The scary thread
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The chill of moonless night and the stale smell of cigarettes, keep me awake. It's the scarlet red that paints my walls and the still echoing screams through the dark halls the lets me sleep.
Welcome back, and please sit down and have a warm drink while holding your blanket close till the sun peaks over the snow peaked mountains. For tonight your nightmares will be haunting every conner of house till that warm sun light breaks the night sky.
Seeking refuge here was a dire mistake, but I welcome you none the less.
Welcome back, and please sit down and have a warm drink while holding your blanket close till the sun peaks over the snow peaked mountains. For tonight your nightmares will be haunting every conner of house till that warm sun light breaks the night sky.
Seeking refuge here was a dire mistake, but I welcome you none the less.
Yeah, sorry about that, I don't spoiler them because it seems like too much work, if that makes sense.Mcupobob said:
Hello.
I am Mr. Welldone.
I watched the copulation which conceived you and I screamed in horror. I saw you birthed like a hatched parasite, hairless and gagging, and I grit my teeth in hatred, sliding them over each other again and again and again and again and again until they were flat and smooth. I will watch you wither and grow old, as your body congeals and the weight of your years pulls your flesh from your body and I will grin and snicker, laugh and laugh. I will see your desiccated corpse pumped full of superficial chemicals, interred into the dirt to feed the eyeless, subterranean creatures of the earth and I will howl because I know where you are going.
I know where you are going.
I know the secrets of this earth, as I knew the secrets of the one before it. I will bring about the End, and you cannot stop me.
You read these tales and you do not know that with each you read, with each you create and recreate, with each you retell, with each you claim ownership of, you beckon the End.
For there will be some among you who will try to verify these tales. You will seek them out. Those that do so with passion will find that many of them are falsehoods? but some will be harrowing at the very least. Others will leave you scarred for the rest of your fleeting days. Others still will leave you stripped of your flesh.
And that flesh will be used to build more, and more, and more tales. Twisted and stretched to cry out to more curious individuals.
And I will smile, my teeth clenching together tightly, tightly, tightly until one cracks with a satisfying pop. My eyes unblinking; watching everything fall into place; wide and empty; weeping and shriveling with delicious, protracted agony.
I am so excited. So very excited.
Even as you read this, some among you are emboldened. The sick part of you which lusts for the End whispers into your mind, making you want to see the horror, the pain, the blood, the death. You want to see it. You want to see what lies hidden in the dark, beyond sight, smell, taste, hearing, and touch.
Come.
Come and see.
I will show you such wonderful things.
***
Hello.
It is not what you cannot see in the Dark that you fear.
It seems the masses have comforted themselves with the trite statement ?people fear the unknown.? Humanity finds a strange comfort in this statement. If people did indeed fear the unknown, this statement would be akin to locking eyes and spirit with that soul-rending horror which lurks unseen in the back of every human?s mind.
No, it is not what you cannot see in the Dark that you fear.
It is what you will see if you gaze long and hard into it. You will see that thing you ?know? you will see. You will attempt to assuage that sting of fear in your mind by numbly assuring yourself that it is simply a figment of the rampant faculties of the subconscious.
It is not.
Yes, we fear the Dark for a reason.
The reason is not what you think it is.
***
Hello.
Many fellows, in their markedly-less-than infinite wisdom, choose to prove their gender and sexual orientation by seeking out a locale rumored to be frequented with events of the ?supernatural.? What a loathsome and paradoxical term, ?supernatural.? How can a thing be ?above nature? when it is naturally occurring?
I digress.
Many such ?brave? souls who set out in search of the nocturnal thrills of the unknown find that there is little to fear, despite the cold sweat they feel, and choose to take this evidence as the answer to whether or not the ?supernatural? exists in our shared perception of the world.
What fools.
Indeed, if one steels themselves overmuch, such an individual may find that he or she never will see anything beyond the mundane. It is those that embrace their fear that find much more startling evidence supporting the possibility of earthly entities and energies beyond our current understanding.
Fear is more than a biological warning to impending danger; it is a sense, little different than the five most people are familiar with. To ignore one?s fear is to close one?s eyes to such secrets possessed of beauty beyond most mortals? imaginations.
And so I impart this advice upon those who wish to confirm the existence of the ?supernatural.?
Exalt yourself in your fear.
Stoke its fires and seek out the Darkness.
You will see such wonderful things.
***
Hello.
Of all of the most wonderful things to be seen in this world, the best of them lay in the periphery of the worldly, the superficial, the mundane, the worthless, the duplicitous, wretched, horrid, loathsome, hated, despicable, sickening, vapid reality which humanity clings to.
Pardon me.
But, in the corners of the eye lay unknown gems amidst the refuse. Those flitting shapes humanity unconsciously assigns to the readily explainable, acceptable normalities of the social world which haunt us, leaving us with a vague fear that begs our eyes to close so very tightly when the lights are put down for an evening?s rest and not to open again until the reassuring light of the morning dispels the possibilities of the Darkness.
What waste. What ridiculousness.
Open your eyes and use the wondrous capabilities of this fantastic organ. As you goes about your evening hygienic rituals, I suggest you pay indirect attention to the cold black of the hallways waiting outside the door. Wait for the inevitable thing, out of place with the characteristic stillness of the night, swiftly passing by to unknown destinations.
But do not acknowledge it.
Do not. Do not. Do not.
Some things are best only seen and not interacted with in other ways.
For in seeing that which believes itself unseen, awareness comes with the most severe of consequences.
Oh, yes. So severe.
Do behave.
Look, but do not touch. Or speak. Or taste.
Only then, perhaps, will you hear. Faintly on the first occasion, but on every occasion thereafter impossible to ignore. Even as they stand, now so clearly, leering at you from the Darkest corners of your safest, most sacred havens, do not acknowledge their presence.
Be content to observe.
Yes. Content.
Such contentedness is the only barrier against their predations.
If you can do this, if one can stand the temptations of the Darkness and control one?s primordial self, perhaps then you will be prepared.
Prepared.
For more.
Much more.
***
Hello.
Tales of strange creatures, occurrences, and sightings persist from the first days of man until today. To discard them out of hand is foolishness, as is to believe blindly.
But for those that seek out the Dark, you will see horrors which will shatter your human mind.
There was once a time when Man understood His place in the universe. But things change. Always changing. Though, even in recent history there have been those that have understood. However, such individuals? wise insight is turned to examine the mundanity of nature rather than its unexplainable qualities.
What waste.
The bulk does not understand, will never understand. There is only fear and blind denial. Even when faced with old ?truths? the human mind shuts itself off and the person attempts desperately to find any mundane explanation possible to retain ?sanity.?
Sanity. A creature wholly wrought of comparison and worthless society.
Only those bold enough to search in the dark, blind and senseless, will see the old ?truths.?
You will see, and you will understand your place. You will experience feelings so powerful and varied that you will be unable to assign words to describe the experience.
And then it will all End.
***
Hello.
Can one be simultaneously amused and disgusted?
Apparently so.
Humanity disgusts me for its constant squabbling for little pieces of paper, hierarchical conflicts for power that exists only in the imaginations of those involved, and the pointless use of lives in order to sustain nothing but a paltry level of comfort.
I am sickened.
And, yet, I am also entertained. It is like watching some cruel joke unfold. I sit, waiting for one among you to ascend to greater powers than known to the bulk of humanity, but so few are willing to aspire. So full of yourselves, so assured that you already know the workings of the universe.
You rob yourselves of the greatest of mysteries.
I cannot wait.
I cannot wait.
I cannot wait to see it all End.
I cannot wait to watch you scream and suffer.
A magnificent din of flesh being stripped from bone, which is then made to dance to the whims of the most horrifying destruction the sentient portion of the universe has borne witness to.
It will be a wonderful taste of vengeance for having been subjected to your monotony.
Yet, I still yearn for even one among you to attain the eyes with which to see the all of the cosmos.
But I also yearn to pluck your organs from their positions of safe functioning simply to relish the expression of pain and terror on your faces.
I wonder if I shall ever be so divided.
I wonder what I shall do when such divisions cease.
I cannot wait
I am Mr. Welldone.
I watched the copulation which conceived you and I screamed in horror. I saw you birthed like a hatched parasite, hairless and gagging, and I grit my teeth in hatred, sliding them over each other again and again and again and again and again until they were flat and smooth. I will watch you wither and grow old, as your body congeals and the weight of your years pulls your flesh from your body and I will grin and snicker, laugh and laugh. I will see your desiccated corpse pumped full of superficial chemicals, interred into the dirt to feed the eyeless, subterranean creatures of the earth and I will howl because I know where you are going.
I know where you are going.
I know the secrets of this earth, as I knew the secrets of the one before it. I will bring about the End, and you cannot stop me.
You read these tales and you do not know that with each you read, with each you create and recreate, with each you retell, with each you claim ownership of, you beckon the End.
For there will be some among you who will try to verify these tales. You will seek them out. Those that do so with passion will find that many of them are falsehoods? but some will be harrowing at the very least. Others will leave you scarred for the rest of your fleeting days. Others still will leave you stripped of your flesh.
And that flesh will be used to build more, and more, and more tales. Twisted and stretched to cry out to more curious individuals.
And I will smile, my teeth clenching together tightly, tightly, tightly until one cracks with a satisfying pop. My eyes unblinking; watching everything fall into place; wide and empty; weeping and shriveling with delicious, protracted agony.
I am so excited. So very excited.
Even as you read this, some among you are emboldened. The sick part of you which lusts for the End whispers into your mind, making you want to see the horror, the pain, the blood, the death. You want to see it. You want to see what lies hidden in the dark, beyond sight, smell, taste, hearing, and touch.
Come.
Come and see.
I will show you such wonderful things.
***
Hello.
It is not what you cannot see in the Dark that you fear.
It seems the masses have comforted themselves with the trite statement ?people fear the unknown.? Humanity finds a strange comfort in this statement. If people did indeed fear the unknown, this statement would be akin to locking eyes and spirit with that soul-rending horror which lurks unseen in the back of every human?s mind.
No, it is not what you cannot see in the Dark that you fear.
It is what you will see if you gaze long and hard into it. You will see that thing you ?know? you will see. You will attempt to assuage that sting of fear in your mind by numbly assuring yourself that it is simply a figment of the rampant faculties of the subconscious.
It is not.
Yes, we fear the Dark for a reason.
The reason is not what you think it is.
***
Hello.
Many fellows, in their markedly-less-than infinite wisdom, choose to prove their gender and sexual orientation by seeking out a locale rumored to be frequented with events of the ?supernatural.? What a loathsome and paradoxical term, ?supernatural.? How can a thing be ?above nature? when it is naturally occurring?
I digress.
Many such ?brave? souls who set out in search of the nocturnal thrills of the unknown find that there is little to fear, despite the cold sweat they feel, and choose to take this evidence as the answer to whether or not the ?supernatural? exists in our shared perception of the world.
What fools.
Indeed, if one steels themselves overmuch, such an individual may find that he or she never will see anything beyond the mundane. It is those that embrace their fear that find much more startling evidence supporting the possibility of earthly entities and energies beyond our current understanding.
Fear is more than a biological warning to impending danger; it is a sense, little different than the five most people are familiar with. To ignore one?s fear is to close one?s eyes to such secrets possessed of beauty beyond most mortals? imaginations.
And so I impart this advice upon those who wish to confirm the existence of the ?supernatural.?
Exalt yourself in your fear.
Stoke its fires and seek out the Darkness.
You will see such wonderful things.
***
Hello.
Of all of the most wonderful things to be seen in this world, the best of them lay in the periphery of the worldly, the superficial, the mundane, the worthless, the duplicitous, wretched, horrid, loathsome, hated, despicable, sickening, vapid reality which humanity clings to.
Pardon me.
But, in the corners of the eye lay unknown gems amidst the refuse. Those flitting shapes humanity unconsciously assigns to the readily explainable, acceptable normalities of the social world which haunt us, leaving us with a vague fear that begs our eyes to close so very tightly when the lights are put down for an evening?s rest and not to open again until the reassuring light of the morning dispels the possibilities of the Darkness.
What waste. What ridiculousness.
Open your eyes and use the wondrous capabilities of this fantastic organ. As you goes about your evening hygienic rituals, I suggest you pay indirect attention to the cold black of the hallways waiting outside the door. Wait for the inevitable thing, out of place with the characteristic stillness of the night, swiftly passing by to unknown destinations.
But do not acknowledge it.
Do not. Do not. Do not.
Some things are best only seen and not interacted with in other ways.
For in seeing that which believes itself unseen, awareness comes with the most severe of consequences.
Oh, yes. So severe.
Do behave.
Look, but do not touch. Or speak. Or taste.
Only then, perhaps, will you hear. Faintly on the first occasion, but on every occasion thereafter impossible to ignore. Even as they stand, now so clearly, leering at you from the Darkest corners of your safest, most sacred havens, do not acknowledge their presence.
Be content to observe.
Yes. Content.
Such contentedness is the only barrier against their predations.
If you can do this, if one can stand the temptations of the Darkness and control one?s primordial self, perhaps then you will be prepared.
Prepared.
For more.
Much more.
***
Hello.
Tales of strange creatures, occurrences, and sightings persist from the first days of man until today. To discard them out of hand is foolishness, as is to believe blindly.
But for those that seek out the Dark, you will see horrors which will shatter your human mind.
There was once a time when Man understood His place in the universe. But things change. Always changing. Though, even in recent history there have been those that have understood. However, such individuals? wise insight is turned to examine the mundanity of nature rather than its unexplainable qualities.
What waste.
The bulk does not understand, will never understand. There is only fear and blind denial. Even when faced with old ?truths? the human mind shuts itself off and the person attempts desperately to find any mundane explanation possible to retain ?sanity.?
Sanity. A creature wholly wrought of comparison and worthless society.
Only those bold enough to search in the dark, blind and senseless, will see the old ?truths.?
You will see, and you will understand your place. You will experience feelings so powerful and varied that you will be unable to assign words to describe the experience.
And then it will all End.
***
Hello.
Can one be simultaneously amused and disgusted?
Apparently so.
Humanity disgusts me for its constant squabbling for little pieces of paper, hierarchical conflicts for power that exists only in the imaginations of those involved, and the pointless use of lives in order to sustain nothing but a paltry level of comfort.
I am sickened.
And, yet, I am also entertained. It is like watching some cruel joke unfold. I sit, waiting for one among you to ascend to greater powers than known to the bulk of humanity, but so few are willing to aspire. So full of yourselves, so assured that you already know the workings of the universe.
You rob yourselves of the greatest of mysteries.
I cannot wait.
I cannot wait.
I cannot wait to see it all End.
I cannot wait to watch you scream and suffer.
A magnificent din of flesh being stripped from bone, which is then made to dance to the whims of the most horrifying destruction the sentient portion of the universe has borne witness to.
It will be a wonderful taste of vengeance for having been subjected to your monotony.
Yet, I still yearn for even one among you to attain the eyes with which to see the all of the cosmos.
But I also yearn to pluck your organs from their positions of safe functioning simply to relish the expression of pain and terror on your faces.
I wonder if I shall ever be so divided.
I wonder what I shall do when such divisions cease.
I cannot wait
Everything was screaming. The dials, the readouts, everything was screaming, but he noticed none of it. What he noticed was the heat. He was burning. Not on fire, but inside, burning with a searing heat that was cooking him inside out. What's more, the tiny capsule was so sealed, so perfectly fitted, he couldn't even twist or writhe to burn in a new position. The radio squawked and squealed twice before going silent, the tiny plate starting to warp as the shoddy, overwhelmed heat shield continued to buckle under the reentry force, the flames licking white and golden past his tiny porthole.
Still, the heat was not what filled the man with fear, what made him afraid of not only his immediate and untimely demise, but what may possibly be waiting beyond it. The baking flames did not form a total wall over the tiny porthole fixed over his sweating, softening face. They divided in the middle, blocked by the hard, sharp point of a chin.
The face watched him, staring, vague suggestions of limbs holding to the sides of the window. The face watched, even with no eyes, no mouth, the blank, vapid nothing still so hellishly suggestive. It watched, smiling a nothing smile as the tiny bit of grit burned up in the thin, searing atmosphere?
And its breath fogged to frost on the burning, bubbling window.
Still, the heat was not what filled the man with fear, what made him afraid of not only his immediate and untimely demise, but what may possibly be waiting beyond it. The baking flames did not form a total wall over the tiny porthole fixed over his sweating, softening face. They divided in the middle, blocked by the hard, sharp point of a chin.
The face watched him, staring, vague suggestions of limbs holding to the sides of the window. The face watched, even with no eyes, no mouth, the blank, vapid nothing still so hellishly suggestive. It watched, smiling a nothing smile as the tiny bit of grit burned up in the thin, searing atmosphere?
And its breath fogged to frost on the burning, bubbling window.
The water was cool, if a bit murky. The lake was the color of tea, owing to its past as a logging route. Great banks of long tree trunks would bob and sink, staining the lake. At least, that's what the boy's grandpa said. He dove off the dock, slipping into the cool water as easy as an otter, his sunburned skin drinking in the cooling water.
The lake was very deep, and quickly he was over the vast, deep edges, paddling softly with the easy grace attainable only by the happy few who know the width and depth of summer break. He turned over to his back, the murky, tea-colored haze buoying him up on billows of cool water. He flicked his hands with a careless annoyance as he skirted a patch of loosed seaweed, sending it bobbing away. He watched the clouds, listening to the empty hum of the lake in his ears.
He slowly noticed more patches floating about him, and bobbed to vertical, wincing as his feet kicked and brushed the slippery, brown strands of weed. The strands twitched and clutched with their soggy strength, and he sighed as he started to plot a course out of the muck.
Deep below, the twitching strands stirred the muck they were rooted so deeply in. The mud puffed? then bulged, rising softly in a great mound. Then it opened eyes, great sludgy orbs the size of cars. It slowly rose, freeing its gnashing maw, and drifted up to see what its feelers had found.
The lake was very deep, and quickly he was over the vast, deep edges, paddling softly with the easy grace attainable only by the happy few who know the width and depth of summer break. He turned over to his back, the murky, tea-colored haze buoying him up on billows of cool water. He flicked his hands with a careless annoyance as he skirted a patch of loosed seaweed, sending it bobbing away. He watched the clouds, listening to the empty hum of the lake in his ears.
He slowly noticed more patches floating about him, and bobbed to vertical, wincing as his feet kicked and brushed the slippery, brown strands of weed. The strands twitched and clutched with their soggy strength, and he sighed as he started to plot a course out of the muck.
Deep below, the twitching strands stirred the muck they were rooted so deeply in. The mud puffed? then bulged, rising softly in a great mound. Then it opened eyes, great sludgy orbs the size of cars. It slowly rose, freeing its gnashing maw, and drifted up to see what its feelers had found.
The door was heavy, and old, but still strong. It sealed the passage tight, blocking even light from around its edges. The hall was claustrophobic, and in near total darkness but for the dim, drooling light from the far-off stair. He beat on the door again, feeling the thick reverberation bounce through its solid core. He could try and pick the lock, or bash it in, but that was not the way. Not their way, never. Respect was always foremost, even at the utmost end of need.
He folded back on his haunches, his sigh turning the dust on the long-abandoned floor. He looked back, at the dim stair, and considered again just going back, letting it go. He thought this way for a long time, then stood with a new, more burning resolve. He went and knocked again? and again? and again. He hammered on the door. He beat on the door. He slammed his fists over and over, thundering against its mocking, ageless weight. He beat his fists until they split, spilling blood that looked like deeper, slicker smears of darkness onto the unrelenting wood. He threw himself against it, biting, clawing, gouging at the wood like something rabid and in pain.
Finally, he slowed, then stopped, pulling away from the blank wood with an almost sheepish slink. He folded back up again, letting the split, reeking flesh stop pulsing and start to knit over. He turned the black, pulsing mass that gave him sight to the door again, split tongues lolling as he chastised himself for his reckless, misplaced hatred. They had gone, those many, and hidden deep in their vaults. This may be the last, the very last flake of rotten flesh left of their abandoned body. Their endless impatience had called to them for correction, so?they had come. Man had hidden deep in their vaults, their short-sightedness leaving them no retreat, no escape.
Now they waited, delaying their final lessons with every futile breath? But to worry and to lose one's temper was not the way of the People. He resolved that, once ages had turned the door to dust, he would show them the folly of hope.
One eon at a time.
He folded back on his haunches, his sigh turning the dust on the long-abandoned floor. He looked back, at the dim stair, and considered again just going back, letting it go. He thought this way for a long time, then stood with a new, more burning resolve. He went and knocked again? and again? and again. He hammered on the door. He beat on the door. He slammed his fists over and over, thundering against its mocking, ageless weight. He beat his fists until they split, spilling blood that looked like deeper, slicker smears of darkness onto the unrelenting wood. He threw himself against it, biting, clawing, gouging at the wood like something rabid and in pain.
Finally, he slowed, then stopped, pulling away from the blank wood with an almost sheepish slink. He folded back up again, letting the split, reeking flesh stop pulsing and start to knit over. He turned the black, pulsing mass that gave him sight to the door again, split tongues lolling as he chastised himself for his reckless, misplaced hatred. They had gone, those many, and hidden deep in their vaults. This may be the last, the very last flake of rotten flesh left of their abandoned body. Their endless impatience had called to them for correction, so?they had come. Man had hidden deep in their vaults, their short-sightedness leaving them no retreat, no escape.
Now they waited, delaying their final lessons with every futile breath? But to worry and to lose one's temper was not the way of the People. He resolved that, once ages had turned the door to dust, he would show them the folly of hope.
One eon at a time.
I've been sick for days now. That bubbling nausea that fills your throat, makes you feel as if you're about to throw up every time you burp or so much as breathe out your mouth. Holding the toilet, resting my head on the cool, cool porcelain, I really question why in the hell I don't make myself throw up and just get it over with. It's just not something I can do?thinking of forcefully gagging myself?ugh, it's almost worse then I feel now. Almost.
Suddenly it hits me, and this is it, this is IT. I feel that slick, sour spit coat my throat, my belly tightening up as I push my head over the bowl and spit. For a split second before I explode, I realize this thing has not been cleaned in a while. Then I vomit. Hard. Mucus-rich and acidic, it pours out in a hard, jetting stream from my mouth and nose, burning my nasal passages like fire. It hits so hard, it feels like it should be coming out my eyes, too.
I vomit again, and again, the third time bringing up just some thin, reeking slime, and I gasp a bit, getting my breath back before the next wave. I pitch forward again, eyes tearing as they squeeze shut, and I feel another hot jet of filth pour out. Opening my eyes, it seems?different. A tarry black, and there are?things bobbing in it. I don't have time to look too hard, before two more hard retches double me over the bowl. These are more pinkish, and I can definitely see some kind of meat in these. Hamburger, maybe?
More vomit, more oddness. I don't remember eating any kind of jelly, especially cherry. It's starting to hurt, a deep spike each time. God, how much can a person throw up? When did I eat noodles that long?or that big? The goo in it is getting thicker too, and pink?starting to feel at least a little better. Ugh?when did I eat a balloon? My belly is feeling better now, really light. Jesus?whatever that was is floating still?almost looks like it's pulsing, or beating?going to have to move to the sink, toilet's almost full. Feeling better now?hungry, actually. Very hungry. Starving. Ravenous.
I feel so empty.
Suddenly it hits me, and this is it, this is IT. I feel that slick, sour spit coat my throat, my belly tightening up as I push my head over the bowl and spit. For a split second before I explode, I realize this thing has not been cleaned in a while. Then I vomit. Hard. Mucus-rich and acidic, it pours out in a hard, jetting stream from my mouth and nose, burning my nasal passages like fire. It hits so hard, it feels like it should be coming out my eyes, too.
I vomit again, and again, the third time bringing up just some thin, reeking slime, and I gasp a bit, getting my breath back before the next wave. I pitch forward again, eyes tearing as they squeeze shut, and I feel another hot jet of filth pour out. Opening my eyes, it seems?different. A tarry black, and there are?things bobbing in it. I don't have time to look too hard, before two more hard retches double me over the bowl. These are more pinkish, and I can definitely see some kind of meat in these. Hamburger, maybe?
More vomit, more oddness. I don't remember eating any kind of jelly, especially cherry. It's starting to hurt, a deep spike each time. God, how much can a person throw up? When did I eat noodles that long?or that big? The goo in it is getting thicker too, and pink?starting to feel at least a little better. Ugh?when did I eat a balloon? My belly is feeling better now, really light. Jesus?whatever that was is floating still?almost looks like it's pulsing, or beating?going to have to move to the sink, toilet's almost full. Feeling better now?hungry, actually. Very hungry. Starving. Ravenous.
I feel so empty.
The TV was blaring sex and violence, but all she could think about was her damn bubbling arm. She picked at it idly, once again cursing herself for forgetting the sun screen over the weekend. It'd been such a good chance to get Adam to notice her, but she'd just ended up burned and humiliated. She'd been offered some sunblock, but Tammy had been there, snickering some comment involving the term ?Casper the virgin ghost?, so she'd rejected it, saying she wanted to work on her tan. Now, if she were any more red, she'd be mistaken for a radish. She picked at the onion kin flakes on her arms, trying to ignore the odd texture of the bubbled skin.
She kept flipping between channels, trying to ignore the burning itch on her arms, face and body, all of which served to keep the memory of her humiliation crystal clear. She picked at her arm idly, trying to find a rerun of something she hadn't seen, all the while brushing off the liquid and peeled flesh from her arms
wait?liquid?
She looked at her arms, and felt her throat grow paralyzed around a scream. She was bathing in blood. It ran from great, flapping rents in her skin, the flesh peeled and pulled free in thin strips and shallow patches. As she tried to recoil, she saw a flash of bone. She skidded and fell from the couch, the jostling causing the peeled wounds to stretch more. Oddly numb, the rifts continued to ooze blood freely as she scrambled to her feet, starting to hyperventilate. She tried to press the peeled, red flesh back in to the wounds, but they just lolled free with a fresh splash of blood.
She walked gingerly, trying to ease her way across the floor, but every motion seemed to cause the peeling to extend more. She brushed her arm, trying to see the bleeding rents more clearly, and strangled around a scream as a palm-sized patch of flesh pulled and flopped free, blood glistening on the newly freed muscle. She moaned, hands rising to her face?only to feel it shift like a cheap, ill-fitting mask, the burning, itching pain rising more and more as she started to peel?
Hours later, she hooked a finger under her eyelid, mad pain compelling her to rid herself of the last, traitorous patch of skin
She kept flipping between channels, trying to ignore the burning itch on her arms, face and body, all of which served to keep the memory of her humiliation crystal clear. She picked at her arm idly, trying to find a rerun of something she hadn't seen, all the while brushing off the liquid and peeled flesh from her arms
wait?liquid?
She looked at her arms, and felt her throat grow paralyzed around a scream. She was bathing in blood. It ran from great, flapping rents in her skin, the flesh peeled and pulled free in thin strips and shallow patches. As she tried to recoil, she saw a flash of bone. She skidded and fell from the couch, the jostling causing the peeled wounds to stretch more. Oddly numb, the rifts continued to ooze blood freely as she scrambled to her feet, starting to hyperventilate. She tried to press the peeled, red flesh back in to the wounds, but they just lolled free with a fresh splash of blood.
She walked gingerly, trying to ease her way across the floor, but every motion seemed to cause the peeling to extend more. She brushed her arm, trying to see the bleeding rents more clearly, and strangled around a scream as a palm-sized patch of flesh pulled and flopped free, blood glistening on the newly freed muscle. She moaned, hands rising to her face?only to feel it shift like a cheap, ill-fitting mask, the burning, itching pain rising more and more as she started to peel?
Hours later, she hooked a finger under her eyelid, mad pain compelling her to rid herself of the last, traitorous patch of skin
Johnathan had a bump. It was just a little swelling, like a fat pimple, starting right behind his shoulder in one of those spots you could never quite get at, right by the armpit. And this bump was annoying, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. It wasn't like it was a huge swelling, or a blister? it was just there, and uncomfortable.
So Johnathan lived with the bump that showed up out of nowhere. When he mentioned it to his mother over the phone, she commented that it was probably a swollen lymph node and he was getting a cold or the flu. His boss suggested it might just be a liquid pocket in the muscle (which sounded plenty gross) and everybody else had advice for him about the firm little bump. He ignored all of it.
After all, it was just a bump. Who didn't get those little lumps curiously under the skin from time to time?
He remembered living in a dorm with a guy who once got one right under his jaw, and it was like an egg there, awkwardly on the side of his face and neck, but it had gone away a few days later with some ice and hot compresses placed on it every so often. So Johnathan didn't think about the bump on his back.
Not until he realized it wasn't going away. And it was growing a little bit bigger every day. He finally chanced a look at it in the mirror and found it to be strangely not as gross as he though, just a swelling under the skin, with a few small wrinkles in it, like loose skin. He resolved to let it sit alone for a while longer.
A week later, he quietly noted that he was getting hungry a lot more often, and tended to feel winded and dizzy now and then, curious for somebody like him. And whenever he checked the bump, he found that it had grown some more.
Another week, and he was afraid to check on it. It had started to spread in a strange way, two more prominent little lumps sticking out from it that made it awkward to sleep on his back or side any more, and left a little hump in the shoulder of his shirts.
Maybe it was fear that kept him from going to the doctor, or some sort of innate stubbornness and refusal to accept help. But he called in sick to work the next day and spent the day sleeping, keeping a hot compress on his shoulder, and watching reruns of SCRUBS on cable.
The next morning, he realized that the lump didn't ache or feel awkward and swollen anymore. Actually, he mused, dully half-awake, he didn't feel it at all. Sitting up out of bed and stretching, he reached, back, trying to feel it? and something clutched his finger. He thought about his little sister being born, her tiny, frail baby-hands with sharp nails, and that was what he felt.
In a panic, he tore off his shirt and bolted to the bathroom, throwing on the lights and turning, twisting his head awkwardly to glance over his shoulder at the bump.
Which wasn't so much a bump anymore as something else. Potato-shaped, it had doubled in size overnight, becoming the size of a football almost. Those little wrinkles in it were now open, exposing two dark, glinting eyes, and a little toothless, lipless mouth. Two arms, tiny and thin and malformed, complete with small hands, twitched in the air. It opened it's little mouth, and out came? a squeak. Tiny and peircing.
eeeee it went.
"AAAAAH!" he replied, and for the first time in the grown man's life, he felt a wave of vertigo hit him like a ton of bricks, and he did something he has once been convinced nobody really did, ever. He clear-out fainted, temple smacking against the bathroom tile on the way down and sealing his unconsciousness for quite some time.
He woke up to the sound of the phone ringing. The answering machine picked itup, and he opened his eyes. Everything was curiously blurry, and he struggled for a second to get his arms under himself, and lift himself up. His back felt wet, no, sticky, like he had spilled milk on himself and it had curdled and dried down his shoulder and spine.
For one horrible moment, Johnathan remembered, and he clutched the edge of the sink and pulled himself up, turning around hastily to look at the bump. But he found only a large patch on his pack. The skin was smooth, so smooth, and so pale, like it'd never seen sunlight. And something had dried and caked on his back, leaving dark lined stains.
The answering machine finished taking its message with a beep, and he stared at the mirror, dumbfounded, until he heard something rustling outside the bathroom, the faintest sound of padding footsteps, tiny.
He stared at the bathroom door into the empty hall, those tiny footsteps disappearing off towards the kitchen. Part of his screamed to shut the door, lock it, climb out the bathroom window and call somebody to help him. Maybe he was hallucinating, or had hit his head too hard when he went down, another part of him argued. But a third part, that spoke in just a whisper in his mind, somehow convinced him otherwise.
He strode out of the bathroom, slipping silently into his room to grab something from his closet, and tip-toed to the kitchen, hearing rustling on the far side of the counter island. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and crept around the corner of the island, having to bite his lip and steel himself to avoid another unpleasant meeting with the floor.
It was malformed. Half fetus, half tumor, all horrific, still dripping some sort of foul pus as it stumbled on narrow little bowled legs, its thin little arms trying to open a cabinet door, little beady black eyes glancing around nervously as it licked its lipless mouth with a red tongue.
Suddenly, its black eyes found him and it turned. He took a step back automatically, swallowing hard. It was bigger than he had expected. Like a toddler. And it opened its little mouth, with pink gums and a red tongue, with no teeth, disturbingly childlike? and spoke.
"D?daddeeeeee."
It wheezed, it squealed out. Johnathan hoisted up what he had gotten from his bedroom without pause and stepped forwards. His baseball bat, aluminum, from days spent playing. All in a second, he bought it down on the tiny creature. And again. And again. And again and again.
"Hey, John! Open up!" Peter knocked on the door to his friend's apartment. "Come ON man, where the hell were you?! You didn't call in to work and we called, like, eight times yesterday! What the hell!?" He shouted through the door, before Johnathan opened in, a small smile on his face, eyes a little glazed, bags under them, like he hadn't slept much.
"Peter! Sorry?come on in." Johnathan motioned. He was freshly dressed, in jeans and a new shirt. Peter noted that the shirt clung to his shoulders without any odd formations, and raised a brow. "Hey, did you get rid of your freaky-ass bump?" he asked, and Johnathan paused for a second in the kitchen, where he had been doing dishes.
"Er?yeah. Yeah, it went away." He muttered, glancing at the drain in the sink. There was a soft squeaking noise, and Peter wondered if Johnathan's apartment had mice, glancing away. Johnathan stared at the drain again? and then flipped the switch for the trash disposal for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
eeeee
So Johnathan lived with the bump that showed up out of nowhere. When he mentioned it to his mother over the phone, she commented that it was probably a swollen lymph node and he was getting a cold or the flu. His boss suggested it might just be a liquid pocket in the muscle (which sounded plenty gross) and everybody else had advice for him about the firm little bump. He ignored all of it.
After all, it was just a bump. Who didn't get those little lumps curiously under the skin from time to time?
He remembered living in a dorm with a guy who once got one right under his jaw, and it was like an egg there, awkwardly on the side of his face and neck, but it had gone away a few days later with some ice and hot compresses placed on it every so often. So Johnathan didn't think about the bump on his back.
Not until he realized it wasn't going away. And it was growing a little bit bigger every day. He finally chanced a look at it in the mirror and found it to be strangely not as gross as he though, just a swelling under the skin, with a few small wrinkles in it, like loose skin. He resolved to let it sit alone for a while longer.
A week later, he quietly noted that he was getting hungry a lot more often, and tended to feel winded and dizzy now and then, curious for somebody like him. And whenever he checked the bump, he found that it had grown some more.
Another week, and he was afraid to check on it. It had started to spread in a strange way, two more prominent little lumps sticking out from it that made it awkward to sleep on his back or side any more, and left a little hump in the shoulder of his shirts.
Maybe it was fear that kept him from going to the doctor, or some sort of innate stubbornness and refusal to accept help. But he called in sick to work the next day and spent the day sleeping, keeping a hot compress on his shoulder, and watching reruns of SCRUBS on cable.
The next morning, he realized that the lump didn't ache or feel awkward and swollen anymore. Actually, he mused, dully half-awake, he didn't feel it at all. Sitting up out of bed and stretching, he reached, back, trying to feel it? and something clutched his finger. He thought about his little sister being born, her tiny, frail baby-hands with sharp nails, and that was what he felt.
In a panic, he tore off his shirt and bolted to the bathroom, throwing on the lights and turning, twisting his head awkwardly to glance over his shoulder at the bump.
Which wasn't so much a bump anymore as something else. Potato-shaped, it had doubled in size overnight, becoming the size of a football almost. Those little wrinkles in it were now open, exposing two dark, glinting eyes, and a little toothless, lipless mouth. Two arms, tiny and thin and malformed, complete with small hands, twitched in the air. It opened it's little mouth, and out came? a squeak. Tiny and peircing.
eeeee it went.
"AAAAAH!" he replied, and for the first time in the grown man's life, he felt a wave of vertigo hit him like a ton of bricks, and he did something he has once been convinced nobody really did, ever. He clear-out fainted, temple smacking against the bathroom tile on the way down and sealing his unconsciousness for quite some time.
He woke up to the sound of the phone ringing. The answering machine picked itup, and he opened his eyes. Everything was curiously blurry, and he struggled for a second to get his arms under himself, and lift himself up. His back felt wet, no, sticky, like he had spilled milk on himself and it had curdled and dried down his shoulder and spine.
For one horrible moment, Johnathan remembered, and he clutched the edge of the sink and pulled himself up, turning around hastily to look at the bump. But he found only a large patch on his pack. The skin was smooth, so smooth, and so pale, like it'd never seen sunlight. And something had dried and caked on his back, leaving dark lined stains.
The answering machine finished taking its message with a beep, and he stared at the mirror, dumbfounded, until he heard something rustling outside the bathroom, the faintest sound of padding footsteps, tiny.
He stared at the bathroom door into the empty hall, those tiny footsteps disappearing off towards the kitchen. Part of his screamed to shut the door, lock it, climb out the bathroom window and call somebody to help him. Maybe he was hallucinating, or had hit his head too hard when he went down, another part of him argued. But a third part, that spoke in just a whisper in his mind, somehow convinced him otherwise.
He strode out of the bathroom, slipping silently into his room to grab something from his closet, and tip-toed to the kitchen, hearing rustling on the far side of the counter island. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and crept around the corner of the island, having to bite his lip and steel himself to avoid another unpleasant meeting with the floor.
It was malformed. Half fetus, half tumor, all horrific, still dripping some sort of foul pus as it stumbled on narrow little bowled legs, its thin little arms trying to open a cabinet door, little beady black eyes glancing around nervously as it licked its lipless mouth with a red tongue.
Suddenly, its black eyes found him and it turned. He took a step back automatically, swallowing hard. It was bigger than he had expected. Like a toddler. And it opened its little mouth, with pink gums and a red tongue, with no teeth, disturbingly childlike? and spoke.
"D?daddeeeeee."
It wheezed, it squealed out. Johnathan hoisted up what he had gotten from his bedroom without pause and stepped forwards. His baseball bat, aluminum, from days spent playing. All in a second, he bought it down on the tiny creature. And again. And again. And again and again.
"Hey, John! Open up!" Peter knocked on the door to his friend's apartment. "Come ON man, where the hell were you?! You didn't call in to work and we called, like, eight times yesterday! What the hell!?" He shouted through the door, before Johnathan opened in, a small smile on his face, eyes a little glazed, bags under them, like he hadn't slept much.
"Peter! Sorry?come on in." Johnathan motioned. He was freshly dressed, in jeans and a new shirt. Peter noted that the shirt clung to his shoulders without any odd formations, and raised a brow. "Hey, did you get rid of your freaky-ass bump?" he asked, and Johnathan paused for a second in the kitchen, where he had been doing dishes.
"Er?yeah. Yeah, it went away." He muttered, glancing at the drain in the sink. There was a soft squeaking noise, and Peter wondered if Johnathan's apartment had mice, glancing away. Johnathan stared at the drain again? and then flipped the switch for the trash disposal for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
eeeee
The average human being slips at least four or five times in their lifetime. Some slip hundreds, or thousands of times; it's hard to tell since nobody generally notices. Some suspect that the human's unique ability to slip is what gives us our stand-out trait - sentience. The ability to think and reason beyond what's immediately concerning us.
A slip is usually a little thing. A little discrepancy. You could have sworn that such-and-such historical event happened on such-and-such a date, or you could swear that you won a fight your brother says you lost, or you realized that there's a student missing in one of your classes - or there's an extra one you must have just never noticed before.
Children slip more often; sometimes they slip away for good if they're especially prone to it. But it happens to adults quite a bit too. You never really think about it, or notice it, although sometimes you might get a little wave of residual energy from the slip - déjà vu, maybe, or a shiver that crawls down your spine in the middle of a warm day.
But fortunately for you, you've probably never slipped too far. Just into the next reality over. Where there's one minuscule thing different, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Somebody's eye color is different, there's an extra student in your class, maybe you forgot to do something you swore you did.
For the unlucky ones who slip far enough that they realize it, they usually have the good graces to forget about it, never think about it, assume that they're crazy or just have memory problems. The ones who fight it generally don't wind up doing so well. Go talk to a seemingly calm, normal "general schizophrenic" who will tell you that JFK wasn't assassinated and who the current president really should be.
And then there are the extremely unlucky ones. Ones who slip so far there are no replacements. Ones who slip into places where the K-T extinction never happened; or where the Earth never formed (who last all of ten seconds in hard vacuum); or where they don't have any family, and they never existed, and they don't even really exist, waiting on street corners, trying to make sense of what happened.
A lucky few, very few, can slip at will, sliding from world to world without a second thought, exploring a vast multiverse. You might see these ones, they're the ones who show up at parties unexplained and never say their names, and are gone like they never were there in the morning.
And then there is the third minority. Those who slip who aren't human. All kinds of things that you see out of the corner of your eyes. Creatures not meant for this world, this time, this universe. They often don't last long, having fallen through the cracks in reality, but for what they're worth they certainly make an impression on us, lasting ages and ages.
So pay attention to your slips. Those moments where your memory and your life don't match up, where you could have sworn your father's eyes were green and not blue, the times when you pass a street you never noticed before, or see trees in a park where there were none. Because it's not just you.
It's just a slip.
A slip is usually a little thing. A little discrepancy. You could have sworn that such-and-such historical event happened on such-and-such a date, or you could swear that you won a fight your brother says you lost, or you realized that there's a student missing in one of your classes - or there's an extra one you must have just never noticed before.
Children slip more often; sometimes they slip away for good if they're especially prone to it. But it happens to adults quite a bit too. You never really think about it, or notice it, although sometimes you might get a little wave of residual energy from the slip - déjà vu, maybe, or a shiver that crawls down your spine in the middle of a warm day.
But fortunately for you, you've probably never slipped too far. Just into the next reality over. Where there's one minuscule thing different, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Somebody's eye color is different, there's an extra student in your class, maybe you forgot to do something you swore you did.
For the unlucky ones who slip far enough that they realize it, they usually have the good graces to forget about it, never think about it, assume that they're crazy or just have memory problems. The ones who fight it generally don't wind up doing so well. Go talk to a seemingly calm, normal "general schizophrenic" who will tell you that JFK wasn't assassinated and who the current president really should be.
And then there are the extremely unlucky ones. Ones who slip so far there are no replacements. Ones who slip into places where the K-T extinction never happened; or where the Earth never formed (who last all of ten seconds in hard vacuum); or where they don't have any family, and they never existed, and they don't even really exist, waiting on street corners, trying to make sense of what happened.
A lucky few, very few, can slip at will, sliding from world to world without a second thought, exploring a vast multiverse. You might see these ones, they're the ones who show up at parties unexplained and never say their names, and are gone like they never were there in the morning.
And then there is the third minority. Those who slip who aren't human. All kinds of things that you see out of the corner of your eyes. Creatures not meant for this world, this time, this universe. They often don't last long, having fallen through the cracks in reality, but for what they're worth they certainly make an impression on us, lasting ages and ages.
So pay attention to your slips. Those moments where your memory and your life don't match up, where you could have sworn your father's eyes were green and not blue, the times when you pass a street you never noticed before, or see trees in a park where there were none. Because it's not just you.
It's just a slip.
This is true, and it's not really scary. Just strange, take it how you will.
It was a late night, so the traffic was lite and no one was around. I had intended to go see a friend of mine, but half way there, I just couldn't take the pain in my leg. Cold, and in alot of pain I headed back somewhat crying from the pain, mumbling to myself. I was to distracted with getting home to rest my sore legs and painful feet, that I didn't look or pay attention when crossing the highway. When all of a sudden, I looked and a truck was barring down on me... I don't know how, but I was pulled back immediately as the truck slightly missed me. There was no one around and I was to tired and in to much pain to believe I could be capable of moving back so fast and instaneously.
Make of it what you will, self-preservation over powering pain or perhaps a ghost of a loved one. I'd like to think it was a Guardian Angel who grabbed me and pulled me back.
I'm not kidding when it felt like I was jerked back away from my impending doom. It wasn't like running back or jumping back.
It was a late night, so the traffic was lite and no one was around. I had intended to go see a friend of mine, but half way there, I just couldn't take the pain in my leg. Cold, and in alot of pain I headed back somewhat crying from the pain, mumbling to myself. I was to distracted with getting home to rest my sore legs and painful feet, that I didn't look or pay attention when crossing the highway. When all of a sudden, I looked and a truck was barring down on me... I don't know how, but I was pulled back immediately as the truck slightly missed me. There was no one around and I was to tired and in to much pain to believe I could be capable of moving back so fast and instaneously.
Make of it what you will, self-preservation over powering pain or perhaps a ghost of a loved one. I'd like to think it was a Guardian Angel who grabbed me and pulled me back.
I'm not kidding when it felt like I was jerked back away from my impending doom. It wasn't like running back or jumping back.
I know this has been posted ages ago but I just wanted to add:rescuer86 said:
The grammar GESTAPO more like.
The cold, wet street makes my bones ache. The smell of dampness and cigarette butts, carelessly discarded on the ground, makes me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.
The buzzing, flickering street light above me brings no comfort either. As the adrenaline begins to flush itself out of my system, I once again look at the scene before me from my perch against the cold steel of the lamp. The crumpled body sprawled chaotically on the ground, the stained knife and the small pool of blood uniting all the elements together. "How did it all go wrong?"I desperately need a hit. I begin to cry.
After a few minutes, I raise myself up on my feet and wipe the tears from my face. I don't know why but I start thinking of my mother and how she would always talk about God. "Dios te ayudar hijo. God will help you". Of course I never believed her. There was a time I used to make fun of her and her superstitions. Me, the big college boy. Where did it all go wrong?
The words echo through my head and out of desperation I look up at the street light and for a few minutes try to pretend as if God washing my sins away, but it fails. I still can't wipe the memory of what's happened out of my head. Though I shut my eyes tightly, the events are still so clear and they hound me.
I'm walking down this very street, the knife in my pocket is heavy and the handle is covered in my own sweat. I continuously tell myself "I need the money, I need the money" as I scratch and agitate the sores on my neck and my chest. "This will be the last time", I try to tell myself in my most convincing voice, but it's a lie. For a few months now that's all that's ever really came out of my mouth.
As I dart my eyes, scanning the street I see her walking on the opposite sidewalk. Long red hair, tight blue sweater, denim jacket. Even in the dim light I can see the gold chain hanging loosely from her neck. It looks old, probably a family heirloom. I know a pawn broker over on Holland Street who could give me money for it. I wait for her to past by before I cross the street and make my move. The street light is only a few blocks away; the adrenaline starts to kick in. I followed her for a while and briefly study her; the way her hips sway with each step, like they had some sort of orbit of thier own. Her legs are great, dressed in skin tight jeans that only excentuate their curves. For a split second I find myself smiling when I see her shoes. Lime green All-Stars. I quickly hide the smile, I need the money. Forgive Me.
Through sheer force of will I bring myself to the present. I walk to the cold lifeless body before me; its partly opened lips are blue, its hands and stomach covered in blood. I begin to cry again and the memories come flooding back, there much more intense this time. It all goes by so fast.
As I approach myself behind her, I pull out the knife and grab her arm, she fight back harder than I thought she would. As we dance violently, trying to take control of the knife, our bodies come closer together and for a brief moment, silence fills our small world. We both realize what's happened. As we look at each others fear bleached faces, we back away slowly, like lovers from the old movies. She starts to cry, blood is on her hands and stomach. My legs feel like jelly. She slowly turns and walks away, stumbling. I attempt to follow...I fall.
What happens next is a blur of visions and sensations, in truth I don't remember what happened as I hit the concrete, but I didn't see any lights, no familiar faces. Only darkness. I wake up, staring at what is now a lifeless cllection of meat and bones, what was once my body. Words cannot describe the sensation. My lifeless lungs gasp for air and I sit, stunned. That was five minutes ago. I lean on the steel of the streetlamp and bath myself in its artificial halo.
What's going to happen to me? To her? I don't blame her...for what she did, if she ever had to face a court she'd get let off. Self defence against some junkie with a knife, a beautiful girl like her. It shouldn't have been like this.
The cold emanating from my own bones is making them ache. The smell of this horrible, surreal new existence and my own lifeless body is making me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.
The buzzing, flickering street light above me brings no comfort either. As the adrenaline begins to flush itself out of my system, I once again look at the scene before me from my perch against the cold steel of the lamp. The crumpled body sprawled chaotically on the ground, the stained knife and the small pool of blood uniting all the elements together. "How did it all go wrong?"I desperately need a hit. I begin to cry.
After a few minutes, I raise myself up on my feet and wipe the tears from my face. I don't know why but I start thinking of my mother and how she would always talk about God. "Dios te ayudar hijo. God will help you". Of course I never believed her. There was a time I used to make fun of her and her superstitions. Me, the big college boy. Where did it all go wrong?
The words echo through my head and out of desperation I look up at the street light and for a few minutes try to pretend as if God washing my sins away, but it fails. I still can't wipe the memory of what's happened out of my head. Though I shut my eyes tightly, the events are still so clear and they hound me.
I'm walking down this very street, the knife in my pocket is heavy and the handle is covered in my own sweat. I continuously tell myself "I need the money, I need the money" as I scratch and agitate the sores on my neck and my chest. "This will be the last time", I try to tell myself in my most convincing voice, but it's a lie. For a few months now that's all that's ever really came out of my mouth.
As I dart my eyes, scanning the street I see her walking on the opposite sidewalk. Long red hair, tight blue sweater, denim jacket. Even in the dim light I can see the gold chain hanging loosely from her neck. It looks old, probably a family heirloom. I know a pawn broker over on Holland Street who could give me money for it. I wait for her to past by before I cross the street and make my move. The street light is only a few blocks away; the adrenaline starts to kick in. I followed her for a while and briefly study her; the way her hips sway with each step, like they had some sort of orbit of thier own. Her legs are great, dressed in skin tight jeans that only excentuate their curves. For a split second I find myself smiling when I see her shoes. Lime green All-Stars. I quickly hide the smile, I need the money. Forgive Me.
Through sheer force of will I bring myself to the present. I walk to the cold lifeless body before me; its partly opened lips are blue, its hands and stomach covered in blood. I begin to cry again and the memories come flooding back, there much more intense this time. It all goes by so fast.
As I approach myself behind her, I pull out the knife and grab her arm, she fight back harder than I thought she would. As we dance violently, trying to take control of the knife, our bodies come closer together and for a brief moment, silence fills our small world. We both realize what's happened. As we look at each others fear bleached faces, we back away slowly, like lovers from the old movies. She starts to cry, blood is on her hands and stomach. My legs feel like jelly. She slowly turns and walks away, stumbling. I attempt to follow...I fall.
What happens next is a blur of visions and sensations, in truth I don't remember what happened as I hit the concrete, but I didn't see any lights, no familiar faces. Only darkness. I wake up, staring at what is now a lifeless cllection of meat and bones, what was once my body. Words cannot describe the sensation. My lifeless lungs gasp for air and I sit, stunned. That was five minutes ago. I lean on the steel of the streetlamp and bath myself in its artificial halo.
What's going to happen to me? To her? I don't blame her...for what she did, if she ever had to face a court she'd get let off. Self defence against some junkie with a knife, a beautiful girl like her. It shouldn't have been like this.
The cold emanating from my own bones is making them ache. The smell of this horrible, surreal new existence and my own lifeless body is making me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.
*shrugs* I don't know, if I'm honest. I just borrowed some lines from an Ozzy Osbourne song. XD (The very first line is from the same song.)David_G said:
However, this was originally part of a far, far longer fanfic project I was working on. In that case, this unfortunate fellow was the monster of the week; the spiders were literal--and basically tiny eldritch abominations. He clawed at his eyes until he tore them out, at which point the spiders came flooding out. But this current version has been edited a bit from its original appearance in that fanfic. So I don't know whether he's hallucinating or whether he's suffering the same dismal fate.
Seriously... I can't handle this thread... people keep bringing it back...Scarecrow 8 said:
I'm not joking, I've closed my closet door every night since I read that creepy pasta thing. Without even having that thing jump out at me.
Oh my god, now if I saw that picture at first I would be like 'meh' but then BAM! Wow sir I was scared shitlessStandby said:JESUS TITTY CHRIST.Stormz said:When you see it...
That's the first thing in this thread that's ever freaked me out, i was just about to give up looking at it aswell..
It's strange how I attempted to make a thread about the opposite to make you feel better but it died... STOP BRINGING IT BACK! By the time I saw all of this, I'd be fearless.
Heh... mickey mouse...Wolfy1328 said:
So do any of you remember those Mickey Mouse cartoons from the 1930s? The ones that were just put out on DVD a few years ago? Well, I hear there is one that was unreleased to even the most avid classic Disney fans. According to sources, it's nothing special. It's just a continuous loop (like The Flintstones) of Mickey walking past six buildings that goes on for two or three minutes before fading out. Unlike the cutesy tunes put in though, the song on this cartoon was not a song at all, just a constant banging on a piano as if the keys for a minute and a half before going to white noise for the remainder of the film. It wasn't the jolly old Mickey we've come to love either, Mickey wasn't dancing, not even smiling, just kind of walking as if you or I were walking, with a normal facial expression, but for some reason his head tilted side to side as he kept this dismal look. Up until a year or two ago, everyone believed that after it cut to black and that was it. When Leonard Maltin was reviewing the cartoon to be put in the complete series, he decided it was too junk to be on the DVD, but wanted to have a digital copy due to the fact that it was a creation of Walt. When he had a digitized version up on his computer to look at the file, he noticed something. The cartoon was actually 9 minutes and 4 seconds long. This is what my source emailed to me, in full (he is a personal assistant of one of the higher executives at Disney, and acquaintance of Mr. Maltin himself).
After it cut to black, it stayed like that until the sixth minute, before going back into Mickey walking. The sound was different this time. It was a murmur. It wasn't a language, but more like a gurgled cry. As the noise got more indistinguishable and loud over the next minute, the picture began to get weird. The sidewalk started to go in directions that seemed impossible based on the physics of Mickey's walking. And the dismal face of the mouse was slowly curling into a smirk. On the seventh minute, the murmur turned into a bloodcurdling scream (the kind of scream painful to hear) and the picture was getting more obscure. Colors were happening that shouldn't have been possible at the time. Mickey face began to fall apart. his eyes rolled on the bottom of his chin like two marbles in a fishbowl, and his curled smile was pointing upward on the left side of his face. The buildings became rubble floating in midair and the sidewalk was still impossibly navigating in warped directions, a few seeming inconceivable with what we, as humans, know about direction. Mr. Maltin got disturbed and left the room, sending an employee to finish the video and take notes of everything happening up until the last second, and afterward immediately stored the disc of the cartoon into the vault. This distorted screaming lasted until eight minutes and a few seconds in, and then it abruptly cuts to the Mickey Mouse face at the credits of the end of every video with what sounded like a broken music box playing in the background. This happened for about thirty seconds, and whatever was in that remaining thirty seconds I haven't been able to get a sliver of information. From a security guard working under me who was making rounds outside of that room, I was told that after the last frame, the employee stumbled out of the room with pale skin saying "Real suffering is not known" seven times before taking the guard's pistol and committing suicide. The thing I could get out of Leonard Maltin was that the last frame was a piece of Russian text that roughly said "The sights of Hell bring its viewers back in." As far as I know, no one else has seen it, but there have been dozens of attempts at getting the file on RapidShare by employees inside the studios, all of whom have been promptly terminated of their jobs. If you find this film, do not watch it.
After it cut to black, it stayed like that until the sixth minute, before going back into Mickey walking. The sound was different this time. It was a murmur. It wasn't a language, but more like a gurgled cry. As the noise got more indistinguishable and loud over the next minute, the picture began to get weird. The sidewalk started to go in directions that seemed impossible based on the physics of Mickey's walking. And the dismal face of the mouse was slowly curling into a smirk. On the seventh minute, the murmur turned into a bloodcurdling scream (the kind of scream painful to hear) and the picture was getting more obscure. Colors were happening that shouldn't have been possible at the time. Mickey face began to fall apart. his eyes rolled on the bottom of his chin like two marbles in a fishbowl, and his curled smile was pointing upward on the left side of his face. The buildings became rubble floating in midair and the sidewalk was still impossibly navigating in warped directions, a few seeming inconceivable with what we, as humans, know about direction. Mr. Maltin got disturbed and left the room, sending an employee to finish the video and take notes of everything happening up until the last second, and afterward immediately stored the disc of the cartoon into the vault. This distorted screaming lasted until eight minutes and a few seconds in, and then it abruptly cuts to the Mickey Mouse face at the credits of the end of every video with what sounded like a broken music box playing in the background. This happened for about thirty seconds, and whatever was in that remaining thirty seconds I haven't been able to get a sliver of information. From a security guard working under me who was making rounds outside of that room, I was told that after the last frame, the employee stumbled out of the room with pale skin saying "Real suffering is not known" seven times before taking the guard's pistol and committing suicide. The thing I could get out of Leonard Maltin was that the last frame was a piece of Russian text that roughly said "The sights of Hell bring its viewers back in." As far as I know, no one else has seen it, but there have been dozens of attempts at getting the file on RapidShare by employees inside the studios, all of whom have been promptly terminated of their jobs. If you find this film, do not watch it.
Might as well give you a link to an awesome site.
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/main
My personal favorite on that site:
[http://img176.imageshack.us/my.php?image=1285530927817.jpg]
Item #: SCP-173
Object class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Item SCP-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must maintain direct eye contact with SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container.
Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures.
Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.
The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.
EDIT: I'd also suggest these for reading:
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-914
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/experiment-log-914
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-055
Very interesting.
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/main
My personal favorite on that site:
Item #: SCP-173
Object class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Item SCP-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must maintain direct eye contact with SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container.
Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures.
Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.
The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.
EDIT: I'd also suggest these for reading:
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-914
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/experiment-log-914
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-055
Very interesting.
