for us to get out there. As we huddled around the marker, I tried to console them, to ensure that regardless of the outcome of this game, we would find a way to stay alive. I was making empty promises and hollow assurances, but I needed morale. How could I make a speech and take the place of a leader when not even I believed that we'd make it out of here alive? I had to try.

I took the snap and handed the ball off to our new fullback. I didn't know his name, but he was a huge, bulky fellow who looked as though he'd served military time in the marines or the army. Much to my surprise, he hunkered down, powered through the growling defense, and picked up a gain of around seventeen yards before the backfield defender caught him around the neck and drug him to the black turf. There were no referees, and we were running on pure adrenaline, pure rage. He came back to the huddle, and I decided it was time.

The huddle of a football team is a sacred place for any athlete. It's the moment when you plan your attack, when all eleven of you collectively decide who will take a hit, who will carry the ball, and who will reap the glory. My voice was shaky, and I saw tears in some of their eyes. Yes, even football players cry. I feel like King Arthur, except I've never fought anyone in my entire life.

"I don't know your names, but I know you all dreamed of playing in the big league. They told us we're not good enough to be pro. I don't know why we're here, but these things are counting on us to lose. Do you want to die, or do you want to live? It's that simple, boys. We fight, here and now, and if we die trying, then so be it. Until now, we haven't played like a team, because we weren't brought together as a team. Every single one of us has to count on each other. We're running a Z-26 play action skid. Convince them that the fake is real, and I'll take care of the rest, if I can. Ready?"

The roar from around me comes not from the ghastly black clouds in the stands, or from the beasts waiting at twenty yard line. It's from my temporary brothers, my teammates. It's the most raw, emotional "BREAK!" that's ever graced my ears.

I didn't want them to make any more mistakes, because I was afraid they'd be killed. I was the quarterback --- the leader, of sorts. If anyone was going to be sacrificed on an account of bad athletic performance, it was going to be me. I took the next snap and dropped back, faked a pass to the tight end, and broke for strong side. The yell from inside my own helmet, from my own voicebox, was so loud and animalistic that it inspired my last bastion of protection, the right offensive tackle. He surged forward, driving back the defense from hell. They wanted to tear my head off, and this guy, who I'd never met until five minutes ago, was playing his heart out, pushing, fighting for his life, and mine, and every other human being in this place.

I broke free, and there was only one defender between me and the goal line. He was three times my size, and I honestly believed that if he had hit me, I would have never stood up again. I managed a juke, and although I wasn't a running back, I was doing whatever I needed to do to secure those six points. He dove, and whizzed by me. Grind your heels, son. Grind your heels.

Touchdown.

I made it, and the vicious hiss that rang in my ears was like a brutal, fast-acting contagion. It destroyed my senses, rang through my ears, and I felt as though my head might be ripped in three different directions, splattering in to a bloody mess. How would that be for an endzone celebration?

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

The crowds were furious, but I had scored. The score was six to nothing, but we never got the opportunity to kick the extra point.

The shades had begun to fade away, and the franchise owner, the red-eyed man in the black suit, has seemingly pulled the plug on the entire operation. He came toward me, and his voice was sonorous, almost bell-like, a complete and violent betrayal of everything that has taken place here. He ambled across the field to the one yard line.

"This is the first time anyone has scored against us. All of you will leave except this quarterback. You will do one thing for me when you return, or we will return for you, and you only.? The tall old man said.

His voice has chilled me to the bone.

There was only thing that I truly regretted, and that was that I couldn't have stepped up sooner and saved the lives of the first few players who failed. We could have stopped it. It required determination, teamwork, and the resolve to stay alive. We fought, and we won.

I have one last thing that I had to accomplish, however. The bookies were counting on our loss, and apparently, so were certain people who were connected with these hooded, robed figures. They were the financial movers and shakers of the underworld, I suppose. I wasn't entirely sure, but when I brought the man Richard to them, kicking and screaming, he appeared to be a rich man. He'd been cashing in on their scams for a long time. In addition to making side bets on football games, apparently, he'd been winning, lucratively, I might add, in some sort of demented poker game that they ran on the side.

They forced me to watch as they skinned him alive. They scooped out his eyes, crushed his skull, and peeled off his face. Then, they stitched it up, and made it in to a pig-skin football.

Where they would normally inscribe the manufacturer of the ball, "Spaulding," instead, there were only two words.

"Dicky Dog."

Spoiler

"Draft" (sequel to ?Felt,? and ?Cut?)

This is Jake. I'm glad someone around here has a ham radio on. Keep it tuned to this frequency, cuz I got somethin' pretty unreal to tell you. Can you hear me okay? The mouthpiece is in my helmet, so it might sound a little muffled, but you should be alright. If you can record this, you better get at it. You don't wanna miss this. Just listen.

Eighty four centimeters. That's your window. You get that much space to make your move. It's do or die in the span of half a second; you're in a pocket of perfect wind resistance, and the responsibility falls on you to take advantage of it, or lose your opportunity. Fall behind, in other words. Cop out. You're the guy behind the checkered flag, in that instance, and you are invisible. You lost. No one gives a shit.

Or, you can be a maniac, and take the alternative. Capitalize.

That's what my buddy told me before he died. Capitalize on your own streak of aggression. He was only a small-time guy, worked at a gas station, but he was a damn good driver. He never made it to sponsorship levels, but he was well on his way, believe me. I never saw him lose a race on the street. He had a nice ride, and this bumper sticker on the back that said "Drive fast, or eat shit."

So, this is what you do. Bank on the possibility that maybe -- just MAYBE, the guy in front of you will lift his foot just half an inch while yours presses down, and give you the space and road you need to capitalize. Maybe he's a smidgeon more afraid of that upcoming curve than you are. So you take that space of fear, and you capitalize. Eighty four centimeters of it, to be exact.

A slingshot through the wind resistance is hard to pull off, but to be perfectly honest with you, there's nothing better in the world if you've got the nuts. Hundred year old vintage scotch. A threesome at the Playboy mansion. A winning lottery ticket. None of that means shit if you're born to race, okay? You'll consider me a thrill-seeker, or a speed junkie, or just plain ol' batshit crazy, but that's just the way it is.

I jerk the steering wheel to the left, enough that it doesn't fight the chassis and disrupt my downforce, and as I gap that eighty four centimeter distance between his rear bumper and my headlights, I'm on his inside corner and passing through to fourth place. I'm in the top five, and normally, I'd be banking some points at the end of today. However, this isn't the Nextel series or the Brickyard 400. Points are worth about as much as a shit-stain on a wedding dress around here.

The curve has ended, and I have one hundred eighty yards of straight-away.

Wide open.

You hear rednecks toss the term around like it's poetry. 'Did you see that guy? He was wide open! Damn, man! FEARLESS!'

What does it mean, exactly? I'm not sure. Does it imply that the piston chambers in your engine are at their flawless limit, that your transmission has topped out at that wonderful apex? Have you reached the nearly unattainable and blissful union of rotations per minute (RPM) and miles per hour? Those two attributes long to neutralize and top out together. There are very few moments in competitive racing when you'll hit that mark. It can take five or six perfectly maneuvered laps, a good draft, and a foolish opponent in front of you, but eventually, you will hit it. When you do, let me know if you bust a hard-on, because I sure do. Every time.

It's not just that. I have no reputation here. This car was given to me, for this one race, and, to quote the voice of the red-eyed weirdo guy in the black suit, "all heats to come, if I am deemed worthy."

My buddy Chaz used to say that you're only as good as the people that you can lap. If racing were UFC, lapping someone would be the equivalent of a ground and pound to the face. Football? It'd be a sack for a twenty yard loss, or an interception return for ninety nine yards. Well, I've lapped every guy here, except these top three. They're different. Every time I try to take a turn above speed and gain some distance on them, it feels like I'm getting in worse and worse shape. The car in first is about to lap the poor schmuck in last place for the second time. They'll intervene on that guy soon. He's short of the mark, and people don't survive when they fall short in THEIR events. Chaz's co-worker Richard thought he had them all figured out, too, like he was in real good cohoots or something. Yeah, that turned out real well.

Look in my rearview. See him, how he stopped to pit? He pitted twelve laps ago. There's no way he's getting gas. He won't be back on the track. Trust me.

So get this. If the guy in the lead of the pack is that far ahead of you, my question is, why even bother? When you get right down to it, most of the cars are tuned to the same specs. If you can't hit the curves and head out of them like a bat out of hell, swallow your fear, and put some lead on the accelerator, you're dead in the water. Nut up or shut up, and go home.

This track is worse than Daytona or Talladega. Here, they don't really give a shit about how my car is tuned, so I?m starting to think maybe these regulars who win race after race have something going on that I don't know about.

I was right.

You wanna know why that one guy is two laps behind the leader? You wanna know why he's dead now? He's got no passion. That's why. I really wish you could see this place. There are no Bud Light vendors or racing merchandise booths. There are fans, but they don't hoot and holler and get up on the fences when you go by, or flash you their tits. There are no baseball caps with number 3's and angel wings on the front (rest in peace, Dale). In fact, the only time they seem to get excited is when somebody overtakes another driver. I think it?s odd. I?m also pissed that I?m fifty car-lengths behind the leader in seventeenth place, as of about an hour ago. Something changed though. I found out these cars, this track ---- this whole surreal fucking gig in itself ---- it's not the real thing. It's better.

Any sport should have a certain degree of heart and dedication to it. What are you willing to sacrifice to win? The moment I answer that question for myself, I hit sixteenth place. Then, I push the smooth little black button on the dash above my clutch. That's how I got up here in the top five. I wish I'd known about it sooner, because the thing is, I'm pretty sure I want to win more than any person --- or thing, on this little stretch of asphalt. It's not the money, either. They killed Chaz. So, what's it all come down to, really?

Revenge.

Stay wih me. I know a little bit about what's going on here, even though they don't know that. See, they find things where they think they can get you. They pit you all against each other in one form or another, except the stakes are always higher than any competition you'll find anywhere else. Then, when you fail, they take you away. It's what they do. They're passion-thieves. They take your desire, your determination, and then, the moment you find out that you didn't have enough of it, they steal it away in a heartbeat, and then your life is over.

Only one guy has succeeded in beating them so far, and he was a football player. As it turns out, he turned out to be good ol' Richard's downfall, since Dick had been banking on people's failures to make a pretty penny. That was in this abandoned little ghost town in Texas, but you know what? That town isn't deserted anymore, and the sky isn't charred with blackness. Ever since he won that little game, the sun peers out a little bit more there every day.

So, I'm here to help my racing buddy rest in peace, but I'm also here to make things right in this place. They've got themselves some sorta foothold, I reckon, but as soon as I lap the leader, we're golden. They lose their power when you beat them, you see. Even if I don't survive, I'll win, and that's all that matters. You feel me? I want it bad enough, that it's almost guaranteed.

I think I see a little ray of sunshinse now, off in the East, over turn four. Things aren't looking so good for them.

Back to that little black button. What do you expect me to tell you? That it's the turbo booster? Nitrous oxide? This isn't the Fast and the Furious. There's another thing I forgot to tell you. They've got this little I-V stuck in my forearm, and it feeds down through the floorboard in to the console. I hit that button, and I can watch the blood going through the little green tube. Half a second later, my engine rumbles like it's running on hellfire, and I'm hard pressed to even lean my head forward half an inch, because it's being forced against my headrest. Honestly, these stock cars give a new definition to "wide open." My speedometer goes up to 220, but the needle tops out at the end and shivers a little bit. I must be going at least 250, maybe more.

Sounds all good and fun, doesn't it? Not quite. See, I'm pretty sure when I get out of this vehicle and get "unplugged" that I'll be dead. The reason is that blood stopped flowing through the tube about twenty laps ago. Now, it's just this black cloudy shit, and every time I hit it to pass someone up, I feel like I just contracted pneumonia. My muscles go weak, and this car feels like it's going to devour me. Not to sound cliche, but I feel a little thin. Like every time I cross the flag, I'm being spread out a little bit more. I've got thirty three laps to go and I'm hoping I'll have enough juice to stop these bastards.

So here I come up on this third guy. It's harder than you think it is. I mean, you've probably tailgated some granny on the interstate that won't do the speed limit, but tailgating somebody at over two hundred is a whole different world, my friend. You're tilting sideways and falling against your door because the slant of the turn is that sharp. Don't cut it too tight or too wide, or you'll end up on the wall. Then, there's the draft.

You have your position behind him ---- or IT, I guess I should say, because the human drivers are all behind me --- and you have to lock it in. Match him, mile per hour per mile per hour. On the last few degrees of that angled curve, it's time to make your move. You gap it, feed out in to the wind, and STOMP that accelerator. If you did everything right, you might even be able to send the number one salute towards the black-robed fucker next to you as he eats your wake. Like I said, there's nothing better in the world. That might be the redneck in me, but it certainly appeals to the competitive spirit.

So here's the straight-away. It's time to press the black button again. I won't lie to you. I'm afraid each time, but I know this has to be done. I just mashed it, radio listener. I feel like I'm dying, but I wish you could see how fast I am. I passed second place just a moment ago, but I have to lay off it now and take this bend. You wanna know what scares me more than dying or losing? The sound those things in the stands just made --- like they're about to blow loads inside their black getups because I'm killing myself to win this race. See, the thing is, I don't give two shits. It might feel good for them to watch me burn up my life through the spark plugs and combustors of this car from hell, but they still assume they're gonna take me out. They think their number one is that good.

Richard did it for the money. Chaz did it because he's a good person, and he liked Richard, so he fell for it. That football fellow --- well, I don't know him, and I can't speak for him so much, but I think maybe he's a little bit like me. He entered willingly, maybe because he thought he was chasing a dream, and that dream turned out to be a nightmare. He fought, and he won, and wherever that man is, he's got to keep carrying the beacon, okay? I can't expect you to believe any of this shit, but if you take it on yourself to find him, you be sure and let him know that he's not the only one who wants to beat them.

I'm drafting first place now, but I'm terrified. You wanna know why? I'm not sure I can beat this cat. The slingshot is in place, the air pocket is there --- but now, I see what happens when you win.

You'll never guess what this sticker says on his back fender, eighty four centimeters in front of my bumper. Yeah.

"Drive fast, or eat shit."

Well, I'd say I'm on the verge, and I really ought to gap him at this point. My only question is, what's gonna happen to my racing buddy? Is it even him, or does he have a black robe on? Regardless, when I lap him, all of this will be over, even if he's gone. It wasn't in vain, you see.

I'm gonna sign off and press this little black button one last time, chief. If I cross the line and get that checker, it'll probably be a car and a corpse, but hell, that should count as a win in my book.

The track isn't there unless you WANT it to be there, and you'll be hard pressed to find it, but check about thirty miles out between Abingdon and Bristol, Tennessee. Also, find that nice quarterback, and tell him that the next ritual of theirs is gonna be some kind of fight. That's all I know.

It's time to capitalize.

You'll know I won if you see the sun.

They're part of a series so you should read them all.

 

[Smagmuck_]

I hate you... I hate you all...
*Curls up into a ball and cries*

 

[skystryke]

More stories. Sorry but the escapist won't let me put all the stories in one post so it will take few.

Spoiler

You volunteer at the mental health clinic. Given the dangerous nature of the residents, they assigned you the rooms of the less violent patients. The suicidal. Those who hear voices. Those that don?t say anything at all.

You become close to a mute man named Arthur. He is a rapt listener, willing to nod his head for hours as you tell him the story of your life. You mention your past, your present. The people involved in both. Your hopes for the future.

And Arthur just nods.

After several months of listening, you figure that you owe it to Arthur to get him out of the clinic. He can?t be happy sitting in a room by himself nodding at interns everyday. You talk to the supervisor of the clinic. You argue that he isn?t harming anyone. That he grooms and feeds himself with no problems. That perhaps his condition is a physical aliment.

The day comes when your arguing pays off. The supervisor has agreed to let Arthur go. You rush to his room to tell him the news. ?You?re free!? You shout. ?Isn?t that great??

And Arthur just nods.

You write your name and address on a piece of paper. Hand it to him. ?I?m going to miss having someone to talk to.? You say. ?But now you can write me. I can learn all about you. Like why they were so insistent in having you in here, pal. I had to fight Dr. Thanner everyday to get you out.?

He looks at you and takes the paper. Just nods.

You go home, feeling good about yourself. You brag to everyone you can tell, friends, family, classmates, co-workers, about how you came through for Arthur. You even fall asleep with a smile.

That night, your eyes snap open. Screams, unearthly screams wake you up.

Then you see them. Your mother. Your father. Your friends. Your classmates. Your co-workers. Lying on your floor, their blood soaking into your carpet. Your walls stained with carnage. Their heads bashed in, their eyes missing from their sockets. Everyone you know dead or dying.

You whimper and see a man standing in the doorway.

It?s Arthur, holding the piece of paper you gave him.

Your entire body shaking, you choke out. ?Are you here to kill me??

And Arthur just nods.

Spoiler

She has her mother?s bright blue eyes, Daddy?s Little Angel does. And the most beautiful smile you?ve ever seen. She could melt an iceberg, she could. Everyone that knows her just loves her to death, and I?m so proud to call myself her father. She?s a gift from above, I know it, which is why I must protect her, no matter what the cost!

Some people just don?t understand.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. Some nasty little girl was teasing Katie, my Little Angel, and she just wouldn?t leave her alone. She was saying nasty things, saying how poor she was and saying she was dirty and such. She just had the filthiest mouth; little girls shouldn?t be so nasty. Well she followed Katie home that day throwing dirt at her and telling her to take a bath in it. Well my Katie showed her what?s what, yes she did! And Daddy couldn?t be more proud. I don?t think anyone should hurt a child, even if they don?t mean it! Don?t get me wrong! But Katie never did anything to anyone, and I love her to death.

You?ve gotta understand.

I was only being a loving father when I hid the body. You see we live in a very rural area, and that nasty mouthed little girl clearly had no business following my Katie in the first place. But I know no one would understand, and I just can?t let anything happen to my Little Angel!

Of course that?s when my wife came home and saw that our little girl had a few bruises. Can you believe she actually glared at me? As if I?d ever so much as think of hurting my Little Angel! Of course I was upset, but the sweetheart that she is, Katie set her on track sure enough. She told her how the filthy little girl harassed her and wouldn?t leave her be. And I tell you, that lit my wife right up, she was so angry. I had to restrain her, she was gonna call her parents then and there. It was nine in the evening!

Well, I finally talked her down, even though she was furious with me that I hadn?t handled it sooner. Of course by then she just didn?t trust me to settle it no matter what I told her. I said I?d do it first thing after work the next day but no, no! She insisted she?d call them herself the next day. Even Katie pleaded with her not to call her parents, she said she?d be so embarrassed at school if everyone found out she?d run home and told mommy.

Of course we both knew we couldn?t explain that the filthy little girl had gone ?missing? after their little scuffle, now could we? I mean, she?s my wife and I loved her, but she just wouldn?t understand. But she just sent Katie straight up to bed and wouldn?t hear another word from me on the matter, her mind was made up. And she?s a very headstrong woman (it?s part of her charm, you see) so there?s no arguing with her once she?s made up her mind on a matter.

Well after that I went to tuck the Little Angel in and read her a bedtime story, and she begged me not to let mommy call the filthy girl?s parents, but I told her how persistent Mommy is, and that she wouldn?t listen to me. Of course that didn?t sit well with Katie at all. She knew that Mommy wouldn?t understand?and neither would her schoolmate?s mommy, no, especially not her. I told Katie I would think of something, and I promised that I wouldn?t let anything happen to her?but Daddy?s Little Angel is clever. Daddy?s Little Angel already had her mind made up.

I shoulda understood.

The next day I came home to see my wife lying at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled bloody heap. There was so much blood, and it had long since dried into the carpet when I got home. She had never made it to work that morning. The official story was that she had taken a nasty fall down the stairs and cracked her head open like an egg on her tumble?but as I look into Katie?s eyes, so empty, so emotionless. No, no, no! Daddy?s Little Angel did not hurt anyone that didn?t try to hurt her first! She?s special?

Anyhow, there was a funeral and the whole family showed up. Katie couldn?t have been more bored; she just sat there staring into nothingness as the eulogy was given. When it came time to view the corpse she barely gave it a glance. I like to think she?s coping with the loss her own way. Daddy?s Little Angel loved her mommy more than anything.

It was just before the burial the next day that an investigator showed up at the door. It was Katie that answered as I was rushing to get ready. I rushed to the door as this man was questioning my little girl, gently scooted Katie outta the way and stepped up to the door.

?May I help you?? I asked, trying to sound polite.

?I need to ask you some questions about the circumstances of your wife?s death,? the investigator said.

?Who are you?? I think some of my frustration was coming through, but it might have been my self-consciousness.

?I?m sorry,? he said with a laugh. ?Detective Kimble, local PD. I just got the results back from the autopsy, and the blunt trauma your wife suffered, and the bloodstains found on the carpet don?t exactly match up. I was wondering if you could give me a little more insight??

?Well I?d love to, Detective, but as I told the responding officers, I only found the body when I came home from work. I wasn?t here to see it happen.? The detective tried to speak again, I think, but I cut him off. Frustration was filling me. ?If you?ll excuse me, we have a burial to attend.? I grabbed Katie?s hand and walked her out the door, locking it behind me. I glanced back to see that the detective was watching me as we drove away.

Katie was silent the entire trip there and back, and as soon as we got home she retreated to her room. The poor baby has it so rough, all this death surrounding her. I shampooed the carpet the best I could to get the stains out, and fixed up dinner for us. We ate in silence, and it filled me with pain to see her suffering. I?ll never forget, just before she got up to take her plate to the sink she looked at me and smiled so softly. Oh my little Angel has the sweetest smile you ever did see.

A couple days passed, and I thought things were getting back to normal?well as normal as they could be, without my beautiful wife to come home to?when it happened. You see I rush home each day to meet Katie as she?s coming in from school, but yesterday I was lost in thought and took my time getting home. You see, the day before my wife?s sister suggested that she come over and bring Katie?s cousin to visit, and I couldn?t refuse. So I had to get in the mindset?I had to show her we were coping.

The house was quiet when I got there, but that wasn?t so unusual as Daddy?s Little Angel tends to keep to herself and spends most of her time in her room playing with her dollhouse. She?s always so clean, and always so quiet, I couldn?t have asked for a better little girl.

I walked up to check Katie?s room and it was empty. I then proceeded to check the rest of the house and found her nowhere, until I came to the door leading to the cellar. Odd, it was cracked. I pushed it open and started down the stairs. I could see the light spilling across the floor at the bottom of the staircase, illuminating a small puddle of blood just a foot from the bottom step.

?Just hand me the gun,? a voice said softly. ?I?ll get you out of here, take you somewhere safe.?

I rushed down the stairs and found Katie standing a mere two feet away from Detective Kimble, who sat bound with rope and bleeding from the head. I approached my daughter and eased the gun from her hands as the detective seemed to eye me with the most dreadful gaze anyone?s ever given me in my life. I took the gun in my hands, and was surprised at how natural it felt, though I?d never held a gun in my life. The exhilaration that filled me as I lifted the gun and watched the detective?s face contort in horror almost sickened me.

?Why have you come,? I asked him as I aimed the gun at his head.

?Your wife?s death was not an accident,? he replied.

?I was at work when it happened, and Katie was at school. It?s been deemed an accident. What did you hope to find here??

?The coroner stated that she died in the early morning, around the same time you leave for work.?

?I loved my wife!? Unconsciously I began to pull the hammer back.

?If you kill me, the police will know where to look,? Kimble pleaded. ?There?s no way out of this. Do the right thing. Do it for your little girl!?

?If only you understood??

I put a bullet in his head. It?s all I could do. Of course I knew he was right, I knew the cops would come soon, looking for him. I turned to my girl?she stood staring at Kimble, vacantly?and I told her to run and get the tarp from the corner. She did. Daddy?s Little Angel is so good, she even helped me wrap the body.

And I carved.

My sister-in-law showed up that night with her husband and kid, as she said she would?and dinner was ready by eight thirty. I really think they loved it, my new recipe. I think they?ll be back for more.

Spoiler

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

Today a friend of mine told me a story.

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

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

The man had been told about the vengeful spirit by his sister hours before her death. It was a girl with dead, black eyes that wept bile. The thing moved without ever actually moving its legs, and it stalked its victims back to their homes. Now, if you weren?t already aware that this thing was following you, once it got back to your house, it would start knocking on your door?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can try to outrun her, but she?s faster than the fastest man. And if you leave your home while she?s knocking on your door, she won?t be so courteous when she catches up to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nice knowing you guys, it?s been fuy5
WITNESS

 

[skystryke]

And some more.

Spoiler

Necronymous Forum
Private Message

Subject: Okay? Sent: Thu Jan 08, 6:36 pm
From: Seraphine-Savior To: Centurion616
This is kind of random, but I notice your posts constantly mention this ?Thorvaldr? character. You always say it?s watching something or waiting for something, but no one else has any idea who or what it is. I?m just curious? Who is Thorvaldr? :O

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Fri Jan 09, 2:17 am
From: Centurion616 To: Seraphine-Savior
Thorvaldr? I?m almost glad you asked. He?s just kind of there. A sort of presence, if you will. I can?t really explain it properly without it sounding completely odd. By the way? he sees you.

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Fri Jan 09, 12:01 pm
From: Seraphine-Savior To: Centurion616
Uh? could you explain that a bit better? Sorry, I don?t understand. I mean, is he a person, a ghost, a pet, or what? D:

Subject:Re: Okay? Sent: Fri Jan 09, 5:20 pm
From: Centurion616 To: Seraphine-Savior
Thorvaldr is a warrior king. He is waiting for the moon to rise as of now?

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Sat Jan 10, 4:14 pm
From: Seraphine-Savior To: Centurion616
9_9 I?m sorry, that just raises more questions than it answers. Don?t bother wasting my time by replying if you aren?t going to say anything useful. I know I?m probably coming off a little bit harsh, but it doesn?t seem like you?re taking this seriously at all. I?d try to help you on the forum, seeing as everyone thinks you?re a complete weirdo and I want to see if there?s anything that could be explained to them so maybe you?ll have an easier time.

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Sun Jan 11, 8:43 pm
From: Centurion616 To: Seraphine-Savior
I almost considered just deleting that reply there and carrying on the way I have been, but I?ve a feeling you?re not going to give up either way. If it?s that important to you, I?ll explain everything. To the best of my knowledge, Thorvaldr is something of an entity, and like I said before, he?s just there. He doesn?t even have a body, but somehow I?m able to know his every move and that he wants me to tell others about it. It?s an impulse. If I don?t tell everyone about Thorvaldr, he gets angry? He starts clouding my vision and everything gets dark and blurry, then I can?t sleep at all because I?m just lying there shaking. I can almost hear his voice kind of, but he?s not saying anything in particular, only these syllables and non-words that come out of nowhere right when I think everything?s quiet. He?s there, and he?s always there. I can?t get rid of him. I don?t want to go to a shrink, because last time I did they just gave me these pills that only made everything worse. I started seeing Thorvaldr in my own reflection. Even though it was very vague and hard to make out, I could tell it was definitely him.

I can?t fight it. Can?t fight a warrior king, especially when he?s taken over my mind like this. I?m trying to remember what happened, but somehow my memory?s been shot. Maybe Thorvaldr did it. I vaguely recall something about getting lost somewhere when I was in Norway, but that?s it. I?d tell you more, but I fear he?s trying to choke me as I type this?

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Tues Jan 13, 11:00 am
From: Seraphine-Savior To: Centurion616
Wow? that?s really weird? Anyway, the reason why it kind of took me an extra day to reply is because when I read that message, I had pretty much no idea what to say. That is really really weird. Maybe he?s just mad cause he doesn?t have a body? lol

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Tues Jan 13, 1:10 pm
From: Centurion616 To: Seraphine-Savior
Thorvaldr thinks that?s a great idea. Thank you.

Subject: Re: Okay? Sent: Tues Jan 13, 7:19 pm
From: Seraphine-Savior To: Centurion616
What?

Necronymous Forum Topic - Meet Thorvaldr By: Centurion616
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:20 pm
At least he?s not waiting anymore. (Pardon the blood)
[Video embedded]

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: Demona
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:26 pm
That was really disturbing. Put up a warning next time.

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: milkofthedead
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:27 pm
^ I think ?Pardon the blood? could count as a warning. Though he didn?t say anything about the ?corpse.? At least I hope it?s not a real corpse? :O

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: Neocracy
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:29 pm
Could someone tell me what it is? I?m too afraid to watch the whole thing, I stopped as soon as he left the room.

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: Demona
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:36 pm
Okay, here?s a summary of what happened, at least the way I saw it. If anyone has any corrections, I?ll edit this.
0:00-1:12 - Some guy (I think it?s Centurion, but I?m not sure) is standing over a partially dismembered corpse on his bed. He?s replacing the missing limbs and digits with other body parts he?s pulling out of a sack.
1:13-1:40 - He leaves the room, comes back with a rusty sword and helmet and ?equips? the corpse with them. Then the video just kind of jump-cuts there.
1:40-3:40 - He?s now sitting in front of the camera, staring. You can kind of see the corpse in the background, only for some reason the limbs are attached to the body like they actually belonged there. Then the damn video jump-cuts AGAIN?
3:40-4:36 - Same thing as last time, only Centurion is gushing blood through his closed eyelids and mouth. You can see some blood on the corpse too, and at the end of it all, Centurion smiles and waves.

Like I said, really disturbing shit. It?s worse than it sounds.

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: Neocracy
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:38 pm
Oh, that was it? It?s got to be fake. I mean, if he?s bleeding out his eyes like that, how can he see to post? And it?s definitely Centurion in the video. He?s got the swastika tattoo, remember?

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: ForTheEmpire
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:44 pm
If it?s fake, those are some really cool effects.

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: Seraphine-Savior
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:49 pm
No, no, it?s not fake. And it?s all my fault. See, we were PMing one another before, and I asked about the Thorvaldr guy. If I hadn?t suggested that Thorvaldr needed a body, then none of this would have happened.

Subject Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: milkofthedead
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 7:55 pm
It?s not your fault, Seraphine. Centurion would?ve done it anyway, he?s just like that. Remember when he wouldn?t stop obsessing over that church arson guy?

Subject: Re: Meet Thorvaldr By: Winterwing
Posted: Tues Jan 13, 8:00 pm
4:21- It blinked. I swear to god, it blinked.

Spoiler

You jolt awake to some noise off in the distance. You look at your red lettered clock: 3:21. You hear it noise again. Someone?s knocking on your door.

There?s no reason to be afraid, you remind yourself, but you can?t imagine any reason why
someone would be up this late. You quietly walk over to the door.

?Hello??

Knock, Knock, Knock

?H-hello? Are you home??

Knock, Knock, Knock

?I? Please be home? Hello??

She mumbles something

?I need your help!?

Knock, Knock, Knock

You recognize her voice and look out the window. It?s your neighbor, she?s wearing her pajamas and some shining pendant around her neck. She sees you.

?Oh!?

She looks afraid at first, and then puts on a worried smile.

?I.. can I use your phone? I need to come in.?

Why can?t you use your phone?

?Mine is Brok-?

She pauses.

??I think someone?s inside my house?

You pause for a moment to look at the fear on her face.

When you open the door it slowly dawns on you?

Whoever it is isn?t inside her house, he?s behind her, and what?s shining by her neck isn?t a pendant.

Spoiler

It was her eyes that first attracted me to her. I didn?t believe in love, but the
first time I gazed into her beautiful green eyes I knew she was the one.

I loved seeing myself reflected in those eyes, looking deep into her soul and
knowing I was a part of it. It?s kinda stupid, but I even wrote poetry about them. I
don?t remember much, but I told her ?There?s so much life within your eyes, and so
much love?.

Oh God, I loved the way the light danced within them. I just couldn?t imagine not
being able to stare dreamily into them.

Now if I could just find a box that was half as beautiful as her eyes, I could stop
carrying them round in my pocket.

 

[skystryke]

Even More.

Spoiler

You are lying in your bed, the dull whirring of your air conditioner is the only thing separating you from total silence.

You know, that particular silence that is so heavy, and so thick, it?s almost the equivalent of a loud noise itself? The kind of silence where you could hear a pin drop three rooms away in; the kind of silence that fills your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat as your ear presses against your pillow. That kind of silence.

The dull whirring is the only noise you can hear, a noise that typically goes unnoticed, until it is the only noise present. It?s comforting, whether you realize it or not. A sort of white noise. But suddenly, your room is back at the temperature specified on the thermostat, and the whirring comes to a stop, as the vent makes a dull clang. To your misfortune, you are not yet asleep, and the silence sets in.

You should be comforted by the knowledge that you could hear anything and everything in your surroundings; making up for the lack of vision provided by the darkness. But you aren?t. It?s this very environment that sets you on edge, causes your heart to beat a bit faster, makes your body tense without explanation, and that makes you aware when you are not alone.

But you are alone right? You?ve been laying there with your eyes closed for almost 15 minutes now, and you made sure everything was normal in your room before you turned off the light; you?re a smart one. All those Facebook quizzes you took have just reinforced what you already know, if you were in a horror movie, you?d survive until the end. You?ve even made a carefully laid plan of what you would do in any of the situations you?ve read about on creepypasta.com. But that stuff is just nonsense anyway, right?

You aren?t scared. Or at least that?s what you keep telling yourself.

But wait?what was that? Was that the rustling of fabric? But, you didn?t shift in your bed, or make any movement. Did you make that noise? No, you couldn?t have. You?re paralyzed your bed, stiff with an unease that was not present until these very moments. You must have imagined it?you must have.

You roll over to face the wall. Out of sight, out of mind. If there?s something in the room with you, it will just have to accept that you are much to tired to deal with it at the moment. You?re still stricken with uneasiness as you hear rustling again. This time, the rustling is accompanied by a soft thud on the ground.

Your heart seizes in your chest?did you really just hear that? No no, you?ve just gotten yourself worked up about nothing. You really should stop play horror survival games so late at night, it?s messing with your brain. You?re a rational person, stop acting so childish and just fall asleep already.

You close your eyes tightly, silently hoping sleep would whisk you away soon. You?re practically begging for the safety of the nonexistent dreamworld of your own creation. You?re running away in a sense; but there?s nothing there?right? You?re just tired. I know, I know.

As your eyes are clinched tightly shut, you become aware that no matter how much you want to, you can no longer move your arms and legs. Come on now, are you really letting this get to you? What are you? 12 years old? Suck it up and fall asleep already.

Now, more tense than ever, that unnerving sound echoes across the room again. The rustling of fabric, followed by a soft thud on the ground. Unwittingly, you?re holding your breath now, eyes shut as tightly as possible. You have childish urge to pull the blanket over your head. You?re imagining it all! It?s all in your head; I thought you were better than this.

You heart is pounding loudly in your ears now, but not loudly enough to drown out the now repetitive sound approaching from across the room. What?s that rustling!? Maybe you left some paper on the ground. That has to be it! And that thumping? Probably the cat, or the dog, or something. They probably ran in when you weren?t looking before you closed your door. Yeah, you?re just paranoid.

The noise is now within a foot of your bed, and with your back to it, you don?t dare turn around to investigate, not that it?d do much good; the only light in your room is the dull glow of your cell phone on the nightstand next to you, you plugged it in before crawled into bed remember? But you don?t dare turn around and look; there?s nothing there anyway.

Minutes that feel like hours pass as you face your wall, stiff as a board, unable to will your uncooperative body to move. You haven?t heard the noises in a while now, not since it reached the edge of your bed. You know there?s nothing there you silly. It?s this silence. It?s messing with you. You really should have turned on some music or something before you went to bed. Oh well, maybe next time.

Suddenly, a familiar clang echoes through the room, followed by that familiar whirring. You exhale deeply, your body relaxing as you are flooded with relief. Thank God that?s over, now you can finally sleep in peace. That silence was really getting to you. You roll over and open your eyes to check the time on your lit cell phone, it must have been at least an hour since you first went to bed.

You are greeted face to face with his ear to ear grin. Dimly lit sockets where eyes once resided stare intently at you.

Ah, I see you?re still awake.

Spoiler

I.

Well, I?ve finished my education and learned everything there is to learn about singing, and despite the difficulties, I?ve found myself at the heart of Music City and struggling to get my material out there. I haven?t been able to meet with any labels and I?m barely surviving on gig money. I have an audition at a new place that?s opening down by Broadway Street. It?s a Vegas style night club, very yuppie. I can sing, but I also have to dance with the other girls. My first song will be ?Moulin Rouge.? They were impressed with my audition, and they may pay me for some choreography ideas. Maybe I can get some hours there. Regardless, times are hard for everyone right now. Any day that people hear me sing is a good day. My voice is lucky, and I?m so excited for the future that I simply had to start writing my feelings down in something other than song form.

II.

I learned to bartend and made some good tips this evening. I also sang with the band, and even though everyone there was drunk, I think they really liked me. The more I sing, the more I feel like I was put here on this earth to make people happy with the sound of my voice. I?m not trying to be conceited. I am forged through the sweat of my brow to make beautiful sound. I also make a pretty good vodka martini.

III.

My boss, Bobby, thinks he?s Brett Michaels. He keeps going on and on about how he?s going to make me a star and how much money Alleycats is going to make with me singing at the helm. People applauded after the girls worked through my dance today. I told Bobby that he should tie cat collars with rhinestones around our necks and buy us hair extensions to attract more clientele. He went for it. I?m excited. I?ve never been able to afford hair extensions before. The last song I sang before I went home this evening was amazing. I saw a table of drunks in the front row who appeared as if they were crying. That?s the best feedback I could possibly ask for.

IV.

Some of my teachers came by today because it was my day off. They?re quiet, mostly, but they expect what I promised them four years ago. I always thought I?d be able to get my education and disappear without going through with it, but they?ve found me. They want results, and I only have a month. Even though they paid my way and coddled me through learning the art of vocal performance, I don?t think a piece of paper on the wall is worth this. It doesn?t matter. I can?t back out now, and I?m destined for the big time.

V.

Bobby is interested in more than helping me promote my career. I was flirting with a local blues singer in the lounge tonight after singing, and he flipped his shit. Said that I couldn?t afford to have a boyfriend in this business and the only person I?d be hooking up with was him if I wanted to keep my job. I noticed that The Better Business Bureau is right across the street when I left today. I?ll keep that in mind if he gets out of hand.

VI.

More teachers came to see me, except they came to the bar itself. I would have been ashamed, except they didn?t talk to anyone, so no one knew that they were there for me. They wore the black robes in a night club in the middle of the city, so they obviously care little for outward appearances. They focused on me so intently when I was singing that I got scared. I did well, but they?re giving me the message, loud and clear. I have to fulfill my part of the bargain or I?ll lose my voice. If I lose my voice, I have no future. I?m scared.

VII.

I had an audition with a major record label on Music Row today. Bobby was pissed that I called out of work, and apparently the regular alcoholics were requesting that I sing a song before they left. One was so adamant that he was arrested for disorderly conduct. I tried to push it out of my mind and focus on the music. They said I had a beautiful natural voice and that with some ?commercial influence,? I could be a star. I?m excited. This is bigger than my graduation or my future wedding day. I?ll never forget this day. Even if I tried, the teachers won?t LET me forget. They have to remind me that I?m only here because of them.

VIII.

Bobby threw me a party tonight to celebrate my big break. He drank too much and so did I. I drove him home and he tried to kiss me. He smelled like bourbon and cigarettes and wouldn?t take no for an answer. I screamed, and before I realized that he?d stopped trying to grope me, he was screaming WITH me. His eyes were glossy, like a windshield that needs a defroster on max. He had this sort of grimace, like he was in pain, but couldn?t do anything about it but stare at me and scream and scream. I forced myself to shut my mouth, to stop making any noise, and he collapsed in to the passenger floorboard. I got scared and left him there. I?m hoping he?ll remember it as an awful hangover and nothing else. If not, there?s always the Better Business Bureau. I can?t afford to have some stalker ruining my chances of a Grammy.

IX.

They?re here permanently until I deliver on what I promised. They remind me why my voice sounds so sweet, and how they can change it in to a terrible force at any time. They asked me if I liked what happened to Bobby. They asked me if I want that to happen to everyone else I sing for. There?s nothing I can do to stop this, but as soon as I get it over with, they?ll leave me alone forever. They just want their payoff.

Someone stopped me on the street today on the way to my car. He really scared me when he said that he knew who was in my apartment with me. He was a relatively big guy, and he looked dangerous, like one of those UFC fighters or a bouncer or something. He told me to get it done and be done with it ? that the consequences of going back on them were worse than taking one person?s life. He said he?d been swindled by them before, too, and it was the only way to end this. I hope not. I don?t think I can bring myself to kill someone, even at the cost of my own gift.

X.

I almost went through with it tonight, but I just couldn?t bring myself to do it. Everyone in front of the stage looked like they were having fun, enjoying the company of their friends and boyfriends and girlfriends. They came to hear me. I couldn?t betray them. I?ll be forced to, soon, and I might lose it all. It doesn?t matter. I refuse to kill anyone because they want to listen to my voice.

XI.

Tonight was the worst night of my life. They?ve been staying in my room, standing over me as I sleep, hissing in my ear. Deliver. Deliver. Deliver. They held me down before I went to work and replaced the rhinestone Alleycat uniform collar with some kind of choker. It has one red stone on it, and it glows when I sing. It felt good. I wondered if I had their approval until I got on stage. I started singing, and they all started screaming. Jake, the bartender. My friend Jill. The entire drunken audience. I couldn?t stop the sound once I started. My voice soared high, strong, powerful, through the door, out on to Broadway. It brought more and more people in. I saw throngs of people walking through the door, their faces contorted with pain, but it?s like they were forced to stand there and listen. I don?t know any other way to write this, but I knew they were in the worst pain of their lives. My voice was causing it. All of them screamed until their voices were raw and they had gristled sandpaper in their throats.

When I hit my highest note, the entire room was a maelstrom of suffering. People?s heads burst open like overfilled balloons. Their skin peeled off in layers and heaped on the line-dancing floor like party streamers. The ones who still had faces died with a smile on their face, as if death were a blissful escape. I drove home naked. There was too much blood on my clothes. Bobby was out of town, but he comes back tomorrow, and he already knows. He?s too stupid to realize what happened the other night, and thinks someone fired an assault rifle in the middle of the club. Je?s naive. I?ll never be able to go back to work again. All I have now is this record deal. I was lucky that the police didn?t stop me for questioning. The story is on the local news as ?the Music Row Massacre.?

XII.

They took off the collar when I got home and they?re sitting behind me, watching me write this. They know I have to find their sacrifice to have any hope of recording with the label tomorrow. They said what happened at Alleycats is my fault. They expect me to get up and go right now, or the choker goes back on. They?ve turned my own voice against me.

I have to use it as a weapon, one last time. I also have to convince Bobby that I want to be with him. The thought makes me want to throw up.

XIII.

I didn?t have to report Bobby to the Better Business Bureau. He left me a voicemail as they carried him off, and I know he was only able to speak because they let him. They have a cruel side to them that is unrivaled by any human being. They paid me one last visit, of course. They polished his skull like a fine piece of jewelry and delivered it to me in a box. They said as long as it stayed in the same room with me that I?d sing beautifully. They want to remind me that I killed someone to make it big. I wish I could take all of this back, but I wouldn?t, if given the choice.

Tomorrow, I record my first album, and nothing will stop my big debut.

Spoiler

You stumble into the kitchen, covered in sweat. Mind racing. Heart thumping. Christ, could he have followed me here? You think. How did he even find me?

A moment passes. One thing is certain.

He?s not here now.

Your stomach rumbles. Even someone in your position has to eat. Your refrigerator door cries as you tug it open. You peer through the shelves. A jug of tea catches your eye. You take a swig, right out of the container. Your mother won?t know.

The tea tastes sharper than usual. You examine the label. Black tea. She bought the wrong kind. You shrug, reach for some leftovers. Flip the TV on in the other room as you slide them into the microwave. The five o? clock news plays in the background. It might say something about him.

The usual teary story about the war. Some presidential candidate is coming to your town. You count down the numbers on the microwave. 5, 4?

?And, finally, tonight a food contamination alert for all residents in this county.?

?3, 2?

?A shipment of Lipton?s Black Tea delivered to local stores has tested positive for traces of the ebola solanum virus. This super-strain of the disease causes painful sores on the underarms, neck and groin followed by profuse bleeding from all orifices. The survival rate once infected is less than 10%. I repeat, Lipton?s Black Tea has been pulled from the shelves but any resident who purchased the tea is advised to call the Center for Health Control to dispose of it immediately.?

1.

You tug open the fridge once more and look at the tea you just drank.

Lipton?s. That?s not the kind your mother usually buys.

?Authorities report the shipment was tainted by an unidentified biological expert who remains at large.?

He?s not here now. You think. The jug of tea falls to the floor.

But he was.

 

[skystryke]

And the last bit. Again sorry for the quadruple post it wouldn't let me put them all in one.

Spoiler

And I am always with you.

I was there from the time you were born. I stood in the delivery room, staring down at you before you could even open your eyes to see me. Your parents, relatives and doctors couldn?t see me there, in the corner, watching you with cloudy eyes, but I was there from the time you were born.

And I followed you home.

I was with you always, your constant companion. You played with your toys alone while I stared from all angles in nearby mirrors; my matted, clotted hair with oily sweat that hung off my dented forehead like glue. I was always your constant companion, drifting behind your mother?s car on your ride to preschool. You alone in the bathroom, but I was on the other side of the door, wind whistling through the bruised hole in my throat. My arms twisted and hanging in their sockets as I stood hunched on the other side of the shower curtain. I wait and follow you. I follow and drift behind you.

I?m not seen. I?m almost not-there in light. You never saw me that morning as I sat across from you at the breakfast table, a shiny red clot hanging from an empty tooth socket as I gaped grotesquely at you. I wonder sometimes if you know I?m there. I think you are aware, but you?ll never understand just how close I am.

I spend hours of your day doing nothing more than breathing in your ear.

Breathing ? gagging, really.

I crave to be close to you, to always wrap my crippled arms around your neck. I lie near you ever single night, cloudy eyes staring at your ceiling, underneath your bed, at your sleeping face in the dark.

Yes. You caught me staring occasionally. Your parents came running down to your room one night when you screamed. You were just beginning to talk, so you were only able to cry out ?Man! Man in my room!? You thought you?d never forget the sight of me, with my collapsed jaw hanging to my chest, swinging back and forth. I sank back into your closet and your mother was unable to see me though you pointed and pointed and pointed. You thought you?d never forget when they left that same night. You saw the closet door crack so softly and me crawling across the floor to your bed on all fours, shambling in jerking movements as I pushed myself under your bed on disjointed limbs.

You learned a new word for me: boogeyman. Not quite the monster you thought I was. I?m just waiting and following you always, touching your face with my knotted fingers as you sleep.

You?ll see me again soon. Any day now, I?m coming, blunt and brutal. One day you?ll walk across the road and ? I believe I?ll plow into you with loud roar and a screech.

You rolling on the pavement, rolling under wheels, bluntforce metal fenders and my fingers touching your face again and again.

As you stare up from the cold pavement with cloudy eyes; your matted, clotted hair hanging in your face and your jaw unhinged and swinging to your chest.

You?ll see me approaching.

No one else will see me. You will stare past them into my eyes and I?ll leer down at you. For the first time in our life, something like a smile will come over my face. You?ll swear you?re looking into a mirror as clotted red bubbles from our mouths.

I?ll lean down, past the doctors and the oogling people and pick you up in my crooked arms.

Our faces will touch. My wings will unfurl. And then you?ll have to follow me.

And I am always with you.

I am your guardian angel.

Spoiler

Monday, August 3rd, 2009

Times are hard, and I work in a business that is slowly becoming obsolete. People are steering away from glasses and contact lenses to Lasik surgery and more permanent, feasible choices in the field of eye care. I?ve never been the type to collect my thoughts and put them down, and yet these have been the toughest months to endure as of late. My wife left me, along with alimony and a good chunk of everything I?ve struggled to build since I was in my early twenties. I don?t know if I?ll make my mortgage payment on time for the third month in a row. This hole is going to be impossible to climb out of.

Thursday, August 6th, 2009

Got a phone call from corporate and had to terminate the positions of two employees. Stan has been here for seventeen years. He was a good eye doctor. I have a strong suspicion that more permanent layoffs are on the way. I had to go to a dealership and downgrade my vehicle, but the sales tax almost cleaned out my bank account.

Friday, August 7th, 2009

I was helping Stan take his things out of the office today and a new vendor approached me. He works for some company called ?New Vision,? and their prices are better than every other type of lenses we carry. They don?t do glasses or frames. Only contacts. He gave a pretty convincing argument, so I filled my own prescription with their lenses and I?m going to put them in tomorrow morning and try them out. This may be the small boost we need to stay open. I hope so.

Saturday, August 8th, 2009

I called New Vision and told them my office was on board. I should have talked to our regional division manager before cutting the deal, but he treats me like garbage and routinely tells me that my office is in last place in every category but customer service. He says customer service doesn?t make money if you sacrifice profits. He?s not a doctor. These lenses feel more natural and it seems like the material adapts to light better than any other brand that I?ve seen in my twenty plus years as an optometrist. I?m going to keep using them myself. I mowed my lawn today, and I swear I could see every blade of grass. Maybe our patients will drop some greenbacks to try these out.

Monday, August 10th, 2009

I prescribed my first pair of New Vision lenses to a patient today. He?s a six year old boy who was blind as bat before we fitted his eyes. His mother was concerned that six is too young for contacts, but after she saw him looking around and nailing the entire test on the wall, letter for letter and number for number, I convinced her to try them out. If I can get a pair of these out every day, there may be some light at the end of the tunnel. I?ve stopped taking mine out at night because they don?t bother me like normal lenses do in the morning. I feel like I could leave them in forever.

Wednesday, August 12th, 2009

I?ve prescribed them to thirty eight patients and it seems that word of mouth is sending more people my way. People are dropping HydraSoft and Toric left and right. The vendor from the company came by today and put a great ad in my office window. ?See things in a new light. Fit some New Vision lenses today!? They also guarantee that you?ll read at least a line below where you normally would on the wall with any other vendor. They won?t tell me what the lenses are made of, but as good as they feel, I?m not hesitating to give my patients the best choice. The regional manager called again and congratulated me on turning business around. He?ll probably take credit for it at the board meeting. What an ass.

Tuesday, August 18th, 2009

I traded in and got a Mercedes, and I offered Stan his job back. I told him he?d have to convince people to go with New Vision when pitching patients because with the healthcare reform bill on the way, this product is our only trump card. Without it, people will go somewhere else. I?m going to install a plasma TV on the wall in the reception area so people can watch football while they wait on their appointment. People love football. Whatever it takes to get people in the door.

Friday, August 21st, 2009

Stan tried them out and he?s fifty five. He?s reading better than he was in his thirties, or so he says. We went to lunch today and he drives faster than usual; maybe it?s because he can see the road better.

Saturday, August 22nd, 2009

I?m a little rattled. I called New Vision today to order more product and to fill some prescriptions with some pending patients, but the line has been disconnected. I called the vendor?s personal cell and heard some sort of odd sound. You know when you?re sitting at a campfire and you can hear wood burning and popping in the flames? It sounded like that. Maybe their phones are down or there?s a power outage. I?m not sure. I?ll call them on a regular business day.

Sunday, August 23rd, 2009

I feel strange. I tried to go to mass with my mother today. I try to go to church with her at least once a month. I walked through the front doors of the chapel, and my vision started going blurry. The membranes around my eyes felt like they were going to burst open. I didn?t bring my glasses so I had to sit outside before we went to Sunday lunch. I think it was just a headache or a spasm or something. I?m not too worried about it.

Tuesday, August 25th, 2009

I?m frightened. Something wrong happened today. I fitted a 13-year-old girl for contacts, and while I was looking in to her dialated pupil, something appeared in the apparatus lens that hangs from the ceiling when I looked through it. It seemed like a bat, except its eyes were on fire, and it was getting closer and closer to my eye the longer that I stared in to the scope. I looked away before it got too big. I think I?ve been working too much and I may take a personal day. Stan is going to backfill my patients in to his schedule.

Wednesday, August 26th, 2009

I almost died today. I wish I would have. I went to the old house in New Haven that now belongs to my wife, thanks to the courts. On the way, I stopped at a McDonald?s, and the girl in the drive-thru window looked like she was going to kill me. Her eyes caught on fire and her teeth elongated, and her voice sounded like one of those mechanical larynx boxes they give to people who smoke their throats in to oblivion. My Big Mac was shaking in my hands and I spilled that special sauce thousand island shit on my khakis. I looked down to wipe it away, and when I looked up at the road, the bat was on my windshield. It shattered and tried to claw my eyes out, and my eyebrows are gone. It singed them right off before I sped up and threw it out the window. My wife asked me if I was doing drugs when I showed up at the door with no eyebrows. All I wanted was my pair of shiny black shoes from the closet. I shouldn?t ever have to go back again. I saw her eyeing my car and my smashed windshield. I don?t really care anymore.

Wednesday, August 26th, 2009

It?s almost midnight and I tried to take my lenses out. They?re not THERE anymore. I reached in to pull them off my cornea with my finger, and I poked myself straight in the eyeball. I?ve heard of lenses with high amounts of protein buildup dissolving in to people?s eyes, but I?ve worn these for less than a month. How can I still see if they?re not in my eyes? For the first time in my life, I?m scared of something more than my ex-wife.

Thursday, August 27th, 2009

I checked the ledger today and business is out of the red and in the black. We?re officially making a profit on every patient now, but I?m having trouble focusing. I can see fine, but every now and then, my vision goes blurry and I see the winged thing coming at me from off in the distance. I tried going in to the broom closet and just keeping my eyes open in the dark. I still saw the bat in the distance, flying at me, head-on. It?s trying to get my eyes. I?m an optometrist. I NEED my eyes.

Friday, August 28th, 2009

Stan is dead, and so is the six year old boy. No one else has made the connection that the only thing they have in common is my office and New Vision. They found Stan about a mile from work, his car caddy-cornered with the shoulder of the road. His hair was burned off and he didn?t have any eyebrows, either. His eyes weren?t missing. They were burned and melted in to his eyesockets. I never got to ask him if he?d tried to take the lenses out. I have to call everyone and tell them to return their prescriptions and stick to HydraSoft. I tried to call the vendor guy from New Vision. The line was popping and snapping again. The bat started coming at me, so I hung up.

Monday, August 29th, 2009

Fourteen more patients are dead. I?d say that I would be looking at a lawsuit for my prescription records, but they haven?t found any traces of any company named New Vision or a brand of lenses by that name. The same thing happened to their eyes as mine. I?ve closed my office (Dr. Mendez and Associates will be closed until further notice due to illness) until I can find out what?s happening. We?re about to be in the red again, but something tells me that I won?t be around much longer to worry about the fruition of my business and craft. I was going to retire in the next five years anyway.

Tuesday, August 30th, 2009

My eyes are not red. My eyes are not bloodshot. There?s this pink, fleshy, THROBBING membrane of skin around my eyelids. It breathes, it copulates, and it pulses when I stare off in the distance for long periods of time. The thing becomes to come again. I finally let it get close enough that I saw what it really is. It?s a hairless human head with talons growing from a rut in the chin. The wings have wrapped around the temples and extended from the ears. Although the eyes are on fire, I recognize that mole on the corner of its chin. It?s not any human head. It?s MY head.

Wednesday, August 31st, 2009

It came to me this morning and gave me a bottle of pills. Said I should go down to Doctor Margaret Lenore?s pediatric office in New Haven and tell her about this new drug. Helps kids with ADD and ADHD focus and get good grades. Supposedly works 400% better than Ritalin. She tried it on her hyperactive pomeranian and it works. Saw dollar signs in her eyes. I didn?t tell her that the bottle smelled like burning fire to me.

Friday, October 1st, 2009

I found the New Vision property. It?s deserted. Everywhere I go, things are on fire. The gas station attendant?s face melted and stretched out thirty feet to the floor when I gave her my card to pay for gas. The pink flesh is dark maroon now and it?s growing out from the sides of my head. When I was shaving this morning, I ran my razor down from my chin to the base of my Adam?s apple. The skin broke open and I saw a little white sharp claw poking out after the blood stopped. I found something in the back room of this place.

The vendor guy is missing his head, and this entire office smells of ashes.

Spoiler

You're thinking about it again. I wouldn't be here if you weren't. When you drift to thoughts of suicide at night, you provide a gateway for me to rise to the surface.

I've seen many who are obsessed, and when you're not thinking about ending your life, I get to visit their minds. However, you are truly one fascinating creature. No one knows it but me. You entertain some insanely beautiful thoughts for a few moments during the day. At midnight, your insomniac streak kicks in, and then you're stuck on long thought tangents of when, how, and where you'd like to take your own life. Most people go for easy, painless deaths, but you're different.

You've had some original concoctions, let me tell you. You moved past knives, sharp objects, firearms, and medication relatively quickly. You thought about plastering your brains against the basement wall downstairs with a twelve gauge once or twice. I recall flashes of deliberate cyanide poisoning and overdoses of painkillers.

Your favorite, though, is a free fall over that cliff to the north of town. You think about your body breaking in one terrible second on the jutting spires of rocks in the sea foam. You wonder if you would perish upon impact, or if you would bounce and sink in to the salt bath. You like the thought of open wounds, of impaling yourself and instantly filling your body with the swell of the ocean. You want to be tossed about in the waves, crashed against the rock wall like a ping pong ball until you finally expire.

These are the opportunities I relish and look forward to.

You're half aware of who I am at night when you lay there in quiet desperation. Your smile at work, around your dog and spouse, at the line in Subway for your five dollar footlong at lunch time ---- it's a hideously perfect facade. I have to commend you on building up the image of a normal American citizen. Your guise is nearly as strong as my own.

Back in the day, you thought about it every now and then, but lately, it's been an exquisite constant. The more you consider offing yourself, the more you invite me along for the ride. I took your mental hand from the first step down the road of dark thoughts, of wiping your own existence off the face of the earth. The first time you seriously considered it, I was born.

I remember it perfectly. It was the time when you were seven, and you tripped in the garage and knocked your father's Harley Davidson crashing to the cement floor. He'd been hitting his Sunday afternoon portion of Wild Turkey surprise after you'd come in from church, waiting on your mother to cook. He was furious with you and gave you a nice big wallop that you told your teacher was a bruise from a rogue baseball pitch. He wiped out a paycheck to pay for the damage and you went without lunch money for a month.

You've never played baseball in your life, you sneaky chameleon. I know better.

Don't ask me what I am. I'm not quite sure. Maybe I'm just a voice that people hear in their heads. Perhaps you are mentally ill, and I am you, but also not you. The most interesting notion is that I am some dark force and malevolent spirit, but I'm not prone to flattery. I am a force, a desire ---- a means to a permanent end. Nothing more.

You've never had the balls to go through with it, and I don't think you ever will. Be honest. You've always dubbed it "the easy way out," or you would have tried it out by now. The truth is, you don't have the gumption, and most other people don't either. You say it's a cowardly gesture, a cop out from the hardships of real life ---- but that's your excuse.

At one time or another, we all hit what we think is rock bottom. Some of us take a step back from the edge after seeing how steep the drop is, and we're ashamed for even considering a fatal leap. In this case, we are normal.

Some of us open a figurative parachute in mid air and realize how close we really are to death, and it changes our lives completely, mostly for the better. These people are the wrist-slashers and the failures who aren't even good enough to off themselves, and they fail miserably at everything they do. Believe it or not, they end up as stronger people than most after the ordeal ---- if they survive it.

Some of us hit terminal velocity when we go over the edge, and we splatter with collateral impact on the ground, destroying not only our own lives, but the lives of fellow loved ones and friends in the process. These people care for nothing in life but themselves. As soon as they hate the person they have become, they have nothing left. Their lives combust in one violent moment and their suicide impacts the world around them.

But you're none of those, are you? Mostly, you're a slug who avoids confrontation, but at least you're creative.

Sometimes, I get a pleasant surprise, and I get the chance to spring up during random times of the day ---- like when your boss calls you in to her office for an hour of adultery. Considering how much weight she's gained, I can't say I blame you for NOT wanting to have sex at work, but you're stuck with the pay raise at a job you can never leave. You can't back out on your little arrangement because you don't want her to leave a quick but oh-so-tantalizing voicemail for your wife, loaded with all the juicy details of your nine month fling, I have a feeling your significant other won't appreciate her new Lexus as much as she did when you pulled it up in the driveway, fresh off a Monday to Friday fuck spree. She still thinks you got promoted, because you're a clever manipulator of smoke and mirrors.

I won't tell anyone what a despicable person you are. You're standing there every day from three to four, thrusting in to that squealing porker on a groaning desk, wanting to send a nine millimeter slug straight through your temple the entire time.

This is where we digress. I don't see how you can endure it. When your neighbor sneaks in to your back yard at night and jerks off to your daughter through her bedroom window, you're too lazy to do anything about it because he's two hundred and seventy pounds and you're just a slimcake coward. You're too afraid to confront a potential sex offender in your neighborhood, but not because you don't care about your teenager. You really are just that lazy. It's astonishing.

The truth is, none of this is new information to you. You hear the same voice, the same thoughts, every single night. I'm always lingering in the grey area, waiting for you to make a move, but you don't. You're like a month old pickle that's hardened and stuck to the glass window of a diner. Instead of slowly sliding down to the floor, however, you just cling to the glass and let the sun shrivel you up in to an inedible scrap of decay.

This is the one new thought you'll have all night. In fact, it's the first new thing in this vicious circle that's been circulating through your head for a decade.

I'm tired of all the creative rigs you've set up in your mind. You construct these delusions of suicide grandeur, meticulously crafted and thought out to the point of perfection, and then you just wake up and put on your ruse to the rest of the world the next morning. You throw these great inventions in your head out the window, and I can never save them, because I have no control.

Patience is my greatest of attributes. I've watched and waited, and a week ago, I found out that I was wrong about my role as a spectator in this mess that you call your life. I've gained some measure of power over your mind. I haven't used it when you're awake, or you would notice.

I'm not a helpless observer anymore. When you drove your car to the edge of that cliff last night, you got me incredibly excited. I thought the moment had finally arrived. We were both ready, but then you lied to yourself again.

You backed down for the thousandth time. You're a suicide prude. Always holding back. Giving me self-destructive blue balls.

Tomorrow, your body will be mine. I've had the most perfect set of watercolors to paint the portrait of our death, but never the physical canvas with which to do it.

I'm going to take over while you're fucking your boss. I have a few things to say to her. Something tells me that you won't fight it. You'll drift away and let me take care of everything.

You have way, way too many problems.

Suicide is your ultimate solution for all of them.

 

[David_G]

Oh God, I had seen the Offended page, but hadn't seen the kittens one. You can see where this is going. And while the page was loading I suddenly realized what was the matter, and when it opened it was too late, although I had already seen most of the images it didn't faze me that much, but it just shows you to know better than to be curious on the internet.

Dude the problem I had with the kittens page was that I wasn't really thinking so I had my head phones on with the sound way up.So now I only browse while muted.

Also another few stories.

Spoiler

Felt

Five hundred twenty six dollars and thirty four cents.

This is my paycheck after two weeks of full-time employment at the Thrift-Sak. It's enough to pay the rent, two tanks of gas, and the car insurance on my jalope of a ride.

My apartment is a complete shit-hole. When Sandra used to come over, she told me that the cockroaches were complaining. She was always funny in that way that would annoy you me, the more that time passed . She stopped talking, eventually. I should feel awful that it happened, but I really have no right to complain.

Forty four thousand, nine hundred dollars.

The sun is starting to crest over the city line, but that's what I won last night. What did it cost me, exactly?

Two packs of Marlboro lights (in a box), a Rockstar energy drink, and Sandra's face.

It wasn't my fault that they got her, really. I played to the best of my ability, and so did she. Maybe she caught the wrong river card on the wrong hand. Maybe I'm ten percent better than she is. Or, maybe, I just got lucky. Ask me if I got lucky, and I'll tell you --- I did, okay? I GOT LUCKY.

It's 5:43am and I have to be at work at the Thrift-Sak in seventeen minutes. I'm parked outside it, now, contemplating on whether I should go in or not. I'm leaning towards no. After all, I'm living in the fast lane now. I made my breakthrough, but not in a way that I'd thought possible.

People all over America play poker. Some for fun, some for sport, some as an excuse to see a hot girl take her clothes off, and some to make a living. I wanted to be that person for the longest time. Last night, I found a game with the highest stakes I've ever encountered, and now, I'm thinking it's possible that I could be upgrading soon. New place, new ride, new haircut.

Their game starts at midnight. Rule number one is that you don't play unless you bring a friend. Rule number two is that one person leaves a winner. Rule number three is that the game is off unless they get a full table of ten players.

Last night, I was number nine.

The buy-in is not of monetary value. In fact, the entire concept is a little distorted if the only poker game you've ever played is in Vegas. The rules are no limit texas hold em, which means that any player can go all-in for their entire chip stack at any time. The difference is, you don't buy your chips with your hard-earned.

You?re gambling, of course. Your only motivation is your own avarice. When you're invited, you know what the pot amount will be. Last night, it was forty four thousand nine hundred dollars. Tonight, it's sixty two thousand, three hundred twenty dollars. Why the sudden increase, you ask? Because they had a winner.

It runs every night except Sundays in the back room of Romantico. It's one of those yuppie-hack metrosexual clubs downtown, by second avenue. People in that place are rail thin, and they wear Under Armour, lycra, and every other tight-fitting material that you could think of. Most of them are doped up on some substance or another. It's not really my kind of place, but what goes on in the back room is completely discreet. It's under wraps, per the owner of the property, but it always starts at midnight.

I was never too fond of Sandra in the first place, really. She looked great naked (she has a tattoo of a purple crescent moon on her hip, and she smells like lilacs), but she was always a ***** to work with. She'd only come over if she got too drunk and her shift ended one or two hours before mine. For once, I actually needed her around. I asked her to go with me to the club to play cards, and she told me to go chop my dick off. I told her which club it was, and all of a sudden, she was all rosy-eyed. I guess she thinks she's a high class girl. She said she'd played poker a few times before. I didn't want to tell her that strip poker is different than the real thing, because you're playing to lose and get laid. I needed her, to get a chance at the pot. I didn't care if she lost. She was shitty with her money in the first place, so the prospect of a free tournament entry and winning forty grand sounded good to her. Like I said, she's not too intelligent.

The poker room itself is made almost entirely of stone. It's cold in there, despite the fact that it's a hundred degrees in early August before the sun goes down. There are broad, sweeping drapes that make a coverlet around the old rock, creating a perimeter around the room. There are no windows or openings whatsoever. The drapes bleed from the walls, the most vibrant of reds. The candles that are scattered around the corners cast an eerie, flamed glow towards the table itself. If you exclude the modern additions, it would look like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story. The Masque of the Red Poker Room, if you feel me.

The table is some kind of black, charred material that looks like a mixture between wood, glass, and ebony. When you fold your hands on it or rest your elbows on the rim, your skin will get warm. Keep leaning and you'll feel hot. Eventually, it feels like you just ran your hand under a boiling water faucet. For that reason, I usually try to keep my hands in my lap. I learned to memorize my cards so I didn't have to peek at them after the first time.

The felt of a poker table can have a surreal, plush feel to it. Like a pool table, except it's molded over with a top layer of plastic that allows the cards to skim across it easier. This felt was the smoothest and most exotic that I'd ever seen, except that you could feel it moving. Put your chips in the center, place your fingertips on it to raise the edge of your cards --- and I swear you could feel a heartbeat. The surface is peach-colored and smells strongly of women's perfume. For some reason, touching that felt gives me a hard on. I guess you could say I've taken gambling to an unhealthy level.

When you first enter, you'll think you've lost your mind. You'll see heaps and heaps of chips, but some of them are more of an off-colored white than the others. When it finally hits you, you'll realize that your chips are made of human bones. All ten of you will exchange a nervous glance with each other before the blinds hit and the clock starts ticking. Under the gun, just like that.

When you go all-in, you don't put any chips in the middle of the table. Instead, you stand up, walk to the back corner of the room, and they put their hands on your shoulders. They're waiting, you see. To make sure you made the right move --- that you really had the best hand. You'd better be sure. Bluffing in this game will cost you a lot more than your mortgage.

One by one, the people around me would go all in. I was surprised that Sandra was doing as well she did, honestly. People would go to the corner, they'd bust out, and they would leave with the guys in the robes through the back door. I didn't know who they were. They gave us our chips, they told us to sit, and they got pissed at me when I tried to smoke at the table. They weren't any different than the fat, cocky pit bosses at the Mirage, really.

I played tight, and I tried to trap people when I knew I had them in a tough spot. I was a table bully, and I was catching some cards. Before I knew it, there were only three of us left, and Sandra had enough chips in front of her to entertain a pack of dobermans for a year. A few minutes later, she knocks out this other poor chap in front of us, and we're down to two at around three in the morning.

I look down, and I try hard not to let a little smile break the corners of my mouth. I have two kings. "Cowboys," as some call them... or "danger rangers." The second best starting hand in poker. Although there are two of us left, the stakes are getting high. We both know that whoever wins this game isn't going to work at the Thrift-Sak ever again.

What would you do with that kind of hand? You'd go all-in, of course. And that's what I did --- before the cards even came out. I stood up from my chair, waltzed over to the corner, and the dark robed observers clamped their bony grasps in to my shoulders.

Sandra rises to her feet, as well. She flashes me that stupid, sideways grin that makes me want to spit in her face. "I'm all in too, Dicky-Dog." She walks over to the other corner, and they have her locked in, as well.

I hate when she calls me Dicky-Dog. My name is Richard. Not Dick. Not DICKY-DOG.

That's when I saw her cards on the table. She'd turned them face up, like mine. Pocket aces. Bullets. Pocket rockets. The big cheese. The number one best starting hand in no limit hold em. Suddenly, percentages were racing through my brain. I had an eleven percent chance of hitting another king and beating her in this hand. She was an eighty nine percent favorite. I hear a low grunt, hot breath expelling across the back of my neck from the robed figured on my right. Their fingers are crushing in to my flesh, now, even deeper. They know I've made a bonehead move, and that I'm probably the next one heading through the gated door. At least I know, either way, that I'm not going back to the Thrift-Sak tomorrow. Sandra's giddy like a school girl.

The turn card is a three. My winning percentage has just been chopped in half. I now have a six point five percent chance to win. One last draw.

I've never been as scared as I was in that moment, but then, the dealer in the black robe laid down the last card. The king of spades. I was saved, and the look of horror and revulsion on Sandra's face was almost classic. Her little khaki skirt does a poor job of hiding the fact that she's pissing herself. They must be really digging in to her. The voice that I hear next almost unsettles my bladder, as well. It's definitely not human.

"Three of a kind kings beats a pair of aces."

The figure at the table rises to his feet, and he extends his sleeved arm outward, pointing directly at Sandra's face. For the first time, I can see that his finger is not of human origin. It's made from the same material as my poker chips.

"We have a winner for this evening. The tournament is over."

As they escorted me out and the gate came to a close with a slow groan behind me, the last thing I could see was Sandra's face, twisted in absolute horror. She was missing her lips. I had a briefcase full of money and a head full of images that I will never forget.

It's 6:28AM now, and I am officially almost half an hour late for work. I toss my Thrift-Sak shirt in the wastebin by the gas pumps, but as I leave, Chaz is pulling in to the parking lot. Chaz is a pretty good worker, and he doesn't really give me a lot of shit. I like Chaz. In fact, I'll be inviting him to tonight's game. He's never played poker before, but I told him the stakes aren't terribly high. It won't even cost him anything to buy in. He knows a deal when he sees it.

I'm looking forward to touching that table again. There's a purple half-moon crescent on it, just at the corner by seat seven. It smells faintly of lilacs.

Spoiler

"Cut"

Ricardo's snaps were so tight that I could barely take the ball from him in time to drop back. Every time he settled in to position, he appeared as if he was about to explode. I didn't blame him, and he was the best fullback I've had in twelve years, since the peewee days, when our center offensive lineman hit a growth spurt before the rest of us and shot up to five foot seven before any of us were half that tall.

The pocket collapsed around me before I even had time to think about an eligible receiver. This other team, they weren't like us. Before the snap, I could hear their guttural breathing. They forced their way through my line like demons possessed. My offensive linebackers dropped like bowling pins, and by the time the football rolled off my index finger with a shaky release, the right defensive tackle was on me, three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. My head hit the dead, lifeless grass of the decaying field, and then I heard the hissing. They hissed on every big play, positive or negative, but this one was joyous --- celebratory. In that moment, with my head halfway embedded in the dead-field, I knew I'd thrown an interception. The others were one possession closer to victory, and that meant we would all be dead soon.

We were brought here because we weren't good enough for the National Football League. We all had starry-eyed ambitions; we aspired to get burned by Jim Rome on SportsCenter, to make people thousands of dollars with our fantasy football stats and our spreads and our yards per carry, quarterback ratings, and third down conversion percentages. None of it worked out that way.

We are the fourth stringers, the last round stragglers, who were the stars of small high schools around America. We did fairly well in college, but not well enough to merit a six figure salary and a draft pick from the AFC or NFC. We watched the star quarterbacks of Oklahoma, Florida, Texas Tech, the Heissman trophy winners, the school record holders. We watched them, and we waited. But long after they were chosen and spoon-fed multi-million dollar contracts, in the two-hundred and twentieth round of the NFL draft, we still didn't have a bid for a spot on a team.

That's when they came to us. We were the rejects. The ones who had been cut. We would actually use our college degrees, because we wouldn't be playing professional football. The problem for me was, specifically, that I had counted on the NFL. All of us had our hopes wrecked to oblivion, and we were vulnerable. Maybe that's why they came when they did. They played us like a fiddle. Our emotions were marionette strings, and they are the puppet masters. That's how we all ended up on this field, right now.

They came to me about three hours after the NFL's expression of their lack of interest in signing me to a roster. They wore black suits, wore large pieces of jewelry that resembled the over-sized, lavish sheen of Super Bowl rings and genuine Rolex time pieces. They seemed legit, until the moment I signed the contract. Their eyes were odd --- I just thought they paid for strangely-colored contact lenses. Then, something knocked me out, and when I came to, I was in a locker room, being prepped for the slaughter that's taking place on this "field." I assume the rest of my teammates were duped in the same manner. I don't even know where we are. The heat feels like we?re in Texas. The blackened sky makes me think we?re in hell.

They've pulled Ricardo to the sideline and replaced him with some other rookie. I've seen two others since the first quarter; the first was a wide receiver that dropped a solid pass on a slant route to the corner, and the other was our running back, who blazed like lightning during his high school and college career. He looked like an old man trying to get downfield against this other team's secondary. They're not human. They caught him about a split second after he broke away from the line of scrimmage and drove his head in to the forty yard line. It was the most vicious tackle I'd ever seen in my life. He shouldn't have survived, and when he did, they sent him to the other team's sideline. They're passing his body parts around the bench like his dismembered arms and legs are a quick, hydrating fix from a gatorade bottle. I couldn't see for sure, because I was freaking out and too concerned about my own performance. The first time I looked, he was making the walk of shame to the opposing bench --- which I thought was odd. When I looked back two minutes later, his body was in pieces, his head was mounted on top of the first down marker, and the safeties were eating his limbs. Their eyes glowed with a singed fire of electric fury behind black gloss visors. His sustenance gave them a lust for more blood, more violence. What better way for them to sate their hunger than on a football field, if you could actually assign that term to this place. I'd call it an expanse of athletic death.

As sick as it made me feel, and as much as my stomach churned, the players around me have rallied. They're inspired, not with the competitive desire to win, but with the raw, instinctual will to live, to survive. They don't want to die, to be consumed by the monstrosities in the black and red uniforms on the other side of the ball. Ricardo was being carved up, and he was our friend, our companion. As our defense went out on to the field, my guys were voracious to get back out there. We had to stop them, get the ball back, and push.

"Grind your heels," my father always said. "Grind your heels hard enough, and you'll get to the endzone, son."

We needed the big "W," but the points didn't matter. We had to make sure we weren't pounded in to a scurvy pulp by these hulking monstrosities. They were out for blood. They probably could have lost by ten thousand points, but as long as they tore in to us like ravenous ghouls, the thousands of hissing shades in the stands would be happy. They weren't drinking beer and eating chili dogs. Their viscuous, cloudy black figures were there to witness our torment, our downfall. We had to emerge victorious. And, then, we needed to find out how to get out of this infernal stadium.

I didn't know how or why, but there were TV cameras on the sidelines. The tall, robed figures operating them didn't appear to be employees for any major entertainment network that I was aware of. They had pads and pens with them, scribbling down furiously as they talked on their cell phones. As a football player, I knew what was going on there. They were bookies, and they were taking bets from someone on the other side. People who were aware that this was going on. It infuriated me, and I was ready to exact revenge on the fans, the red-eyed "franchise owners" who deceived us all, and most of all, the ogres at the line of scrimmage.

Our defense, bless their hearts, looked tired and defeated as they came to the sideline. The shade-warriors have failed to score a touchdown from my interception.... a "pick six," if you will. I saw the terror in their eyes, but thank the Gods, none of them were being taken to the other sideline. It was time for us to get out there. As we huddled around the marker, I tried to console them, to ensure that regardless of the outcome of this game, we would find a way to stay alive. I was making empty promises and hollow assurances, but I needed morale. How could I make a speech and take the place of a leader when not even I believed that we'd make it out of here alive? I had to try.

I took the snap and handed the ball off to our new fullback. I didn't know his name, but he was a huge, bulky fellow who looked as though he'd served military time in the marines or the army. Much to my surprise, he hunkered down, powered through the growling defense, and picked up a gain of around seventeen yards before the backfield defender caught him around the neck and drug him to the black turf. There were no referees, and we were running on pure adrenaline, pure rage. He came back to the huddle, and I decided it was time.

The huddle of a football team is a sacred place for any athlete. It's the moment when you plan your attack, when all eleven of you collectively decide who will take a hit, who will carry the ball, and who will reap the glory. My voice was shaky, and I saw tears in some of their eyes. Yes, even football players cry. I feel like King Arthur, except I've never fought anyone in my entire life.

"I don't know your names, but I know you all dreamed of playing in the big league. They told us we're not good enough to be pro. I don't know why we're here, but these things are counting on us to lose. Do you want to die, or do you want to live? It's that simple, boys. We fight, here and now, and if we die trying, then so be it. Until now, we haven't played like a team, because we weren't brought together as a team. Every single one of us has to count on each other. We're running a Z-26 play action skid. Convince them that the fake is real, and I'll take care of the rest, if I can. Ready?"

The roar from around me comes not from the ghastly black clouds in the stands, or from the beasts waiting at twenty yard line. It's from my temporary brothers, my teammates. It's the most raw, emotional "BREAK!" that's ever graced my ears.

I didn't want them to make any more mistakes, because I was afraid they'd be killed. I was the quarterback --- the leader, of sorts. If anyone was going to be sacrificed on an account of bad athletic performance, it was going to be me. I took the next snap and dropped back, faked a pass to the tight end, and broke for strong side. The yell from inside my own helmet, from my own voicebox, was so loud and animalistic that it inspired my last bastion of protection, the right offensive tackle. He surged forward, driving back the defense from hell. They wanted to tear my head off, and this guy, who I'd never met until five minutes ago, was playing his heart out, pushing, fighting for his life, and mine, and every other human being in this place.

I broke free, and there was only one defender between me and the goal line. He was three times my size, and I honestly believed that if he had hit me, I would have never stood up again. I managed a juke, and although I wasn't a running back, I was doing whatever I needed to do to secure those six points. He dove, and whizzed by me. Grind your heels, son. Grind your heels.

Touchdown.

I made it, and the vicious hiss that rang in my ears was like a brutal, fast-acting contagion. It destroyed my senses, rang through my ears, and I felt as though my head might be ripped in three different directions, splattering in to a bloody mess. How would that be for an endzone celebration?

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

The crowds were furious, but I had scored. The score was six to nothing, but we never got the opportunity to kick the extra point.

The shades had begun to fade away, and the franchise owner, the red-eyed man in the black suit, has seemingly pulled the plug on the entire operation. He came toward me, and his voice was sonorous, almost bell-like, a complete and violent betrayal of everything that has taken place here. He ambled across the field to the one yard line.

"This is the first time anyone has scored against us. All of you will leave except this quarterback. You will do one thing for me when you return, or we will return for you, and you only.? The tall old man said.

His voice has chilled me to the bone.

There was only thing that I truly regretted, and that was that I couldn't have stepped up sooner and saved the lives of the first few players who failed. We could have stopped it. It required determination, teamwork, and the resolve to stay alive. We fought, and we won.

I have one last thing that I had to accomplish, however. The bookies were counting on our loss, and apparently, so were certain people who were connected with these hooded, robed figures. They were the financial movers and shakers of the underworld, I suppose. I wasn't entirely sure, but when I brought the man Richard to them, kicking and screaming, he appeared to be a rich man. He'd been cashing in on their scams for a long time. In addition to making side bets on football games, apparently, he'd been winning, lucratively, I might add, in some sort of demented poker game that they ran on the side.

They forced me to watch as they skinned him alive. They scooped out his eyes, crushed his skull, and peeled off his face. Then, they stitched it up, and made it in to a pig-skin football.

Where they would normally inscribe the manufacturer of the ball, "Spaulding," instead, there were only two words.

"Dicky Dog."

Spoiler

"Draft" (sequel to ?Felt,? and ?Cut?)

This is Jake. I'm glad someone around here has a ham radio on. Keep it tuned to this frequency, cuz I got somethin' pretty unreal to tell you. Can you hear me okay? The mouthpiece is in my helmet, so it might sound a little muffled, but you should be alright. If you can record this, you better get at it. You don't wanna miss this. Just listen.

Eighty four centimeters. That's your window. You get that much space to make your move. It's do or die in the span of half a second; you're in a pocket of perfect wind resistance, and the responsibility falls on you to take advantage of it, or lose your opportunity. Fall behind, in other words. Cop out. You're the guy behind the checkered flag, in that instance, and you are invisible. You lost. No one gives a shit.

Or, you can be a maniac, and take the alternative. Capitalize.

That's what my buddy told me before he died. Capitalize on your own streak of aggression. He was only a small-time guy, worked at a gas station, but he was a damn good driver. He never made it to sponsorship levels, but he was well on his way, believe me. I never saw him lose a race on the street. He had a nice ride, and this bumper sticker on the back that said "Drive fast, or eat shit."

So, this is what you do. Bank on the possibility that maybe -- just MAYBE, the guy in front of you will lift his foot just half an inch while yours presses down, and give you the space and road you need to capitalize. Maybe he's a smidgeon more afraid of that upcoming curve than you are. So you take that space of fear, and you capitalize. Eighty four centimeters of it, to be exact.

A slingshot through the wind resistance is hard to pull off, but to be perfectly honest with you, there's nothing better in the world if you've got the nuts. Hundred year old vintage scotch. A threesome at the Playboy mansion. A winning lottery ticket. None of that means shit if you're born to race, okay? You'll consider me a thrill-seeker, or a speed junkie, or just plain ol' batshit crazy, but that's just the way it is.

I jerk the steering wheel to the left, enough that it doesn't fight the chassis and disrupt my downforce, and as I gap that eighty four centimeter distance between his rear bumper and my headlights, I'm on his inside corner and passing through to fourth place. I'm in the top five, and normally, I'd be banking some points at the end of today. However, this isn't the Nextel series or the Brickyard 400. Points are worth about as much as a shit-stain on a wedding dress around here.

The curve has ended, and I have one hundred eighty yards of straight-away.

Wide open.

You hear rednecks toss the term around like it's poetry. 'Did you see that guy? He was wide open! Damn, man! FEARLESS!'

What does it mean, exactly? I'm not sure. Does it imply that the piston chambers in your engine are at their flawless limit, that your transmission has topped out at that wonderful apex? Have you reached the nearly unattainable and blissful union of rotations per minute (RPM) and miles per hour? Those two attributes long to neutralize and top out together. There are very few moments in competitive racing when you'll hit that mark. It can take five or six perfectly maneuvered laps, a good draft, and a foolish opponent in front of you, but eventually, you will hit it. When you do, let me know if you bust a hard-on, because I sure do. Every time.

It's not just that. I have no reputation here. This car was given to me, for this one race, and, to quote the voice of the red-eyed weirdo guy in the black suit, "all heats to come, if I am deemed worthy."

My buddy Chaz used to say that you're only as good as the people that you can lap. If racing were UFC, lapping someone would be the equivalent of a ground and pound to the face. Football? It'd be a sack for a twenty yard loss, or an interception return for ninety nine yards. Well, I've lapped every guy here, except these top three. They're different. Every time I try to take a turn above speed and gain some distance on them, it feels like I'm getting in worse and worse shape. The car in first is about to lap the poor schmuck in last place for the second time. They'll intervene on that guy soon. He's short of the mark, and people don't survive when they fall short in THEIR events. Chaz's co-worker Richard thought he had them all figured out, too, like he was in real good cohoots or something. Yeah, that turned out real well.

Look in my rearview. See him, how he stopped to pit? He pitted twelve laps ago. There's no way he's getting gas. He won't be back on the track. Trust me.

So get this. If the guy in the lead of the pack is that far ahead of you, my question is, why even bother? When you get right down to it, most of the cars are tuned to the same specs. If you can't hit the curves and head out of them like a bat out of hell, swallow your fear, and put some lead on the accelerator, you're dead in the water. Nut up or shut up, and go home.

This track is worse than Daytona or Talladega. Here, they don't really give a shit about how my car is tuned, so I?m starting to think maybe these regulars who win race after race have something going on that I don't know about.

I was right.

You wanna know why that one guy is two laps behind the leader? You wanna know why he's dead now? He's got no passion. That's why. I really wish you could see this place. There are no Bud Light vendors or racing merchandise booths. There are fans, but they don't hoot and holler and get up on the fences when you go by, or flash you their tits. There are no baseball caps with number 3's and angel wings on the front (rest in peace, Dale). In fact, the only time they seem to get excited is when somebody overtakes another driver. I think it?s odd. I?m also pissed that I?m fifty car-lengths behind the leader in seventeenth place, as of about an hour ago. Something changed though. I found out these cars, this track ---- this whole surreal fucking gig in itself ---- it's not the real thing. It's better.

Any sport should have a certain degree of heart and dedication to it. What are you willing to sacrifice to win? The moment I answer that question for myself, I hit sixteenth place. Then, I push the smooth little black button on the dash above my clutch. That's how I got up here in the top five. I wish I'd known about it sooner, because the thing is, I'm pretty sure I want to win more than any person --- or thing, on this little stretch of asphalt. It's not the money, either. They killed Chaz. So, what's it all come down to, really?

Revenge.

Stay wih me. I know a little bit about what's going on here, even though they don't know that. See, they find things where they think they can get you. They pit you all against each other in one form or another, except the stakes are always higher than any competition you'll find anywhere else. Then, when you fail, they take you away. It's what they do. They're passion-thieves. They take your desire, your determination, and then, the moment you find out that you didn't have enough of it, they steal it away in a heartbeat, and then your life is over.

Only one guy has succeeded in beating them so far, and he was a football player. As it turns out, he turned out to be good ol' Richard's downfall, since Dick had been banking on people's failures to make a pretty penny. That was in this abandoned little ghost town in Texas, but you know what? That town isn't deserted anymore, and the sky isn't charred with blackness. Ever since he won that little game, the sun peers out a little bit more there every day.

So, I'm here to help my racing buddy rest in peace, but I'm also here to make things right in this place. They've got themselves some sorta foothold, I reckon, but as soon as I lap the leader, we're golden. They lose their power when you beat them, you see. Even if I don't survive, I'll win, and that's all that matters. You feel me? I want it bad enough, that it's almost guaranteed.

I think I see a little ray of sunshinse now, off in the East, over turn four. Things aren't looking so good for them.

Back to that little black button. What do you expect me to tell you? That it's the turbo booster? Nitrous oxide? This isn't the Fast and the Furious. There's another thing I forgot to tell you. They've got this little I-V stuck in my forearm, and it feeds down through the floorboard in to the console. I hit that button, and I can watch the blood going through the little green tube. Half a second later, my engine rumbles like it's running on hellfire, and I'm hard pressed to even lean my head forward half an inch, because it's being forced against my headrest. Honestly, these stock cars give a new definition to "wide open." My speedometer goes up to 220, but the needle tops out at the end and shivers a little bit. I must be going at least 250, maybe more.

Sounds all good and fun, doesn't it? Not quite. See, I'm pretty sure when I get out of this vehicle and get "unplugged" that I'll be dead. The reason is that blood stopped flowing through the tube about twenty laps ago. Now, it's just this black cloudy shit, and every time I hit it to pass someone up, I feel like I just contracted pneumonia. My muscles go weak, and this car feels like it's going to devour me. Not to sound cliche, but I feel a little thin. Like every time I cross the flag, I'm being spread out a little bit more. I've got thirty three laps to go and I'm hoping I'll have enough juice to stop these bastards.

So here I come up on this third guy. It's harder than you think it is. I mean, you've probably tailgated some granny on the interstate that won't do the speed limit, but tailgating somebody at over two hundred is a whole different world, my friend. You're tilting sideways and falling against your door because the slant of the turn is that sharp. Don't cut it too tight or too wide, or you'll end up on the wall. Then, there's the draft.

You have your position behind him ---- or IT, I guess I should say, because the human drivers are all behind me --- and you have to lock it in. Match him, mile per hour per mile per hour. On the last few degrees of that angled curve, it's time to make your move. You gap it, feed out in to the wind, and STOMP that accelerator. If you did everything right, you might even be able to send the number one salute towards the black-robed fucker next to you as he eats your wake. Like I said, there's nothing better in the world. That might be the redneck in me, but it certainly appeals to the competitive spirit.

So here's the straight-away. It's time to press the black button again. I won't lie to you. I'm afraid each time, but I know this has to be done. I just mashed it, radio listener. I feel like I'm dying, but I wish you could see how fast I am. I passed second place just a moment ago, but I have to lay off it now and take this bend. You wanna know what scares me more than dying or losing? The sound those things in the stands just made --- like they're about to blow loads inside their black getups because I'm killing myself to win this race. See, the thing is, I don't give two shits. It might feel good for them to watch me burn up my life through the spark plugs and combustors of this car from hell, but they still assume they're gonna take me out. They think their number one is that good.

Richard did it for the money. Chaz did it because he's a good person, and he liked Richard, so he fell for it. That football fellow --- well, I don't know him, and I can't speak for him so much, but I think maybe he's a little bit like me. He entered willingly, maybe because he thought he was chasing a dream, and that dream turned out to be a nightmare. He fought, and he won, and wherever that man is, he's got to keep carrying the beacon, okay? I can't expect you to believe any of this shit, but if you take it on yourself to find him, you be sure and let him know that he's not the only one who wants to beat them.

I'm drafting first place now, but I'm terrified. You wanna know why? I'm not sure I can beat this cat. The slingshot is in place, the air pocket is there --- but now, I see what happens when you win.

You'll never guess what this sticker says on his back fender, eighty four centimeters in front of my bumper. Yeah.

"Drive fast, or eat shit."

Well, I'd say I'm on the verge, and I really ought to gap him at this point. My only question is, what's gonna happen to my racing buddy? Is it even him, or does he have a black robe on? Regardless, when I lap him, all of this will be over, even if he's gone. It wasn't in vain, you see.

I'm gonna sign off and press this little black button one last time, chief. If I cross the line and get that checker, it'll probably be a car and a corpse, but hell, that should count as a win in my book.

The track isn't there unless you WANT it to be there, and you'll be hard pressed to find it, but check about thirty miles out between Abingdon and Bristol, Tennessee. Also, find that nice quarterback, and tell him that the next ritual of theirs is gonna be some kind of fight. That's all I know.

It's time to capitalize.

You'll know I won if you see the sun.

They're part of a series so you should read them all.

That was interesting, not scary but they are definitely well written and a pleasure to read. Can you provide me with a link where I can find those stories? It would be appreciated.

Even More.

Spoiler

You are lying in your bed, the dull whirring of your air conditioner is the only thing separating you from total silence.

You know, that particular silence that is so heavy, and so thick, it?s almost the equivalent of a loud noise itself? The kind of silence where you could hear a pin drop three rooms away in; the kind of silence that fills your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat as your ear presses against your pillow. That kind of silence.

The dull whirring is the only noise you can hear, a noise that typically goes unnoticed, until it is the only noise present. It?s comforting, whether you realize it or not. A sort of white noise. But suddenly, your room is back at the temperature specified on the thermostat, and the whirring comes to a stop, as the vent makes a dull clang. To your misfortune, you are not yet asleep, and the silence sets in.

You should be comforted by the knowledge that you could hear anything and everything in your surroundings; making up for the lack of vision provided by the darkness. But you aren?t. It?s this very environment that sets you on edge, causes your heart to beat a bit faster, makes your body tense without explanation, and that makes you aware when you are not alone.

But you are alone right? You?ve been laying there with your eyes closed for almost 15 minutes now, and you made sure everything was normal in your room before you turned off the light; you?re a smart one. All those Facebook quizzes you took have just reinforced what you already know, if you were in a horror movie, you?d survive until the end. You?ve even made a carefully laid plan of what you would do in any of the situations you?ve read about on creepypasta.com. But that stuff is just nonsense anyway, right?

You aren?t scared. Or at least that?s what you keep telling yourself.

But wait?what was that? Was that the rustling of fabric? But, you didn?t shift in your bed, or make any movement. Did you make that noise? No, you couldn?t have. You?re paralyzed your bed, stiff with an unease that was not present until these very moments. You must have imagined it?you must have.

You roll over to face the wall. Out of sight, out of mind. If there?s something in the room with you, it will just have to accept that you are much to tired to deal with it at the moment. You?re still stricken with uneasiness as you hear rustling again. This time, the rustling is accompanied by a soft thud on the ground.

Your heart seizes in your chest?did you really just hear that? No no, you?ve just gotten yourself worked up about nothing. You really should stop play horror survival games so late at night, it?s messing with your brain. You?re a rational person, stop acting so childish and just fall asleep already.

You close your eyes tightly, silently hoping sleep would whisk you away soon. You?re practically begging for the safety of the nonexistent dreamworld of your own creation. You?re running away in a sense; but there?s nothing there?right? You?re just tired. I know, I know.

As your eyes are clinched tightly shut, you become aware that no matter how much you want to, you can no longer move your arms and legs. Come on now, are you really letting this get to you? What are you? 12 years old? Suck it up and fall asleep already.

Now, more tense than ever, that unnerving sound echoes across the room again. The rustling of fabric, followed by a soft thud on the ground. Unwittingly, you?re holding your breath now, eyes shut as tightly as possible. You have childish urge to pull the blanket over your head. You?re imagining it all! It?s all in your head; I thought you were better than this.

You heart is pounding loudly in your ears now, but not loudly enough to drown out the now repetitive sound approaching from across the room. What?s that rustling!? Maybe you left some paper on the ground. That has to be it! And that thumping? Probably the cat, or the dog, or something. They probably ran in when you weren?t looking before you closed your door. Yeah, you?re just paranoid.

The noise is now within a foot of your bed, and with your back to it, you don?t dare turn around to investigate, not that it?d do much good; the only light in your room is the dull glow of your cell phone on the nightstand next to you, you plugged it in before crawled into bed remember? But you don?t dare turn around and look; there?s nothing there anyway.

Minutes that feel like hours pass as you face your wall, stiff as a board, unable to will your uncooperative body to move. You haven?t heard the noises in a while now, not since it reached the edge of your bed. You know there?s nothing there you silly. It?s this silence. It?s messing with you. You really should have turned on some music or something before you went to bed. Oh well, maybe next time.

Suddenly, a familiar clang echoes through the room, followed by that familiar whirring. You exhale deeply, your body relaxing as you are flooded with relief. Thank God that?s over, now you can finally sleep in peace. That silence was really getting to you. You roll over and open your eyes to check the time on your lit cell phone, it must have been at least an hour since you first went to bed.

You are greeted face to face with his ear to ear grin. Dimly lit sockets where eyes once resided stare intently at you.

Ah, I see you?re still awake.

I have to say, this is one of the most effective creepy pasta I've ever read, because this is exactly the way you feel after the night reading scary stories on the internet.

 

[TheRundownRabbit]

Here, enjoy. And if I remember correctly they showed this on T.V. during Halloween at some point.

I think I just shit myself.