For those pastas that are smelling less than fresh…

November 23, 2014
by derpbutt

Storm Protection

“Linds. Lindsay, come on, give ‘em back.”

Lindsay is holding my flip-flops, one touching either side of her head, pulling a guppy face and thoroughly mocking me. She snatched them out of my grip when we were walking on the beach together, but now we’ve moved inland the ground is more rugged, with stones and rocks digging into my bare feet.

“Way to take a joke too far,” I say, but she does look pretty funny so I can’t be too annoyed.

“Stick in the mud,” she declares as she throws them at my feet. They land upside down. I sigh theatrically.

Our opposing choice of attire is almost comical – me in garish short-sleeved shirt, shorts and currently barefoot. Her in jeans, walking boots and thin, high-tech raincoat. I said she was overdoing it when we set off, but now I’m a little envious; it’s definitely getting chillier.

But wow, what a day! Sunday morning in mid-September on the Welsh coast. It should be colder. It should be wetter. It should be miserable. But the sun is out to play, lighting up the thin scamps of clouds with halos and God rays and creating startling shifting shadows on the wide expanse of summer-baked sand. I even suggested going for a paddle in the water; Lindsay wisely declined.

“Ever been up to the lighthouse?” She enquires, coming close and taking my arm in hers. I pull her closer – a sign of affection designed to steal some of her precious warmth. I look up ahead to where she’s pointing.

The beach has ended. To our right, craggy rocks rise from the sand and plummet into the calm waters a couple of hundreds of yards away. Ahead and to the left we have dunes becoming rolling grass-covered hills. ‘Idyllic’ is the word that springs to mind.

We’re not alone. Dog-walkers, cyclists, other couples dressed in less mismatched style have all had the same idea of making the most of this Indian summer, this surely-final flail against the inevitable frozen hand of winter.

Lindsay is pointing at a red-and-white striped tower just over the brow of the horizon, maybe just half a mile away. If the light is spinning at its peak, the sun is obliterating all sign of it. I tell her I’ve never been there before, never been this far up the beach before.

“Let’s go,” I add with enthusiasm befitting the glory of the day. Off we walk, arm in arm, quietly alone in our own thoughts. The ground is uneven underfoot, mixing grass and stones and little sink-holes of sand, like a miniaturised golf course built by nature to be trampled by man.

For a while, the lighthouse doesn’t seem to get any closer, and as I get warmer under my own steam from climbing this gentle incline, a part of my mind wanders to just calling the whole thing off, turning around and starting the long trek back to the car, maybe grabbing an ice cream first. I banish the thought, and nudge Lindsay gently in the ribs, causing her step to go off kilter and her foot to land in a muddy patch.

“Dick!” She laughs, and I laugh too. “Child-ish!” She over-emphasises, shoving me back, quite a lot harder than I pushed her. Things escalate quickly, and soon we’re stood several feet apart, giggling like idiots while passing walkers chuckle to themselves at our display.

Without realising it, we’ve surmounted the brow of the hill, and a gorgeous picture is splayed out beneath us: the lighthouse hugging the land’s edge away to the right; numerous out-buildings dotted here and there in what can only be described a meadow of soft grass, neatly kempt thanks to efforts of a few straggly sheep that dot the landscape like fallen clouds. “Lush,” declares Lindsey, almost under her breath. She is not wrong.

The air is fresh and cool but the direct sunlight is warm – my right side is warmer than my left. I breathe deep, enjoying the sensation of the day. “Look at that one,” Lindsay comments, gesturing with a nod of her head. “Looks mental.”

The mentalism in question is one of the lighthouse’s out buildings – a squat, slightly grubby-looking affair with two great horns atop it, like the whitewashed helmet of some buried Viking giant. “Cool, fog horn,” I add, and without further ado we both head down the hill in that direction. People still mill around, though most owners have considerately leashed their dogs in the company of the sheep. Down near the lighthouse is quite a gathering of people, and as we get closer we can hear a warm chatter rise toward us on the softening breeze. Some sort of party, is how it looks.

Gravity helps us, pulling each step forward so walking is easier than standing still. We’re holding hands now, and her skin is cool and dry to touch, slightly hard where her palm meets the roots of her fingers. A ring digs into my skin. I curl my toes up with each step to stop from losing a flip-flop.

The party appears to be a wedding party, with everyone dressed in Hawaiian garb – men in garish shirts, girls in grass skirts, beer glasses filled with light ale and wine glasses filled with orange liquid. Smiles, cameras around necks, small clusters of friends chatting. No bride or groom on display. “Classy choice for a wedding location,” observes Lindsay, “less classy choice of theme but each to his own. At least it looks fun, not like Rachel’s black and white gloom-fest.”

Rachel is a friend of mine, to whose wedding I dragged a reluctant Lindsay as a sort of date. It hadn’t gone well, and the event had indeed been overly serious and dour, despite the appearance of some interesting guests and the invention of a cocktail that is half Bailey’s, half Cointreau. Orange Rage, I think we called it.

We’re level with the wedding party now, but they don’t hold our attention. Instead we’re fixated on the horned building – “horny” as Lindsay puts it – which is now just ahead of us and much larger than we’d first thought. The horns are massive, looming dramatically above us, blocking out the sun.

“It’s just bonkers,” says Lindsay, breaking away from me to go and look through the dark windows, up on her tiptoes. I follow, and look in. Though the glass is dirty it’s easy enough to see through, and inside is a mess of broken machinery and ancient-looking grime, like the building hasn’t been used in years and has surely become the home of countless rats and spiders. I grimace, and Lindsay says “gross.”

“I guess it’s not operational any more,” she adds, and is immediately proved wrong by the most horrendous, eyeball-shaking honk rattling out from horns above us. We both crouch, instinctively, Lindsay losing her balance and collapsing onto her backside as the noise fills the air, overtaking all senses so that I could almost taste it. And with that, the blast was gone, with no echo besides that of our memories, and possibly our damaged cochleae.

And then the chuckling. Lindsay picks herself up and smacks at her backside to clear it of dirt. She’s laughing, laughing at her own silliness and laughing almost nervously at the shaken-fear feeling that lingers. I smile, and look over to the wedding party – there are spilled drinks and much laughter, though a young girl near the centre of the group appears to be crying and no-one is comforting her.

“But it’s broad daylight,” states Lindsay, framing it as a question. “It’s the middle of the day and there are bugger all clouds in the sky. Definitely no fog-“ and as she finished that word, “fog,” it came again: another long, tremulous rumbling blast of sheer noise in its purest form. This time shock was replaced with a kind of annoyance, and we both start to move away from the horned building at a pace.

Lindsay says something but I’ve no hope of hearing it over the din, and I can’t lip-read it. She tries again, clearly shouting, and I catch – I think – the end of the word “here” as the noise cuts out and she’s left standing in a quiet field, yelling at the top of her lungs.

She takes a breath, ready to repeat herself at more modest volumes, when it hits again; barely a pause to breathe this time.

A man nearby is holding his dog in his arms, the poor thing doubtless terrified. It is a terrifying experience, to have one sense so overwhelmed that it knocks all the others out of kilter. I can’t entirely see straight. My balance is pretty much shot and I notice that I’ve lost both flip-flops after all. A distant part of my brains tells me not to step in sheep excrement.

A cyclist has dismounted. A walking couple have succumbed and have sat together on the grass, cuddled up close, waiting it out with hands to ears. My hands are on my ears too – I don’t remember doing that. So are Lindsay’s. It’s loud and it hasn’t stopped this time.

We’ve wandered over closer to the wedding party, which incredibly includes a couple of guys still taking sips from their drinks. Most people have hands on their ears, but the mood still seems fairly light. I’m looking at the building, the cause of this insane ruckus, and I see its front door swing open. A man steps out, and closes the door behind him. He’s wearing old torn jeans, tucked into Wellington boots, and a dull ragged woolen jumper. On his head he has a bronze cage paneled with dark green glass – an old diving bell helmet, hiding his features absolutely. In one hand he has a long dark stick.

He walks towards our group. Approaching the cyclist from behind – he hasn’t seen him – the stick is raised and pointed. In a puff of red, the cyclist’s head is gone, his helmet spiraling empty to the ground. The weapon gives no report, as there is only one sound in the world: the fog horn. I imagine people screaming but I can’t hear them. Some people are moving around nearby, behind me and to the side, but most of those I can see don’t appear to have witnessed the murder.

Lindsay has, and she’s pulling on my arm. I’m fixed to the floor, unmoving. The man moves on, raises the shotgun once more and drops the dog-walker and his hound in one go. It is like a savage silent movie, the noise so loud as to simulate silence in its all-encompassing nature.

I turn to look at the wedding group, and some of the men have hold of a girl, the one who was crying earlier. She is around 15 or 16, dressed in a bikini with grass skirt. Trembling, she keeps dropping to her knees but the men haul her up over and again. I look back and the man in the diving bell helmet is closer, and has presumably reloaded. He is walking toward the group.

Lindsay has seen the girl being dragged forward and has, on some level, understood what is happening. The sitting couple is running away as fast as it can, bringing a slow, deliberate glancing turn of the head from the killer. He keeps coming toward us, toward the group, and I look back and see Lindsay fly into the gaggle of men, fists flailing. She lands a square punch, surprising me really, and the man holding the girl’s left arm drops with almost comical speed. The girl breaks free and runs, straight past me just a few yards out of reach, in the general direction of the fleeing couple. I think her path will take her into the corpse of the dog walker, but she doesn’t break her stride and is soon gone. The noise is now everything, it has me entirely in its grasp, and I really cannot move my feet.

I turn once more, and see Lindsay on her knees, being dragged along the ground, kicking and – presumably – screaming. One of the men punches her in the back of the head and her body goes limp, dropping directly to the feet of helmeted man. Barely breaking his stride, he has bent down, is scooping her up in one massive arm, and sweeping her back over his shoulder. He turns, walks away from the group, and toward the horned building. I am still frozen in place as I watch him open the door, dip inside and close it behind him. The horn stops.

Free of the din, I step forward unsteadily. I peer through those grubby windows and see nothing moving inside. The door handle doesn’t give under my grip. Slowly, haltingly, I walk back toward the group in the Hawaiian shirts, and a man hands me a beer. I take it, sip it, and join in.

Credit To – RA Farmer
Credit Link –

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November 23, 2014
by derpbutt

Sleepy Mountain Town

Once every day in a sleepy mountain town,
There’s a sleepy mountain man with a sleepy mountain frown,
A sleepy mountain woman in a sleepy mountain gown,
And the sleepy mountain land colored sleepy mountain brown.

And once every day, in his sleepy mountain way,
The sleepy mountain man sleeps his day away.
Never will he stray; he doth sleepy mountain stay,
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

He wakes on his domain as the day begins to wane.
He reaches for his cane as the moon begins to train.
He looks onto his bane as his eyes begin to rain.
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

And once every day, dressed in sleepy mountain grey,
The sleepy mountain woman prays upon the quay.
Looking out onto the bay, she wallows in dismay,
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

She fights to abstain as she cannot feign the pain.
She succumbs to a deign as she cannot strain the sprain.
Her neck begins to crane as her brain begins to drain.
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

And each and every day, wearing sleepy mountain hay,
The sleepy mountain land becomes sleepy mountain prey,
To the sleepy mountain sun and the sleepy mountain clay.
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

Each and every night the terrain becomes a stain,
From the town’s folk campaigns that were sleepy mountain slain.
Their sleepy mountain veins covered sleepy mountain grain.
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

And underneath the ground in this sleepy mountain town,
There’s a sleepy mountain princess in a sleepy mountain crown.
She cursed the land above for her parents had her drowned.
Here in this sleepy mountain town.

Credit To – TheDivineAuthor

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November 23, 2014
by derpbutt
1 Comment

House of Chains

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Jennell K.
3 weeks ago
Rating: 1 STAR

If I could give this haunted house 0 stars I would!
I understood that the workers are allowed to touch you, but my sister and I were sexually assaulted! Several of the ‘actors’ in that house (mostly male) touched me inappropriately, and at one point, a guy who came out of nowhere shoved me into a corner and groped me! My sister literally had to pull him off of me so that we could run out the nearest exit!

When I told the manager what happened, he didn’t seem to care at all. He didn’t even refund us! I do not recommend ANYONE to come here, especially WOMEN. I saw someone in line with a child and I pray they weren’t traumatized like we were! I’m thinking about suing this place, but I’d rather leave this review and never go back!!! DON’T GO!!

7 out of 16 people found this helpful.

Rick D.
2.5 weeks ago
Rating: 2.5 STARS

I’m not certain about the previous reviewer’s claims, but I had a different experience at the House of Chains. At first, everything was ok; the tickets were not cheap, but the line was moving along very quickly. Once me and my girlfriend got in, we were very excited. There were a few distinct horror themes throughout the massive house.

I remember there being a prison section, a corn field maze area, and an indoor house type area that looked like you were actually in someone’s house. The cool thing about the whole place was that the actors were allowed “full contact” with customers, meaning they could not only scream at you but grab you, lightly push you… etc.

We were not sexually assaulted as the other reviewer mentioned, but there was a portion of the house towards the end of the corn maze that had a lot of slimy gunk on the floor. Me and my girlfriend almost slipped on it, and it accumulated all over our shoes, which ended up being a real pain to clean off. Besides that, there was some rather strong chemical smells which made the experience less frightening and more nauseating.

Even the actors themselves seemed a little overwhelmed by the smell and were trying to figure out what was going on instead of scaring us. Overall, they need to fix up these issues, but the house has potential!

12 out of 15 people found this helpful.

Rachel M.
2.5 weeks ago
Rating: 4 STARS

I had a spectacular time at House of Chains! The quality of decoration in this place surpasses any other haunted house I’ve ever been to! My friend was telling me that the owner bought out an actual mental ward that was being shut down due to low funding from the state govt. No wonder it looks so authentic! It only adds to the creepy atmosphere!

My only complaint is that the place is pretty expensive at $30 a ticket. There are no coupons or discounts anywhere online, but hey the place is worth it!!

10 out of 11 people found this helpful.

Amy A.
2.5 weeks ago
Rating: 2 STARS

Other reviewers were right about the fast moving line, which is a big plus, however on 10/15 the wait was dreadful. At various times, the whole house was under ‘temporary maintenance’, which meant we had to wait for whoever was inside the house to come out and then they literally stop anyone from entering while they do their ‘maintenance’. This lasted anywhere from 15-25 minutes.

I never been to a haunted house that halts during operation for maintenance. It’s not like they’re resetting any moving parts or getting actors back to their places, because actors never leave their area!! I made this observation when we finally got in. So clearly something else is going on in there that makes the whole place shut down every 5 [omitted expletive] minutes!!!

32 out of 32 people found this helpful.

Richard G.
2 weeks ago
Rating: 4 STARS

One of the best haunted houses I’ve been to in a long long time. There wasn’t any maintenance like Amy A. mentioned, which means the management probably reads this and/or fixed their issues!

This place isn’t just a colossal maze of narrow passages full of sub-par actors in cheap suits screaming at you, it’s actually the opposite. As Rachel mentioned, House of Chains used to be a large mental ward literally days before it was turned into a haunted house. This is probably why there are large areas instead of interconnected hallways and small rooms. There are, of course, the rooms where patients used to be held, but they are cleverly hidden and actors burst out of them to scare you and even imprison you in one of them!!!

Me and my friend were grabbed and put into one of these scary dark rooms and the actor locked us inside! It seemed like we were alone in the dark room, but to our surprise someone else was in there with us!!! This actor was very silent, and we saw him staring at us from the corner of the room. My friend was soo scared he ran up to the door and begged to be let out! In the pandemonium of the moment, we both found how to unlock the door and ran for our lives!

It was amazing!!!

15 out of 18 people found this helpful.

Sam H.
1 week ago
Rating: 3.5 STARS

There are already so many reviews here, I don’t really need to explain my personal experience. I just want the House of Chains management to see this because I wasn’t patient enough to wait to get someone to talk to. I’m not sure if this is intentional or not, but me and my wife were locked in one of the mental hall rooms in the jail looking area and we saw a gaping hole in the corner of the room, big enough to fall into. We didn’t know where it led, but we stood there pondering if we were supposed to go into it before the room door was unlocked for us.

I tried to tell the actor about it, but he just screamed at us like he was supposed to, so we ventured back into the house. We did notice, however, that he went inside to check as we walked away.

27 out of 28 people found this helpful.

Stacey H.
1 week ago
Rating: 1 STARS

Too bad we can’t reply to other people’s reviews, because I just wanted to comment on Amy A.’s review. She mentioned the maintenance issue, which is now over, but she also said actors don’t leave their area which is way wrong. When we transitioned from the prison to the corn maze area, an actor, who came out of one of the mentally ill patient rooms, followed us nearly throughout the whole house.

He didn’t make a single noise, which I’m not sure if that’s a new scare tactic, but it really disturbed us (not in a good way). When we did stop to figure out how to maneuver around the cornmaze, he stroked my friend’s hair, which really set her off, and he didn’t leave us alone until the haunted house portion where we literally had to run away to escape him.

This one actor ruined the entire house for us, if he wasn’t there we would have enjoyed everything.

15 out of 20 people found this helpful.

Anonymous X.
2 days ago
Rating: 1 STAR

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Anonymous Y.
1 day ago
Rating: 1 STAR

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Anonymous Z.
30 minutes ago
Rating: 1 STAR









0 out of 0 people found this helpful.

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November 23, 2014
by derpbutt

Life After Us

They’re coming for me, I know they are. I can hear them in the hallways trashing the place looking for me, but they’ve already found me. They know I’m here, they’re just toying with me trying to get me to break, but I’m not going to play their insidious game. I will win this; I have to win this for my own sanity. If I do die tonight, I hope I go quickly not slowly. I don’t want to feel them tearing me apart piece by piece. I should have left when I had the chance. God why didn’t I leave? I guess my own self pride got in the way or maybe I was too afraid to run; either way I screwed up. I can hear them outside, they’re going through the house, room by room ripping everything apart just like they’re going to do to me when they find me.

They’re no longer human, they look like humans, move, and talk like them too but they’re not. With their eyes as black as coal they are creatures truly evil. They are something much more insidious. They act like animals always hunting in packs, like wolves stalking their prey down for days until they’ve cornered it then they move in for the kill. They don’t kill their own, they only kill the ones that are “normal”, but in reality they may be the normal ones. This isn’t the zombie apocalypse or some plague that rose up from the plains of Africa, this is the handy work of Mother Nature trying to cleanse the world of the monsters we have become. We have let our culture spiral out of control and now, this is the price we must endure for the sins we have committed.

Not everyone turned into these creatures; however, some of us didn’t change at all. It was just a select few that changed around the world. People tried fighting against them, but they always lose the battles. These things are a lot smarter and stronger than what they look like. They plan their killing trapping you in places where they know escape is no longer an option for you then they make their move. They kill without remorse it’s as if killing brings some kind of enlightenment to the darkness that lives inside the deepest part of their souls. These creatures might be your best friends from high school, your brother, your sister, your own children but they are no longer the kind hearted people they use to be. You can no longer trust anyone in fear that they are a monster.

You don’t realize how quickly society can break down into anarchy. Our world has become a house of cards and if you remove just one, everything comes crashing down. I was in my college dorm when the world began to fall into pieces. I could hear the gun shots echoing from the streets below and the screams bellowing down the hall way as those creatures made their way into my building. I ran, that’s all I could do was run. I couldn’t fully comprehend what was going on around me, too much adrenaline was being pumped through my body to focus. All I knew was I had to leave Charlotte. I had to get to my family up north. I needed to know that they were okay. I find it funny though that we forget about the value of family and how much they mean to us until something terrible happens. We let material objects stand in the way of what truly matters and when all of those things become obsolete we run back to our families.

I left the mass hysteria of Charlotte behind me and headed north hoping that the serene mountains of West Virginia would provide some peace to this new world, but they didn’t. West Virginia seemed to be hit even harder by whatever was happening than Charlotte had been. Things were really bad in West Virginia. I pulled up to my family’s house just as the sun was beginning to disappear in the western sky. The house looked untouched and for a moment I felt hope. I knew they were safe if those things had gotten them the house would have been destroyed or burned, something that brings pride to those animals after killing. I knocked a few times on the door and after getting no response I let myself in. I wasn’t braced, however, for what was to come. My father and my sister were lying dead in the middle of the living room. They were holding hands as if they knew that death was coming for them. I frantically ran from room to room searching for my mother and younger brother trying desperately to find them, but I never did. I’ve been haunted by the thoughts that maybe they were kidnapped by those monsters or maybe they got out of the house safely….or maybe they turned into monsters themselves. I would rather not know what truly happened to them. If they died I hope it was quick.

I tried searching for them in the surrounding forest until a group of those monsters found me. They chased me down into one of those fancy neighborhoods where I thought I had lost them, but like I said before, they’re a lot smarter than what they look. I found a house at the end of a dead end street hidden away by trees; that’s the house I took shelter in, and that’s the same house that I’m going to die in. I’m trapped inside a master bedroom locked in the closet writing down my last moments of life before death comes to clam my soul. I’ve played death’s game for too long and now its game over for me. I’m not fit to live in this new world only the strong can survive and I’m weak. Oh god….

They’ve found me.

Credit To – swedishpope
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November 23, 2014
by derpbutt
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Home, Sweet Home

You get out of your car. It’s past midnight, and you feel a looming sense of dread as you step out of your car. You quickly approach your front door. The porch light is out. You fumble with your keys and find the correct one without much trouble. You unlock the door as quickly as possible and duck inside, only to whirl back around and face the night. No one is lurking behind you, you’re just being paranoid. You’re inside now. Safe.


A sense of security sets in and you close the door and lock it behind you. Your heart has slowed to a relatively normal rate and you let out a relieved breath as you turn around, only to quickly suck your breath back in.

A stranger is standing in your living room. He was patiently waiting for you to notice him, and now you have.

He’s done waiting.

Credit To – CharliQuinn

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November 11, 2014
by derpbutt

Daughter of Eve

It wasn’t until I was six that I realized I was different. My parents really should have told me, but instead they just locked me away, withholding any chance of trying to be normal from me. They never really talked to me either. Once a day my door would be unbolted and a bowl of grain and a bowl of water would be placed down. Than quickly, the door would be shut and locked once again. The first time I heard my mother speak was when I was four. “She’s getting worse…. Her hands…” I didn’t really know what it all meant.

I lived in darkness. The only light I saw was when the door opened, and even than it was only from the light above the basement stairs. Faint at best. Some times Mother wouldn’t come for weeks at a time. I would feel hungrier and hungrier until finally I could do nothing but sleep. But always, without fail, I would never starve. I would always wake up just as a bowl of grains were placed in my room, and I would be sustained. When I was five I began to eat the rats in the cellar. I would use my oatmeal as bait and than bite off their heads. I don’t know if it was the growth of my powers, or the extra protein that the rats supplied but by six I could see my surroundings. The light from the door began to hurt my eyes. One day, when my mother came down to deliver my food and water for the day she was careless. Leaving the door open just a crack, she bolted it, not knowing that the bolt wasn’t secured. I went over to the door and opened it, to be greeted by a dark stairway. Climbing up it, I could feel the wood splintering into my feet and hands. They burned, but the new sensations were euphoric to me. New sights and sounds flooded my brain with information. As I stepped onto the slick tile of the kitchen, I could hear music coming from my parents bedroom. It was the first music I had ever heard, and I will never forget the song.

“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen Give him the word that I’m not a rover Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over. Sandman, I’m so alone Don’t have nobody to call my own Please turn on your magic beam Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.”

As the music played in the background, I clutched the doorknob, well above my head, and used my weight to turn it. I was grateful for the music, as it made quite the clatter. I entered a dark room, cluttered with boxes and clothing. In the center was a large quilted bed with a loud rumbling noise coming from it, at the time I was terrified of this noise, it sounded deep and predetorial. In retrospect, I realize that this was merely snoring. I crept along the side of the bed until I found an upturned laundry basket that I could easily climb on. When I rose atop the basket I could see that the bed was complete with two bodies shrouded in lightly floral blankets. The one on the right rolled over to reveal a man whom I had never seen before. He had a large, sloping nose, and a bushy black beard. I placed on hand tentatively onto the bed, getting my nails stuck in the mattress. The man began to rumble, and rolled back over. Panicked, I struggled to remove my hand from the mattress. I must have shaken the bed too violently, because the other figure sat up, revealing itself to be my mother. “Marcus?” she asked groggily. She turned to face me. “Marcus!” screaming, she shook her husband. “Marcus she escaped!” Marcus sat up and he too screamed.

He lunged at me with his pillow as my mother turned on the light, blinding me. The force of the lunge had released my hand from the mattress but had broken off three of my nails. Marcus was holding me down, pillow in face. I frantically swung my back claws, digging into his legs. Finally he gave and backed off. Scared, I scurried under the bed. In the darkness my eyes began to regain their vision.

“Where do you think he went….”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you think he’ll come back up”

“I don’t know…”

“Get the tank…”

“No we can’t do tha-”

“Just do it Eve!”

The room went silent, except for the racing of my heart and the panting from above the bed. Minutes later, I heard footsteps, and a heavy thud on top of the bed. “Go!” said the man. I could hear dripping from around the bed. Terrified but curious, I crawled over to the side of the bed, the dripping now on the other side. I licked up a small amount of the fluid that had collected, only to be greeted by a mouth full of stinging needles. Abruptly, the stinging stopped and was replaced by a dull numbness. I found myself unable to retract my tongue into my mouth, being forced to drag it along the piles of clothing underneath the bed.

The dripping stopped and I scouted out where the legs where. I found them in the left corner, close to the door. Blood dripping down them, I felt sorry for the man, I didn’t mean to hurt him, I was really just defending myself. If I lunged for them once again, I might be able to scurry out of the door and back down into my basement, back into my safety.

Just as I prepared to pounce, a wall of light surrounded the bed, obscuring my vision. Heat radiated from all sides of the bed, and the light was spreading onto the underside of the mattress. I could feel the hair on my hair and spine beginning to burn, and felt the sharp pain of burns on my ears and scalp. I ran out, through the flame, and towards the door. The fire carried with me however, burning away my hair and sizzling away at my skin. I ran faster and faster all around trying to extinguish the flames, but nothing worked.

The pain began to be too much, and I ran out of energy. I laid down where I was and watched the fire spread out of my body and into the surrounding carpet. I could see my mother and the man going around the house throwing cups of water on the fire but I knew they wouldn’t be fast enough. I decided it would be a perfect time to take a nap and fell into a deep dark sleep.

And than I woke up.

Surrounded by a mountain of ash and partially burnt logs. My nails had turned from a dirty red color into a deep ebony, and my fur had completely disappeared. Where my skin had used to be tight and fitting to my bones, the flames had seemingly relaxed it, allowing my to easily stand up and shake off the dirt. It was daylight outside, yet my eyes didn’t hurt. The light from the fire had somehow desensitized my eyes, allowing me to see perfectly in the daylight.

I realized that I was hungry, and began to scout out the nearby woods for wildlife. It wasn’t long before I found a rabbit hopping through the brush. I crouched onto the ground and lunged using my new found elasticity. I managed to jump over the brush and on top of the rabbit, easily impaling it upon my claws. In the years following, I found the forest to be my bounty and safety. Rabbits, Birds, Deer, Bears, all sorts of wildlife permeated the forest providing an endless supply of food. The dense foliage provided shelter, and a small Central stream provided fresh water. Although I was careless at first, I eventually became in touch with the wildlife and spirit of the forest.

It is my understanding that my duty is to protect this forest and the creatures within it. Although sacrifices must be made to sustain me, I have undertook the role of preserving the life within this forest. No man or machine can stop me, because even if I die, I will always wake up.

Credit To – Nevernewyear
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November 11, 2014
by derpbutt
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Dye Road

They say the devil drives a Coup deVille. If he does, people say he would drive it down Dye Road.

At first glance, its seems perfectly ordinary, even picturesque; a pleasant dirt farm road in the middle of miles and miles of beautiful farmland in Northern Texas, about five or so miles out of the community of Possum Kingdom. In fact, you could drive down it in the middle of the night or day, pick your fancy, and nothing remotely disturbing will happen to you. So why is this road so feared by the locals? Why is it that this peaceful lane of Texas called “The Backroad to Hell”?

Roads will take you many places, it turns out. And with Dye Road, its not about being on it, its where the road takes you.

I first heard of this unpaved horror while driving with a friend of mine, who will remain anonymous. We passed it en route to Possum Kingdom to meet another friend and go fishing. He pointed out the little dirt road and said in a solemn voice, “I’ve only been down there once.”

At the time, I had only been in Texas for about seven months, so I blissfull asked, “Whats down there?”

My friend laughed. “Not much,” he said, “Just an old airfield.”

Several days later, I did research on airfields in Texas, being an avid lover of aviation, but noticed that there were no designated airfields, civilian or military alike, in any records as far back as the 1950’s. This struck me as odd, for any airfield had to be registered to tender incoming and outgoing flights; even the infamous Area 51 is registered as an airbase, though of course, there is little to no information about it.

I began to ask the locals around, but strangely, no one wanted to talk about it. They would just brush it off and give sorry excuses like “Its just a patch of concrete,” or “no ones been there in years.” I could tell they truly did not want to talk about the place, and I was beginning to get unnerved. My friend, who was now taking flying lessons, learned that the whole area about ten miles in diameter around the field was a no fly zone for low altitude craft. We were both very puzzled.

Our little search seemingly lost, we got an unexpected tip from a man at a gas station who identified himself only as The Farmer. He told us that he had heard we were looking for answers about the field and said he could help, but only if we met him in person at the base. When my friend asked why, he simply replied, “I used to work there.”

Later that day, we found the man leaning against his truck waiting for us right outside the gate to an abandoned air field. From what I saw immediately, there was a crumbling old observation tower, an adjacent barracks and a newer, recently built hanger. It turns out that the Farmer used the field to keep his crop duster, which made sense to my friend and I; why let a perfectly good air field go to waste, right?

Except, the air field was almost completely overgrown.

The concrete was cracked and shattered, and to the left there was no runway at all, instead, someone had taken wire meshing and green paint, and turned the lot into tennis courts, now abandoned with the rest of the base. It now looked improbable for the man to use the runway and we told him this. He just laughed and said he would avoid driving on the concrete or even walking on it if he could manage it.

The Farmer, it turned out, was an ex-CIA agent, and the airfield was an old military testing facility for weapons in the Cold War era. the Farmer pointed out overgrown parade grounds, the now collapsed vehicle garages, and the testing observation stations. In 1954, the United States formally acknowledged that the Soviet Union was a mounting threat to US interests, and decided to counter it. The base was constructed to test a wide variety of weapons and experiments, all from the public eye, for back then, the airbase was the only sign of civilization for miles. “This place made Area 51 look like a public petting zoo,” said the Farmer when asked about the security of the base and secrecy.

The Farmer then had to leave and invited us to explore the base as much as we wanted, but before he left he gave us a very grave, stern warning.

“Odds are good you kids might come across a big steel door in the ground,” he whispered, “For Christ’s sake, DO NOT open it.”

“Whats down there?” my friend asked, to which the Farmer shook his head.

“Everything we left behind.”

Explore the base we did. We checked out the parade grounds, the observation stations and found some pretty awesome stuff; old fire extinguishers, one or two helmets, and moldy, moth eaten kit bags. What we really were looking for were old electronics and even weapons that the military left behind. It sounds stupid I know, but if you where given free reign over an old military base, don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same. I personally hoped I could get my hands on a rare Stoner 63.

All the while, my friend and I guessed what the military might have left behind. Nukes, biochemical weapons, vehicles, jets that could travel faster than light, that kind of crap.

The first thing I noticed that seemed disturbing was in the control tower.

we climbed the rickety iron stairway, which was so eaten by rust it threatened to buckle underneath us at any moment. At the top, we saw nothing in the room. Nothing at all save for a single chair. There were no electronics, in fact, there were no wires. This was confusing, given that a control tower would at least, the very least, have a radio to contact the aircraft on the ground. But no. No lights, no switches, no wires, nothing. We examined the chair, which looked like a very uninteresting chair at first glance, until I saw claw marks in the arm rest and the cuff links where one’s wrists and ankles would usually go.

Neither I nor my friend knew what to make of this. My friend also noted the concrete area was too short to be a runway. From the top looking down, he was right. The entire concrete patch was no longer than at least four small lots lined up against one another. Every eight feet or so, we noticed that there were chain couplets in iron loops in the ground. We dismissed this for a helicopter landing pad and we decided to move on. The barracks were next.

We easily busted the lock and headed inside. The wood paneling on the walls had been eaten away by termites. Bed frames, covered in rust and falling apart, seemed to be piled messily all over the room in mounds. And all over the floor were small aluminum boxes. Rifle magazines.

We thought we had scored. Surely, some old military tech was nearby. We poked around some more until we found all the magazines and shell casings. We found Twenty Three empty magazines…and Twenty Three shells.

Now, one bullet wouldn’t normally do much, even a rifle round. The standard magazine for an M16A1 was usually 15 or 30 round boxes. But one bullet each? We guessed they could have all come from one loaded clip, but the magazines and the cases were all in separate areas; Where ever there was one shell, there was one magazine.

Just as I was thinking about this whilst pacing, I ran into a spider web and jumped in shock, pulling the silk out of my face. When I looked up, trying to find where the web came from, I froze. I could only stare open mouthed at the ceiling. My friend looked at me and looked up as well, and dropped the magazines he was holding in horror.

On the ceiling were 23 neatly punched holes in the tin and wood roofing. Every hole had a black spray encircling it like some disturbingly painted flowers decorating the paneling.

“My GOD!” I whispered.

Twenty three mags. Twenty three bullets.

Twenty three men…

We hurriedly exited the building, and noticed that it was quickly getting dark.

The Barracks definitely had us unnerved but the opportunity to explore the base had us eager to see what else was here. Unfortunately, other than Farmer’s hanger, which we didn’t touch, and a huge concrete wall down a little path, there was nothing.

We decided to cut our losses and take maybe a fire extinguisher or a helmet, maybe even one of those magazines from the barracks as proof of our visit. I was against the latter. I didn’t want to enter that place if I could avoid it. He went in and got one, and I chose a cool looking helmet, complete with goggles strapped to the iron. My friend, however, also handed me a book.

“Whats this?” I asked, taking it and inspecting the thin, rotting leather.

“Looks like a journal.” he said. He dug out a flashlight, the evening was fading quickly to night, and I read the first page.

“Hatcher wants them combat ready. We don’t have the means for this and even if we did, I don’t think they’ed be willing to cooperate. We keep running the same experiments but (ink blurred and unable to read, until a page later.) Number 3 has gone into cardiac arrest. This getting out of hand, but we are so close, so close, in fact, that I will put him back on the rig. I kills me to do this, but I (again, ink blurred. Five pages on.) All that matters is the research. I have been enlightened now, and I can see that morality has kept me bound like an animal. Well, I am animal no more. Now I am god! The experiments have proven immensely successful! Why can’t Hatcher see that? Isn’t this what he wanted me to (Ink blurred yet again. two pages on.) Hatcher used the submission drug on my precious subjects, and had them shoot themselves in the head. That son of a bitch! Years of research, a waste. My precious children were so close to perfection, and Hatcher couldn’t even grow the balls to kill them himself. No, he mocks me! He’ll learn, oh, yes, he’ll learn you don’t fuck with a god. Maybe I’ll (The ink becomes unreadable possibly due to the writers rage, and does not become coherent until the end of the journal) They are coming for me, I know it. I have been sitting in this abysmal room with what is left of my children, holding court with them and the flies. Oh, they’re very good listeners, trust me. I’ve told them stories, sent them to bed, they are my children after all. Wait, is that Hatcher knocking on the door? OH, GOD, NO! YOU’LL NOT HAVE THEM! YOU WON’T TAKE MY CHILDREN AWAY! YOU CAN’T!


My friend and I look slowly up and look at each other. We slowly realize.

“The barracks, the men?”

“The latch to the underground?”

“They left the doctor behind.”

We turn to the truck to get out of this place of madness, this hell hole of unknown horrors.

What was in the underground. We didn’t know, and we weren’t going to wait and find out.

We got in the truck and began to drive away.

That’s when we heard it.

“THE RESEARCH IS INCOMPLETE! YOU MUST FINISH IT!” I turned to see who had yelled.

It was dressed in a lab coat, with mangy flowing white hair. Its face. God its face. It was carved by a scalpel, covered in black bruises and mold. It never followed us, but stood there, glaring at us accusingly with empty sockets for intruding on its territory.

We belted out of there, our hearts slamming into our throats, even as we came to the crossroads to the main road. The Farmer was getting out of his truck, waiting for us.

The looks on our faces told him everything we needed to know. He shook his head.

“I’m planning on blocking off this road for good.” he said. “The Doctor doesn’t like visitors.”

“But the underground labs.” my friend choked, “We never opened them.”

“You’re lucky,” The Farmer said simply, “Last time it was opened, twenty four bodies were thrown in. Nothing ever comes out.”

“Twenty four?” I said, holding up the journal, “But there were twenty thr-”

“Twenty three children, its now time for bed.

When the Doctor tucks you in, you’ll wish you were dead.”

“Thats the story they used to say, The Farmer said, “The Doctor couldn’t leave his children alone, so he joined them in the labs. He’s still in there, or rather, its still in there, if you don’t think what ever that was constitutes as human.”

“But how did he get out?” my friend asked.

“Haven’t you been listening?” The Farmer said, “I don’t believe he’s human anymore. He’s as twisted as the monsters he calls his children. Be thankful you never saw them.”

I suddenly understood.

“You threw ordered the twenty three men to kill themselves, didn’t you Hatcher?”

The man froze and shook his head.

“I’ve seen horrible things in war. Even worse as a CIA agent. Death and close brushes with it, its all part of the job description. That said, after everything I have seen, nothing, I repeat, nothing, compares to the sickness I saw in those labs. There’s a reason, I believe, why those vaults are underground. So they could be closer to hell, where they belong.”

He shifted, scratched his nose.

“You’d best get outta here. I got one last chore to do.”

He pulled out a roll of paper toweling and some 409, and walked over to the Street Sign.

“He comes out here every night,” said Hatcher, “Some how, 50 years later, I’m still cleaning his messes.”

I soon saw what me meant.

The Sign no longer said Dye road.

Someone had written in blood, DIE road.

My friend and I have never been back there. Even now, what we saw haunts us to this day, and we are left with more questions than answers. Just how many children are in the Doctor’s labs? What is his research? How did he survive?

The man named Hatcher died several years ago, supposedly from senile dementia and acute paranoia. He had taken a butcher’s knife and stabbed himself in the stomach 23 times, writing The Research is Incomplete on the walls before bleeding out.

The man who held the dog’s leash dead, my friend and I now feel, with growing dread, that it is only a matter of time before the Doctor seeks new experiments to conduct, more research to do, more children to “raise”.

Today, if you drive down Dye Road, do not drive its full length, if you dare drive it at all. There is no doubt that evil that taints it and its final destination. And hurrying back, if your unlucky enough, someone, or something, will have gotten ahead of you. For on the asphalt you will see written in blood, THE RESEARCH IS INCOMPLETE and COME BACK, MY CHILDREN.

And be sure you have something to wash the street sign before you leave. It will always be spelled DIE ROAD.

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November 11, 2014
by derpbutt
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February 20th, 1997

The thing about walls is that they are created to keep things out. In some cases, they are created to keep things in. Either way, they are built for our protection. To keep the monsters out, the loonies in, to help us sleep at night. So what happens when something breaks through the barrier, into our safe cove?. Once we’ve barricaded our doors and barred the window, or maybe the room doesn’t have a window (no safe room would), the only option left is through the wall. It starts with a slight scratching, the thing outside is looking for a weak spot. Once it finds a good place, the thumping starts. The thing is breaking through the wall, slowly, because it knows it has time. Where could you go? If it is forced to go through the wall, that means you’ve made sure it can’t get through the door or windows, which traps you inside. The thumping will end when your hear a creak, or maybe a crunch, or maybe just the sound of drywall falling. It depends on your wall and how good your hearing is. When you hear that sound, you know it is inside the wall. Only one very thin sheet of drywall protects you. No one knows what happens after it breaches the last barrier, the victim’s body is never found, just a splash of blood that goes out from where there’s an outline of the body, framed by the stark contrast of an absence of blood while the closest wall and floor are covered in it. About a block away, chunks of flesh or clothing can sometimes be found, as if the thing got lazy, or ate the rest of the body. We just know that the body is completely drained of blood in a violent explosion before it is taken from the room, resulting in the blood tracing the edges of the body, leaving an imprint.

I’ve heard that a brick wall is no help at all, because this thing has claws that just slice open the mortar, then it just pushes the bricks in. I’ve also heard that the thing is heavy and strong, and will slam against the wall until it crumbles. No one knows, but hopefully the bricks will fall on your head and kill you so that you won’t be forced to witness the horror crawling through. Concrete is just as useless, the nightmare that is hunting you is patient, it is tenacious. It will chip away at the concrete or break it apart in any way it can, because inside is the delicious feast that is your flesh. It does not want to give that up.

Years of research have granted me this information. Years of slaving over documents, interviewing friends of the victims, or tracking down people who were in the same room but escaped before it broke through. Years of my life spent obsessing over a creature and I don’t even have a page’s worth of words to write about it. How can I explain to anyone my frustration with this creature, I know it exists, it has to. I’ve done everything in my power, save baiting the beast, in order to find it. But tonight that changes. I left it a present inside the wall. My doors and windows are barred shut, I can’t even see out of them. I set up a camera too, this will prove to everyone that I am not insane.

There’s scratching on the other side of the wall.

Maybe I’ll get my answers tonight after all. I shall add more to my journal tomorrow once I face this object of my obsession.

Credit To – Lydia O.

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November 11, 2014
by derpbutt

Those Staring Red Eyes


First of all, I would like to state that what I am writing is not made up for a cheap scare, nor in order to start out as a writer, I have no intention of becoming one. But I was hoping that there were other people out there who had experienced the same thing. It involves my brother and this story is pieced together after my own involvement, and after talking to other people who remember it, mainly family members. I have not sugar coated it or added anything, this is exactly as we remember it. I have left names out, as those involved do not like talking about it as it brings back haunting memories and nightmares.

I grew up in an ex-coal mining town in the north of England. To give a little more background, this town is located between the cities of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne and Durham, both famous cities in British history for Roman and Viking invasions. Our town is also located near to a village which is known as a hot spot for UFO sightings. If you are interested, the village is called Burnhope, County Durham.

This story goes back to when I was 9 years old, back in 1997. It was a normal childhood, and I used to help my mother babysit my new-born cousin who lived in the same street. On this particular occasion, a Saturday night for which I can’t remember the exact date, my brother had decided to come too. He was 8 years old at the time and a normal child in every sense of the word. However, what happened that night would change him forever.
The evening was going well, nothing out of the ordinary. My mother put the baby to bed around 8 p.m and we started watching a film. My father called to tell me that my mother had forgotten something in the house (I can’t remember what it was) and asked me to go to pick it up. I left and everything was still normal and I decided to stay with my father for an hour before going back. Then, the phone rang. I understand a phone ringing is not scary, but to call that late at night after the social cut off point (10.p.m) was a little off. I answered it as I was closest and it was my mother. She said in a concerned tone;

“Can you and your dad come to get your brother?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” I replied.

“He is acting strange. He has turned as white as a sheet and won’t stop crying”.

I passed the phone to my dad and he said we would come get him. We didn’t hurry, as my dad assumed he was just tired like an 8 year old child would be at that time of night. As we arrived, we found my brother on the couch, all white and crying with fear. My dad asked him what had happened, but he could only speak gibberish. However, he was able to say “I never want to stay in this house again…I want to go home”. My brother and I shared a room, and I still remember him crying all night. Needless to say, it was a sleepless night for the whole family. My brother never talked about what happened and true to his word, he never slept at my auntie’s house again.

Years later, when my brother was about 16, he decided to open up about what had happened that night as we were alone in the house whilst my mother and her husband (my parents had since divorced) were on holiday in Cuba. I asked him, just as it came back into my mind, and he immediately paused the computer game he was playing, stared at the pause screen and said “Mam (mother) sent me to check on our cousin (the baby), so I went upstairs. I didn’t turn the light on as the living room light was enough and I went into the baby’s room. Everything seemed normal at first. Then, I felt it. A strange presence, as if something was behind. It wasn’t a feeling that something was there, but rather, a certainty. A heavy breathing sound started and at first I thought it was the baby snoring, but it was too heavy, sort of like Darth Vader but more aggressive. I turned to the door slowly and saw a figure. It was dark but I could tell that its skin was green on its right side due to the glare of the street light shining in through the landing window. What scared me most were its glaring red eyes that just stared at me. I hid behind the door thinking that I was going to die. It just stood there, staring at me through the crack in the door, its head turning to keep track of me with its red eyes. Those red eyes just staring at me. It seemed to stay there for about 20 minutes and I didn’t move as I thought it would hurt me. Then, it just disappeared. I think it had opened the window and jumped out. I only realised it had gone when the heavy breathing stopped and the feeling of terror that was in the air disappeared.” Although my brother had claimed it felt like the incident lasted 20 minutes, he had literally been gone for one or two minutes.

I have to admit, that story was unsettling and I imagine that a lot of people reading this think its all made up. It’s quite a lot for an 8 year old to remember. But he claims as he got older, he was able to describe it better, as this night has always been on his mind. My auntie had never been told of this story, but one day I asked her if she had ever seen or heard anything strange in her house, to which she replied, “Once when your brother was a toddler, he fell down the stairs. When we asked him if he was OK, he replied that the man with the red eyes had done it”. Although he was very young, he remembers it clearly to this day. He recalls looking back up the stairs, to see a figure standing there, just staring at him with those glowing red eyes. So, it seems it wasn’t the first time he had encountered this being.

My brother also claims to have had dreams about this ever since the babysitting incident occurred. One dream in particular was that he was playing with our Labrador in my mother’s home office in the evening. Then, out of the corner of his eye he noticed a figure walk past the door in the dark. The dog went crazy, snarling and barking; with all of his hairs standing on end, like a dog does it when it tries to make itself look bigger when under threat. But looking out into the darkness to see what the dog was barking at, there they were. Those staring red eyes.

For years, we have tried to make sense of it, doing a lot of internet research, writing on forums and so on, but have never came to any conclusions to what it was. However, the tale does not end here.

About 6 or 7 years ago my mother got sick. This was a terrible time for us, but it wasn’t life threatening but she was basically immobile for about a month. She was practically bed bound so my stepfather cared for her. She said that one night when she was lying in bed, just staring at the ceiling as she couldn’t sleep, she heard the flapping of wings, like the wings of a big bird. She then told me that it got louder and louder, and then she could actually feel the gust of wind created by the flapping on her face. She then opened her eyes to see the silhouette of a being flying just in front of her, between her and the ceiling of her bedroom. The next thing she remembers is that it opened its eyes and they were dark red, and she could feel this being pushing down on her, pinning her to the bed. She said that after some time the creature went away, but she can’t remember where or how. She claimed at the time, and I quote “it was the Angel of Death, I am sure of it”. Now, I know what you are thinking, and it has to do with the excrement of a certain farmyard animal with horns. You have every right to think that. But let me give you some insight into this.

My mother was the head nurse on a cancer treatment ward at our city’s local hospital. Being in that position, she came into close contact with a lot of the terminally ill patients and they always got very close. You all know how cancer treatment works, sometimes its very effective, and other times the body rejects it and the cancer stays and eventually kills the patients. However, there were a number of times when my mother was present when people were in their dying moments. She noticed that in those moments, the doctors and nurses and in some cases family members were ignored by the patient, as they seemed to be looking elsewhere, generally ahead of them or up at the ceiling with gleeful or terrified expressions. On some occasions, the patients would call out things like “I am not ready yet, leave me alone!” or sometimes the exact opposite “I am ready” Soon after uttering these expressions, their vital signs would fade. Sometimes, the room would go very cold and it felt like something else was there.

Why am I telling you this? Well, it explains why my mother believes it was the Angel of Death. You can ask anybody you know who works in a hospital, and there is a large chance they have witnessed something similar. Although it could explain my mother’s visitation, could it explain my brother’s experience?

What if the heavy breathing creature he saw was something which followed my mother home from the hospital? What if it was the spirit of an ex-patient who had latched it on to my mother? Or was it an extraterrestrial, given the green texture that my brother could make out on its right side? That last one is a little far fetched. Of course, we will never know. All I can say is that my brother’s nightmares continue and even now at the age of 25 he can’t sleep in a pitch black room. I would like to end by quoting him after a recent conversation;

It’s haunted me time to time ever since.

I can’t be in a room without a light source now.

This is why I sleep with the TV on.

Staring at an alarm clock time… or using my phone until I fall asleep.

All of these help me stay away from dark places, because that’s where my mind associates it to live.

That’s where those staring red eyes live, in the darkness. In the end, aren’t we all scared of what might be in the dark?

Credit To – Jamhew

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November 11, 2014
by derpbutt

The Skyhole

Even a child knows that a single object in space, no matter how vast its size, cannot be visible from all points on the globe at the same time. Yet there It was. It spanned all horizons. Astonished scientists quickly learned that there was no point on earth from which It could not be seen, no set of human eyes that could not share the exact same view simply by looking up.

How big It actually was? Impossible to say. Nor could anyone prove how far away. Though It was clearly outside the atmosphere, the space station reported that It appeared as relatively far above them as It did above us. But like the moon racing a moving car, It appeared to remain exactly overhead even if you flew supersonic from coast to coast. We know that because the Air Force tried early on, telling us nothing, really.

No record exists of any single individual noticing It’s appearance in the skies of Earth. We glanced up and It was simply…there. And for all Its sky-spanning colossity, It dimmed the light of the sun only slightly. It was truly a mystery upon a mystery.

Theories abounded but nothing was proven. No measurement known to our science produced any usable insight on what It was. All we really had to go on were seven billion identical descriptions.

It was ugly. Darkish, almost but not quite obscenely flesh colored, the central mass appeared as a craterous pit spoked by elongated, outward-radiating ranges of smoothed mountains and deep chasms, dwarfing Everest and able to hold the deepest of emptied seas.

Brief irregular spasms radiated from that center, convulsing the whole of It. And from a hundred points all around there extended the shafts of randomly curling filaments, each thousands of miles long with the visible diameter of a full moon.

It hung there for almost three weeks, doing nothing, when it began.

Life had almost started back on a normal track when the spasms increased in frequency and ferocity. With no more warning than a sudden extrusion of the central mountainous mass, an ebon rift cracked open dead in the center. The ground shook as a nine second subsonic BWAAAAA! rattled the globe, the ultrabass detonation circling the planet a dozen times as a unfathomably vile reek followed in its wake. But as quickly as it had come, the rift sealed itself and the spasms ceased. The unclassifiable stench dissipated within the hour, cleared out by the 35 mph winds that had accompanied it.

We thought…we hoped the worst had passed.

A day later, the mountains began to heave and shudder as the forest of black tendrils whipped and waved. The central mountainous mass pushed outward, extending in the space of a second hundreds of miles nearer the earth. The dusky abyss opened, revealing a heretofore hidden inner ring of garishly bright pink. And from within the circumference of that ring…the ultimate horror crawled into the light to finally make itself known.

Inexorably, tortuously, it protruded to a wailing chorus of billions of horrified voices, all raised in dread and despair and disgust at finally recognizing It for what It was and, far worse, what It was about to inescapably birth upon us all.

The more reckless nations panicked, launching their mightiest arsenals of missiles in vain as the vapor-laden cylindrical planetoid, dun colored, stinking, spelled certain doom as the world went to shit.

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